Shadows of the Past: The Great War of the Worlds, #1

1

Emil launched himself out of the trench and over the parapet. His heart pounded as he hurled himself downrange toward danger. Find the enemy gunners and kill them. Those were his orders. Kill the other men who don’t want to be here any more than you do.

One hundred fifteen . . . one hundred fourteen . . . one hundred thirteen . . .

He stayed low as he scanned for cover. Fritz Seith pulled away as he ran to Emil’s left. Fritz always outran Emil, a natural forward to Emil’s midfielder back in their school days. Knots of barbed wire forced both men into a serpentine path. There were still blotches of vegetation scattered between the wire, and less erosion than one would expect considering the rain of the past two days.

This place had been someone’s livelihood. A few weeks ago, it had fed a family. Soon, it would be an abattoir. And for the third time in a couple of weeks, Emil was leading an advance through hastily abandoned Belgian positions.

One hundred ten . . . one hundred nine . . . one hundred eight . . .

He threw himself to the ground and low-crawled behind a small berm sitting near an X-shaped barbed wire entanglement. The pounding in his ears slowed as he caught his breath, and he remembered to keep his head down to hide. Ahead, Fritz hurled himself to the ground, face down, almost as if he had read Emil’s mind.

Rotting asparagus stalks jutted out from one side of the berm. Its leaves drooped, as if mourning the loss of their home. Emil held his breath, raised his head, and looked for a place to go next.

Ninety-four . . . ninety-three . . . ninety-two . . .

In ninety seconds, the rest of the company would charge. Emil and Fritz needed to get as close as they could to the Belgian trench and kill their machine gunners before they could fire on the Third Company.

Unteroffizier Oberacker always chose Emil and Fritz for this job because they were the smallest and fastest, and because they worked best together. But that didn’t mean Emil had ever gotten used to it.

The count took over. It was something for Emil to focus on, instead of what he had to do.

Eighty-six . . . eighty-seven . . . eighty-five . . .

Emil rolled to his right, jumped up to his feet, and ran to another berm, this one barely tall enough to conceal him. Fritz found another one 200 meters away.

Eighty . . . seventy-nine . . . seventy-eight . . .

The sun was high enough to hang behind the enemy positions to the east, interfering with visibility. The German Army was attacking into the rising sun—a bold move. But they were rolling over the Belgians so easily that the officers didn’t think they would lose.

The sun cut through the morning chill, but no-man’s-land remained a cold and muddy shambles. Emil’s knees sank into the ground as he peered over the berm and spotted the glint of a machine gunner’s weapon. Either no one had shown him how to dull the metal with mud and oil, or he was as sloppy as this field. Emil scowled and brought himself back to the count.

Seventy-six . . . seventy-five . . .

It was a safe bet that the gunner was barely eighteen, his life dominated by schoolwork and schoolgirls a few months ago.

Emil scanned the line to either side of the shining enemy gun. There must have been at least two more gunners to the south.

He rolled to his left and stopped. No response. Staying in a crouch, he advanced to a thick entanglement of wire twenty-five meters downrange. Fritz appeared and started toward the next bit of cover in front of him.

Seventy-three . . . seventy-two . . .

The whistle blew.

They were sending the rest of the regiment in early? But Emil and Fritz hadn’t taken out any gunners yet. The Belgians would cut their men to pieces.

The enemy gunners sprang to life. Emil dove back behind the wire, took a deep breath, poked his head around, and saw Fritz lying face down in the mud. Bile rose in Emil’s throat. Fritz hadn’t expected the early whistle, either, so he hadn’t been behind cover. Emil jumped up, sighted the muzzle flash, fired, and dropped to his stomach. Behind him, the rest of the platoon advanced. Rounds flew over his head from both sides.

Fritz shifted, struggled to his hands and knees, and scooted forward to the nearest berm. Emil breathed a sigh of relief.

