by Eric Brown
“Watson,” said Holmes. “It’s good to have you back in the land of the living.”
My friend knelt before me, a hand on my shoulder as I struggled into a sitting position. “Where the deuce are we, Holmes?”
“Where indeed!” came the bellow from Professor Challenger as he strode back and forth, having discarded his safari jacket. “It’s infernally hot in here!”
Holmes assisted me to my feet and I took in our surroundings – or rather, I suspected, our prison.
We were in a great chamber, some fifty yards long by ten, constructed from the same adobe material as many of the other Martian buildings I had observed. There were no openings in the chamber, save one: at the far end was a semi-circular window as tall as a man at its apex, barred but otherwise open to the elements.
I made my way across to the opening, accompanied by my friends, and we stared out upon an unprepossessing scene. A red desert stretched away for as far as the eye could see, devoid of other buildings and featureless save for the natural ripples created by the ceaseless winds. In the distance, on the horizon, rose a jagged range of mountains.
The iron bars were set perhaps nine inches apart, and though I turned myself sideways and attempted to squeeze through the gap, it was to no avail. Likewise Holmes, thinner than myself, attempted to force himself between the bars, with the same result. Challenger made no such futile effort: the gap could have been a yard wide, and would still not be big enough to admit his bulk.
I pulled off my topcoat and unbuttoned my jacket, then mopped my drenched brow with my kerchief.
“At least our gaolers didn’t leave us without fluid,” Holmes said, pointing to a nearby stack of cannisters. “Water.”
The mere word made me realise how thirsty I was, and I crossed to the containers, opened one and drank. The water was warm, but served to slake my thirst.
Holmes was pacing the breadth of the chamber before the barred opening, watched closely by Professor Challenger.
“The very fact that the Martians have supplied us with water, but not food,” Holmes said at length, “is interesting in itself, and tells me much: they do not wish us to die of thirst. They wish to keep us alive, but have placed us here for a specific reason. Also, we will remain here for a brief duration only.”
“How do you ascertain that?” I said.
“If we were to be incarcerated here for any length of time,” he said, “then we would have been supplied with food as well as water.”
“Very well, but what do they want from us in the time we might be here – and, confound it, where exactly are we?”
Holmes turned to the opening and peered out, frowning. “We are situated on the Amazonis Planitia, perhaps two thousand miles north of the equator, as the mountain you see on the eastern horizon is none other than Olympus Mons.”
“But why in Hell’s name have they abandoned us here?” Challenger roared.
“I think we will find out,” Holmes said, “in due course.”
He resumed his pacing, and paused a minute later to ask, “Watson, what did you experience immediately after passing out in the silver craft back at the museum?”
I recounted my recollection of the bright light, and being examined by a Martian.
“And you, Professor?” Holmes asked.
Challenger shrugged his ox-like shoulders. “I was out for the count from the outset,” he said. “I do recollect a bright light, but it’s as if I dreamed it. I recall nothing else until I awoke in this confounded hole.”
“What about you, Holmes?” I asked.
“I recall coming briefly to my senses to find myself lashed to a frame of chromium bars, while being examined by a Martian who then placed a tight band around my head… After that, nothing.”
“But what were the ungodly beasts doing to us, Holmes?” Challenger roared. “By Gad, if I could get my hands on one of the slimy creatures!” And, miming his intent, his huge hands reached out and wrung the neck of an imaginary alien.
“You were asked here to give a lecture, Professor?” Holmes enquired.
“That’s right. A couple of talks to the Martian Geographic Society on the subject of my more recent Arabian expeditions.”
Holmes stroked his chin. “And did the invitation strike you as… odd?”
“It did cross my mind to wonder why Martians might be interested in Arabia, yes. I might pack the Royal Geographic Society with folk eager to hear my talks, but here on Mars…?” He shrugged.
“I was asked by Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran,” Holmes said, “to investigate the murder of a philosopher who, it turns out, does not exist. Our incarceration, gentlemen, can only be linked to the larger picture.”
“Which is?” Challenger asked.
“What else but the eventual annihilation of the human race?” said Holmes.
“But…” I said, “how can that be? The Martians are far in advance of us, technologically. Couldn’t they merely wipe us out militarily, if that is their ultimate intent?”
Holmes’s brow was buckled in an intense frown of concentration. At last he said, “They could, but perhaps they do not wish to annihilate us immediately. Invading armies often utilise the subjugated citizens of a defeated nation as labour – slaves, in other words. Perhaps that is the ultimate fate of our kind, and what is happening on Earth now, with the Martians displaying a benign, even altruistic face, is part of a ‘softening up’ process.”
“And our kidnapping and imprisonment?” Challenger asked. “Where does that fit in?”
“On that sore question I am, for the moment, though I am loath to admit it, as clueless as yourself.”
I moved to the opening and gripped the bars. With all my strength I pulled at them, hoping that the stone in which they were set might crumble – but it was a vain hope. The bars were immovable. And anyway, what purpose might be served by our escape from this chamber? We were in the middle of an inimical desert, two thousand miles from civilisation. Even if we were by some miracle to attain the city of Glench-Arkana, how might we find the means to leave Mars and return to Earth?
My spirit shrivelled at the hopelessness of our situation.
