Mars is dying...

Mars is dying...

Not through fault or neglect or wicked reason, not even because of the Gods; though some would say this is so. Mars is dying because it is old.

For time beyond count, our world has floated with the orb of the sun god, basking in the everwarmth that it provides, the Martian brothers sailing around giving constant company.

The Ancients warned the death of Mars might be so. Long, long ago; before the Storm. It is said the Storm lasted for an age or more: I for one, do not believe this to be true even though the clan elders warn me against foolish words.

There are still some Ancient writings in the deep deserts for those who wish to learn and are willing to brave sandstorms and the creatures that live there. Most of our knowledge from before the Storm comes from stories told around the clan fires, told again and again, embellished ever so lightly with each clan teller so who knows what is true and what is not.

With each storm season, the Ancient houses and temples disappear and reappear so fast that is easy to loose them completely, Gods know how large their cites were or what final secrets they contain. Three whole clans have been lost searching for the chief city with no sign or call from them these long years past.

But now we have new troubles and concerns. The Earthers have come to Mars: to steal and pillage what they can and to take it away to their blue world. Curse them to the Gods! They have no right, no honour and no need to be here. Like parasites they come here destroying whatever they touch and leaving mayhem in their wake.

They must be sent back across the sky ocean to their blue world.

They must be stopped.

It must happen now!

Tuesday, 13 May 2014

Softlove's Drift

Softlove woke abruptly to the racket of men running and shouting; as he gathered his wits he could here Ruffbrute’s voice rising above the clamour, “Stand to my lovelies, c’mon, up and at ‘em”. He rose quickly, shook the sand from his uniform and drew his service revolver. “Right then” he thought to himself “lets see what’s going on in paradise today.”
Softlove’s Drift 

It had been three long, hot days since Softlove had been rescued. He was now in the unenviable position of commanding of a rag tag column of soldiers and civilians that he and his men had rescued along the way to New Victoria.  A column that consisted of regulars and friendly Martians, as well as settlers and civilian officials, a column that was low on food, water, ammunition and most anything else they needed. 

The previous day a light scout ship had landed after spotting the column and its captain; Lt A A Milne RN, had spoken to Softlove.  Lt. Milne explained that the Martian attack was much more widespread than was initially thought, with many of the smaller settlements coming under attack at the same time as the city.  He and his crew were picking up as many people as they could, and dropping supplies where necessary; especially to the die-hard settlers were refusing to give up their farmsteads. Milne had also reported that a bad sandstorm was approaching and suggested Softlove lead his column to a nearby abandoned farm so they could let it pass. In the meantime he would take back the most seriously wounded and arrange for one or more of the larger aeroneffs to rendezvous with the column at the farm and take it back to the safety of New Victoria.

The sandstorm had been truly awful; the worst Softlove had ever experience on Mars.  He had just managed to get the column to the farm when it hit, throwing everything into disarray; the few pack animals they had were lost and it was impossible to post sentries for fear of losing them.  The column had just hunkered down where it stood, making use of the little protection afforded by the farm buildings. 

The storm raged throughout the night and it was dawn before the column was able to get any respite from the bighting winds and stinging sand; but while dawn may have brought respite from the storm, it brought with it an even greater danger, Martians!
Ruffbrute had been awake for most of the night, he and Cpl. Bloward had been struggling with the wagon covers that protected what little remaining rations and water they had from the storm.  Now, as he and Blowhard sat atop the wagon sharing some sausage, he caught sight of a Martian warband moving rapidly towards the farmstead.  He turned to Bloward calmly telling him, “OK lad, get your bugle and sound the alarm, ‘ere we go again.”

Medical orderly William Tickel tends to Private Partts

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