He jumped up again and fired another round toward the enemy’s position. No response. He could still hear the other gunners firing, but the advancing men kept them busy. Maybe the gunner was already dead or had fled. Emil ran in a crouch and reached Fritz at a full trot, nearly landing on his face as he reached him.

Are you okay? Emil gasped, wiping mud from his chin.

Yeah, got lucky, Fritz said, smiling. He held up a fold of fabric in his trousers, showing two perfectly aligned holes, and laughed. Through and through!

Emil dropped his head down toward the mud again, sighing in relief. He’d known Fritz since they’d been kids, playing soccer back in Euleheim. Losing his best friend here, in a field in Belgium, was unthinkable.

I guess we might as well get this guy together? Fritz asked.

He’s quiet now. I might have got him, or maybe he ran, Emil said. The rest of the platoon is about to charge, anyway. If I didn’t stop him, Fluse’s early start will.

So he sent them early? Idiot. I thought I lost count.

No, he did. Maybe he thought he’d earn a promotion if he took that hole in the ground a minute earl⁠—

The whistle blew again, three sharp blasts this time.

Gas? Fritz said, his eyes huge.

Emil took his mask from its pouch and slid it on in one practiced motion. But no matter how many times he’d done that before, the thought of gas was always terrifying. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he looked toward the German position, expecting to see a cloud of yellow-brown mustard gas.

Instead, a massive, roiling black cloud swelled across the field, moving from behind the German trench toward them.

Black Smoke.

The Martians were back? A weight dropped in Emil’s stomach. He gasped for air as the mask closed in to smother him.

Breathe in. Breathe out. He worked the drills he learned years ago in basic training.

But were the Martians actually back? They’d dropped dead nearly twenty years ago.

Emil listened for the sound of a Wanderer’s steel feet or the terrible hum of a heat ray, but no sound came. Soon, the lethal Smoke reached him and Fritz.

Fritz, are they really here? Emil shouted, his voice muffled. I don’t see anything, do you? Let’s run for the Belgian trench. We can’t get trapped like we did back home.

Fritz was lying on the ground a few meters away, his gas mask askew. Emil’s heart raced as he reached for his friend and tried to fix it.

No! Fritz! Wake up!

Troops ran past them, but Emil couldn’t make out friend or foe through the thick haze. Somewhere downrange, a lone Belgian gunner still fired.

Medic! Help! Emil shouted as he struggled with Fritz’s mask, trying to straighten it onto his friend’s head. Sweat ran into his eyes, and he nearly dislodged his own mask while trying to wipe it with his sleeve. Fritz’s mask had two holes in it, one on each cheek. Bullet holes. Fritz’s mask pouch was lying on the ground next to him, with the same two holes.

Through and through.

Fritz was dead. Killed by a bullet that had never touched him. He’d survived that day on the soccer field, when the Martians had attacked, only to be killed by a damaged gas mask in an asparagus field.

But a bullet hadn’t killed him. A career-obsessed Leutnant had.

More soldiers ran past, but Emil still didn’t see any sign of attacking Martians. The men were from the 109th Reserve Regiment, though, running toward the Belgian positions. That seemed to be the safe place to head to.

Emil picked his friend up in a firefighter’s carry. He wouldn’t leave Fritz for the aliens. Waves of Smoke nearly blinded him, and he stepped carefully, afraid to get stuck in the clots of barbed wire.

The miasma sank then, an ebony pall draping itself over a dying field. As it settled, it left a pitch-black residue, and the rising sun lit a very real hell.

The outlines of the machine gunner’s nest loomed 100 meters to the east. Emil headed for it, picking up his pace as he listened for a Wanderer or a heat ray.

He nearly walked into the black mass of a barrel and a large patch of overgrown asparagus. The alien powder had scorched the plant’s leaves. A dead soldier was sprawled across the barrel, black dust still settling on his helmet and back as if he had fallen asleep next to a coal scuttle. Three more men lay near him, one of them tangled in barbed wire and not quite covered with dust yet.

