The Martians Strike Back!. Robert Reginald
lost visual contact with the base.
“Switching…,” we heard.
“This is Captain Edsel,” the com finally said. “We’ve dispatched rescue ships to the remains of the flagship, but we don’t expect to find many survivors. I assume Vice Admiral Bruce is dead. That leaves you in command as the senior officer, sir.”
“Where’s Commodore Wanders?” Burgess asked.
“Not sure, sir. He was directing operations against the rogue bunker. When communications were disrupted, we lost contact. He may still be all right.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“No, sir, not really. Lieutenant Francis was in charge of Bunker 35. Half an hour ago, we had a message from him saying the aliens were attacking, and he was taking action to defend the base. He then cut his com line and barricaded the door. Before we could react, he was powering up his station and shooting at the flagship. He must have thought it was an enemy vessel.”
“Why didn’t you cut power to that section?”
“We tried, sir, but nothing worked. I don’t know why.”
“Very well, keep me informed of the developments.”
But only ten of the Indefatigable’s crew survived, out of over two hundred fifty, and the Admiral was not among them—indeed, her body was never recovered. Wanders was found dazed and wandering near the ruined rogue bunker on Phobos Station. Over a hundred people had been killed when a third of the damaged spaceship had cartwheeled into the Moonbase—and only the automatic release of airtight doors had kept the casualty figures from going much higher.
“What happened?” Burgess asked at our meeting on the following day.
But no one had any answers. Insanity was discussed, but without evidence, no conclusions could be reached.
Meanwhile, the second and third ships of Expedition IV appeared on schedule later in the afternoon, together with a dozen supply vessels, with several hundred more transports expected during the ensuing weeks.
Burgess decided that offloading the vessels now had priority, and so shifted our efforts from war to supply.
The second “accident” happened a week after the first.
One of the modular space ferries was maneuvering near the Van Dine, when it suddenly veered off course and plowed right into the larger warship, destroying both vessels before anyone could react.
The follow-up investigation of the wreckage managed to locate the automatic data and voice recorder for the Alver, which, when deciphered, revealed the following exchange among the cockpit crew:
“What’s that?” the Captain said.
“Where, sir?”
“There’s something right in front of us!”
“You’re right, sir!”
“Taking emergency action.”
The data showed that the Alver had then suddenly jerked to port, right into the side of the Van Dine, which barely had time to issue a warning before being smashed amidships.
The third incident happened in our own backyard, so to speak. About 0200 on the following day, one of the guards standing duty at Outpost 4 on the northern perimeter of Isis Station suddenly started shooting at his companions, killing them all. He then calmly took off his environmental suit and opened the airlock. The bite of the Martian night and the absence of almost any atmosphere quickly (I hope) eliminated the possibility of the soldier ever being interrogated concerning his intentions.
The string of seemingly insane acts by our troops continued to mount, day by day. And nothing that Burgess tried seemed to have any affect on the situation. We didn’t lose any more capital ships, but the negative impact on morale was tremendous. How do you fight a foe that isn’t there? Or, to paraphrase Pogo, “We have met the enemy—and he is us!”
The shriveling shrinks speculated that the aliens were somehow influencing our people mentally into believing that they were being attacked by the Martians—and so they responded to preserve (they thought) their own lives and those of their comrades, while doing exactly the opposite. But no one really knew for sure. We started calling the berserkers the “zombie men”—or just plain “zombies”—because they seemed to have no will of their own.
And all through this horrible week of losses I felt a tremendous anxiety over the fate of my loved ones. Had they survived the bombardment? Where were they now? I’d asked Madame Stavroula for help again, but she wasn’t able to make contact with Becky or Mellie—or even with Big Guy. It was as if someone had pulled an iron curtain over the Martian hives. Somehow I had to find a way back.
The final straw was something completely unexpected. We were called again to the Council Chamber a week after the destruction of the Indefatigable.
The General had asked one of the com folks to report on a strange new anomaly that had just been discovered.
“Tell us about this transmission you’re receiving,” he ordered.
“Well, sir,” Corpsman Robinson said, “It’s actually a simple carrier code. I cracked it right away. Shall I play it for you?”
When the officer agreed, the soldier put it on speaker. It went: “Ooh-lah” over and over and over again.
“That’s the alien song I heard in San Francisco!” I said. “Towards the end, all of the fighting-machines were broadcasting that same sad lament. It sounded to me then like a distress call.”
“Where’s it coming from?” Burgess asked.
“Dunno, sir,” Robinson said. “Can’t pin it down to a specific location. So far as I can tell, the whole planet’s generating the signal.”
“So where’s it being sent?”
“That’s why I called you, sir. It’s, well, it’s being transmitted to Earth!”
“Earth? Why Earth?”
But all the King’s horses and all the King’s men still hadn’t a clue as to what the Martians were actually doing. I didn’t say so, but I thought that the only reason that the aliens had to broadcast a message anywhere was to apprise their fellow squid-folk of the awful crap we were dishing out to them on their homeworld. And that, boys and girls, did not bode well at all. It implied very strongly that there was someone or something on Earth that could receive their message.
The meeting was adjourned without us reaching any conclusions.
Afterwards, I met my friend Min in his cubicle in Barrack 22.
“I’ve got to find a way out of this place,” I whispered. The ever-present gendarme was posted just outside.
“How?” he hissed. Then somewhat louder: “Pawn takes pawn!” He pulled his chessboard onto a small table between his knees.
“King’s knight to bishop three,” I said. Sotto voce: “They watch me all the time.”
“Queen’s pawn to Queen 4. Hmm. I think I know a way.” And then he leaned over and whispered something in my ear.
The next day a dozen of us—Min, myself, Stavroula, Andrews, Scott, Markus, Reynnells, and others—requested an excursion to the ruined guardhouse “to examine the site of the recent incident on the camp perimeter.” We wanted to conduct tests to see if we could find any evidence of the nearby presence of the enemy.
Permission was granted almost immediately. No one else had any answers.
Each of us suited up, and we boarded one of the half-tracks at the main HQ lock.
I haven’t previously described the environmental suits. These were lime green in color, deliberately tinted to create as much of a contrast as possible with the standard ochre terrain of the Red Planet (we also had ruby-tinged camouflage