Emil reached the gunner’s nest and craned his neck to look inside. The gunner was only a boy. His right hand gripped the stock of a still-shiny gun, and his left the trigger. A single bullet hole between his eyes.

Emil’s stomach heaved. Had he made that shot?

No. It must have been someone else.

He found a ladder and climbed down, struggling under Fritz’s weight. German voices rose as he descended into the gloom.

Who’s that? thundered Ludwig Oberacker’s deep voice, recognizable as it strained to overcome his gas mask. Ludwig was Unteroffizier of Third Platoon, Third Company, and a man born for the role. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a pot belly. He was one of the eight men from Euleheim in Third Company, Fifteenth Reserve Jaeger Battalion, but a few years older than Emil and far too dedicated to the kaiser’s army for Emil to think of him as a friend from home.

Emil hoisted Fritz off his shoulder and laid him on the floor of the trench, wiping the black powder off his dead friend. He looked around then. No Belgian casualties. The boy had been guarding an empty trench.

Who’s there? Ludwig repeated as he stomped over to intercept Emil.

It’s Zimmerman, Emil said, then pointed at his friend’s body. And Fritz Seith.

Ludwig stopped and stared at Emil, then looked at the body. You carried him here?

He couldn’t make it on his own.

Ludwig faced the body. Fritz’s mask was hanging off his head to one side, and his arms and legs were arranged in an unnatural pose. Ludwig turned back to Emil, eyeing him through fogged lenses. Before he could reply, shouting rose a few meters down the trench.

All clear! All clear!

The Black Smoke had settled in the trench, leaving a black pall that drained the light from its walls.

What happened? Ludwig asked. And why did you bring him here? We have crews to recover the dead.

I didn’t want to leave him for the Martians, Emil said. The stench of black tar and Benzin filled his nostrils as he lifted off his mask.

Martians? Ludwig tilted his head and eyed Emil up and down.

Yes, the Martians. This is their Smoke, isn’t it? Emil pointed to the dust on the ground.

Ludwig sighed, and his shoulders fell in a half-shrug. No. That’s German Black Smoke. The Martians have been dead for a long time, Emil, he said, folding his mask.

German? We used Black Smoke to take an empty trench? Emil asked, struggling to keep his voice down.

Yes, we did. Apparently, the Pioneers got their signals crossed and thought we needed the support.

So Fritz had been killed by friendly fire. By the German version of a weapon the Martians had used to kill humans before they’d succumbed to Terran microbes.

Nearly a year ago, Bosnian terrorists had celebrated New Year’s Day by killing Archduke Franz Ferdinand, younger brother to the Emperor of Austria-Hungary, and his family in their castle. They had used Black Smoke to do the job. The kaiser’s righteous indignation over their use of such a barbaric weapon was one of the many reasons he’d started this war.

So they decided we needed support and deployed the same weapon that started this war? Emil shouted.

Calm down, Emil, Ludwig said, lowering his voice as he held out his hands. We’ve talked about this. You’re going to get yourself in trouble. Why don’t you tell me what happened to Seith?

The pounding in Emil's ears threatened to drown Ludwig out. Emil took a deep breath that was more about preparing to speak than calming down. His mask had a bullet hole from when that idiot Leutnant sent you out too soon. A gunner opened up on us and got him before he found cover.

Ludwig grimaced. Look, Emil⁠—

So Fluse sent you out too fast, and the Pioneers released this poison. He got Fritz shot and then gassed with German Black Smoke. He can count that body twice. Emil took a step forward, his fists clenched.

Ludwig frowned again but didn’t step back. He tilted his head to lock eyes with Emil, who stood at least a foot shorter than he did.

Before either man could speak, Leutnant Fluse appeared, pushing a hapless corporal out of his way to join their conversation. Somehow, the tall, thin man with a weak chin had a spotless uniform.

Unteroffizier, gather up your men, he said. We’re moving to the next position. This one’s too primitive—what the hell is that doing here? Fluse’s face grew red as he pointed at Fritz as if he were a messy bunk or a pair of poorly shined boots.

His name is Fritz Seith, Emil said.

What is it doing here? Fluse screamed, his voice gaining an octave.

"He is the man you got killed, idiot!" Emil shouted. His vision clouded as adrenaline surged through his body.

What did you call me? the Leutnant shrieked.

Ludwig stood between the two men, looking back and forth at them like a line judge at a tennis match between two madmen.

I called you an idiot, Emil said, trying to push his way past Ludwig to get to the officer. He clenched his fists and wound up to throw a punch.

Only Ludwig placing himself between them stopped Emil from killing Fluse.

2

The car lurched forward, and James’s stomach heaved with it a half-second after he struck the seat back. He’d spent little time riding in automobiles and never driven one, but he didn’t think it was necessary for the corn-fed marine sergeant to treat the clutch and the accelerator like a wayward recruit in need of discipline.

The Cadillac was bigger than the Ford that James had ridden in last time, but the government didn’t drive Fords anymore. It was beautifully appointed, with stylish wood panels, leather details, and a hard top that muffled much of the road noise. So it was more of a luxury carriage than a military vehicle. It wasn’t a car for transporting a radio engineer, but a limousine modified for a general.

Sergeant Christensen of the United States Marines, First Advanced Base Brigade, struggled with keeping the sedan moving in the Brooklyn traffic, as if he had more experience driving tractors on farms and empty country roads. You’re from around here, right? he asked, turning left onto Fulton Street and under the El. He smiled at James in the rearview mirror.

No, I’m not from Brooklyn, James said, turning his gaze out the window, hoping a curt response and lack of eye contact might ward off more questions. The less he said, the better, and neither Long Island nor Brooklyn were home.

Two hours earlier, a pair of marines had picked James up at home, back in West Orange, New Jersey. They said the radios at Sayville weren’t working, and he needed to go to Long Island immediately. They insisted the problem couldn’t wait, even though James had taken a train in the past.

Was it because of the situation in Europe? Were they going to war? The marines didn’t have answers, just orders. They drove him north and escorted him by train to the Hudson Terminal, where Sergeant Christensen had been waiting with the Cadillac.

The military had commandeered the Sayville station nearly two years ago, after President William Jennings Bryan’s reelection in 1912. But they still didn’t have any idea how to manage it. Taking James from his home and escorting him to the site on New Year’s Eve was a new low. Why did they take the systems away from Edison Labs if they couldn’t keep them running?

Was Edison headed in the same direction as Ford? Maybe tonight was part of making that happen, and James would help them hammer the final nail into Edison’s coffin.

A policeman signaled the car to stop, then changed his mind, making the car lurch again. James’s stomach caught up, and they jerked in unison this time.

James checked his watch. He’d be out here all night. It was afternoon, and the shadows were getting long, but Brooklyn was bustling with activity. People were crowding Fulton Street, darting in and out of shops, presumably getting in some shopping before heading home for a holiday meal. It would be quieter and less crowded in Menlo Park right now, where James would miss a New Year’s dinner and play with his fiancée. But in both towns, everyone else got on with their lives. They weren’t sitting in a car, heading to fix radios far from home.

The tools and parts James had hastily grabbed from the lab were threatening to fall off the bench seat in the back of the car. The marines couldn’t describe the issue, so he’d carried a full complement of germanium diodes and triodes, a new transformer, and his tool bag. He now pulled the box back onto the seat.

Well, ya know, you’re from around here. New York. Christensen’s bright smile faded with a touch of disappointment. Your security file said you were born in Manhattan.

Security file? Yes, I was born in Manhattan, James said, sitting up straight. It made sense that the Security Police had a file on him, since he worked for Edison. The marines must have requested it after they’d taken over operating Sayville. But why had his driver reviewed his file?

Yeah, around here. Christensen’s smile returned.

We moved to New Jersey when I was young, after the fire, James clarified. It wasn’t worth trying to explain that being born in Brooklyn and not Manhattan made a difference to people from around here. James had been a boy when Brooklyn became a part of New York City, and he still remembered people fretting about how it would lose its unique flavor when it became a borough. He didn’t know how different the two cities were then. But today, Fulton was no different from any busy street in Manhattan. So Christensen had a point.

Your family moved to New Jersey after the Martians attacked? I thought they hit New Jersey harder than New York.

No, we moved after the Tesla fire a few years later.

The big fire? That happened near where people lived? Christensen’s brow furrowed in the rearview mirror.

The Tesla fire had been across town from where James had lived, and where his dad had worked as a cop. James sighed, and a tear welled up in one eye before he caught himself. His family had moved to New Jersey so the fire’s aftermath could kill Dad out of sight and out of mind. Christensen knew little about the Tesla fire, but James knew that was by design. The government went to great lengths to make sure nobody did.

Yes, it did, James said, scanning the traffic again. He would miss the play, and since the marines had picked him up at home without warning, he couldn’t tell Susan. Even worse, his mom was home alone for New Year’s Eve. Hopefully, when he didn’t pick Susan up on time, she’d head to his house and spend some time with Mom.

Christensen swerved to dodge a cart pulled by a horse that seemed old enough to have carried George Washington. The sedan fell into line behind about a dozen cars under the Atlantic Avenue railroad.

Pushcarts laden with goods lined the streets of East New York. The aroma of freshly baked bread floated through an open window, providing James some relief from the perfume of cigars and sweat embedded in the car’s leather upholstery. The yeasty fragrance made weathering the cold winter air worth it. A man in sandwich boards advertised the best suit a man could buy.

Busy out here today, isn’t it, Jimmy? It’s okay if I call you Jimmy, right?

It wasn’t okay, but James had already made Christensen feel bad about being from around here.

Captain Reynolds is keen to get you out to Sayville as soon as possible, Christensen went on, smiling again. With the war heating up in Europe, we need to know what’s going on.

So Germany was the difference. Or, at least that was the story. James shifted the box of repair parts again.

So, you’re good with these radios, huh? They just stopped working, Jimmy! Both of ’em! Christensen smiled into the mirror again. They’re making this awful humming noise. Sometimes it sounds like someone is talking on the other end, but the operators can’t make anything out.

Edison Laboratories had installed the transceivers at Sayville as part of a joint venture with Deutsche Telefunken and Marconi’s Wireless Telegraphy Company. James had designed the US-based systems and supervised the installation. He had visited them every few months until the military had commandeered the site.

Now, James didn’t miss leaving his mom and traveling out there to see them, but he missed the station itself. At least back then, he’d ridden in a steady train instead of a rumbling, jerking car.

Christensen attacked the clutch again, then jammed down the gas. The car lurched forward, and James’s stomach tried to reach the back of the sedan.

It sounds like a bad ground, James said after catching his breath. The ground connection for the transceivers in Sayville had been an issue before. James had added heavier cabling and deeper ground stakes the last time.

They checked that, Christensen replied.

The chimney stacks of the Ridgewood Water Works loomed straight ahead, growing larger as the car crawled down the avenue. Christensen stopped for a large crowd of people leaving the stairs of the Warwick Street Station and let them cross the road. James shifted in his seat again. They would never reach Sayville at this rate.

Who did? James asked. The regular operators? Or the soldiers? The marines had had problems with the systems before. They had fired all the skilled operators Edison had hired, and they had taken good care of the units. But radios weren’t guns. Or Cadillacs.

But what if the radios were broken now, and James couldn’t fix them? Would the War Department replace Edison with Westinghouse?

Christensen turned to look at James, one eyebrow raised. His chiseled features and close-cropped blond hair made him look like the drawing you’d find in a dictionary entry for marine sergeant. James sat up straight again.

I see what you’re trying to say, Jimmy, Christensen said, raising his voice a little. But we know how important it is for the systems to have a good ground. Any radio a civilian can handle, a marine operator can, too. Besides, a few of your civilian guys are still there. The ones who passed the security checks, anyway.

Christensen turned to face the front of the car again. The crowd had cleared, and he attacked the clutch again. James looked at the back of the sergeant’s head. He’d offended him. Would an apology help? Or should he keep his mouth shut before he made things worse?

James didn’t dare speak as they reached the waterworks and turned right to head toward Queens and Long Island. Getting out of traffic was a relief, but the stillness made the feeling short-lived.

Finally, Christensen broke the silence. My unit arrived at the station last month, but like I said, civilians still help. We’re there for additional security, but Captain Reynolds is the ranking officer, so he’s taken command.

Well, maybe I can get it back on the air right away, James said. Making the marines angry wouldn’t help if this was some kind of test.

The streets thinned out and gave way to open fields and a new asphalt road. Christensen opened the throttle, and the Cadillac purred.

A sign welcoming them to Ramblersville flew past, and they were out of Brooklyn and East New York and well on their way to Long Island. James tried to calculate how quickly he could get home after looking at the radios.

We’re going to need those radios if we send troops to Europe, Christensen said, raising his voice again to be heard over the engine.

Do you really think we’ll be sending troops there? James asked, hoping small talk was a sign that the big man wasn’t too offended.

The Krauts need to be stopped. You’ve heard the news, haven’t you?

So you think there’s truth to those stories? They’re using Martian technology? Like Black Smoke?

The papers wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, would they? I’d believe anything about them anyway, especially after what I saw in Mexico. Christensen’s brow furrowed.

You were in Mexico?

Yeah. They’re animals, Jimmy. You don’t want to mess with the Germans. Christensen looked at James in the rearview mirror again. His tone had made it clear he didn’t have more to say.

The car fell silent again as it rumbled east along the island. The ocean peeked out from behind some trees to the south, then receded again. Soon, the Sayville radio station’s twin antennas appeared on the horizon like two fingers pointing to the sky. At first, it was too far away to see the guy wires holding them up, but after a few minutes, the thicker ones came into view. They were giant aerials, each anchored on concrete foundations and held upright by steel wires. The operators could raise and lower them from ball joints in the foundations, but the antennas stayed raised often enough that Mr. Edison had talked about replacing them with steel towers.

One aerial would have sufficed, but the Bryan administration had insisted on two: one for the Planetary Warning System, and another for direct overseas communications. The White House had refused to believe that one antenna was enough for two systems.

The sun was high in the sky as the car motored into the northern part of the village. On the far side of town, Christensen stopped the car at a guard shack and gate James hadn’t seen before. The entrance controlled access to a fenced-in area extending on both sides as far as he could see.

What’s this? James asked.

Security, Jimmy, Christensen said. Can’t be too sure.

They’ve fenced in the area around the towers?

Wouldn’t make sense to only cover part of it.

The radio station was a military compound now, and Christensen was escorting James in like a prisoner.

Christensen spoke to the guards and eased the wide sedan inside. He brought it to a halt at the door, next to two more Cadillacs.

The station was a squat, windowless, single-story brick building at the base of the two antennas. The door opened into an office, where the radio operators processed the constant streams of numbers making up the incoming and outgoing messages. Spoken words weren’t safe enough for President Bryan’s War Department.

The operators would then relay the decrypted messages to couriers or use an aging telegraph to forward them to Washington. The station’s other room was the closet, which contained the radio equipment.

Three years ago, James had practically lived in this building while helping to upgrade the station from one tower with an arc transmitter to two towers with heterodyne transceivers. He’d taken the train home whenever he could, but he’d still spent more time here than he’d liked. He was proud of the radios and the work he’d done to design and build them, though he’d hated being away from his mom so much. The units were like old friends who’d moved too far away for him to visit.

Now, as James entered the building, the place was alien. Occupied territory. A fence surrounded the building, and it was full of marines. The control room that