I sat with my back against the wall, sweat trickling down my exhausted face, and withdrew my fob-watch from my waistcoat. Therein I kept a photograph of my dear departed Mary, her sweet smile a boon to my senses in this time of need. I lost myself in a happy reverie of recollection, recalling our honeymoon in Brighton, and later holidays in the Scottish Highlands. Never had the memory of my country – even when serving in the sere plains of Afghanistan – provoked such a sense of sadness in my heart.
Holmes noticed my mood. “Chin up, Watson. I will refrain from offering such platitudes as ‘Where there’s life…’, but the fact is that all is not yet hopeless. We must be vigilant, and grasp whatever opportunity comes our way.”
I was of a mind to say that that was all very well, but the fact remained that we were imprisoned in the middle of a desert on a planet many millions of miles from home. But I held my tongue. “You’re right, Holmes. There is always hope.”
“That’s the spirit, Watson,” said my friend. He sat down next to me and stared at Challenger, who had slumped against the far wall and closed his eyes.
“That’s odd,” Holmes said.
“What is?” I asked.
“Watson, am I correct in stating that earlier, when we first met Professor Challenger in the air-car this morning, he was not wearing his sola topi?”
“Why… I can’t rightly recall.”
“He wasn’t, of that I am certain,” my friend pronounced, pointing. “And yet now he is.”
I was about to ask Holmes what he might be driving at when Professor Challenger opened his eyes suddenly, cocked his head, and said, “Am I going mad, or do I hear the approach of an infernal Martian air-car?”
Holmes bent an ear towards the opening. “I do believe you’re right.”
I jumped to my feet and peered through the bars.
Faint at fi
rst, and then growing louder, I made out the throb of an engine. I scanned the skies for any sign of the vessel, but saw nothing other than the slow tumble of Phobos far to the north.
Holmes joined me at the opening, and Challenger swore to himself as a vehicle passed directly overhead, the engine noise rising to a deafening volume.
“There!” cried Holmes, pointing.
A domed air-car came into view and settled on the sands a hundred yards before our gaol. At this distance I was unable to make out the pilot behind the tinted glass, and I waited with bated breath for the individual to show himself.
“This is it,” Challenger said. “The blighters have come to proposition us – or threaten us. I fear that soon we shall learn our fate.” He slammed a fist into his meaty palm. “But I for one refuse to go down without a fight!”
“It might not come to fisticuffs,” Holmes said. “I advise caution until we learn what the Martians require from us.”
“If they ever get round to it,” I said, for whoever had piloted the air-car thus far was showing no inclination to climb out and approach our prison.
The air-car sat, a paralysed trilobite, under the ceaseless sun.
An hour elapsed, then two.
“This is intolerable!” Challenger raged. “Are they playing games with us, d’you think?”
“I am at a loss to second-guess their motives,” Holmes admitted.
A further hour elapsed and the sun, moving overhead and slanting its light now from the west, shone directly into the air-car.
“Upon my word, Watson,” Holmes said. “The vehicle is quite empty.”
I peered through the bars. “You’re right. There isn’t a soul in the driver’s seat, nor in the rear.”
“But why should our enemies have sent an empty car?” Challenger mused.
“Perhaps not our enemies,” Holmes said, “but our allies.”
“You think someone sent it so that, were we able to escape this chamber…?”
“It seems an odd way to go about achieving our salvation, Watson,” he admitted.
Again I fell to struggling with the bars, but I might as well have attempted to uproot an oak tree: they were immovable – and no matter how hard I tried, I could not force myself between the rods of iron. I gave up and slaked my thirst with water.
All was still and silent out there, and the only sound I heard was the occasional imprecation from the professor and my own thumping heartbeat.
And then, all of a sudden, the roar of an engine filled the air, and I rushed back to the opening, fully expecting to see the air-car powering up and taking off.
Instead, a second vehicle swooped down from the heavens, approached the opening and hovered before us.
Its pilot leaned forward, gesturing frantically behind the windscreen for us to move away from the opening.
“By Jove, Holmes!” I cried.
My heart surged with joy, for the pilot, our saviour, was none other than Miss Freya Hamilton-Bell.
Chapter Nine
A Simulacrum Revealed
We hurried to the back of the chamber, and turned to watch as Miss Hamilton-Bell reversed the air-car away from the opening.
“How in damnation does she hope to get us out of here?” Challenger asked.
“By the only expedient open to her,” said Holmes. “Watch.”
She eased the air-car forward slowly; its bonnet came up against the bars. Through the windscreen I made out the young woman’s face, her tongue-tip showing in concentration as she increased power and the air-car pressed forward.
As I watched, three bars bent, then popped from their moorings with an explosion of shattered stone and skittered across the floor. The air-car surged forward, sending more bars rattling across the chamber, then reversed from the opening and settled in the desert. In a trice Miss Hamilton-Bell leapt from the pilot’s seat, climbed onto the dome of the air-car, and from there jumped through the opening and into the chamber.
She wore the green uniform of the Martian spaceship line, with the little pillbox hat perched on the side of her head, and I thought I had never seen a more beautiful sight in all my life.
“But how did you find us?” I blurted, rushing forward and taking her hand in gratitude.
“My comrades traced your progress from the museum and north to this prison,” she said. “We then had to second-guess the motivation of your captors.”
“That,” said Holmes, “is what has been taxing my thoughts for some time. It occurred to me that we might very well be the bait in a cunning trap.”
“In which case,” I said in fear, “have the Martians succeeded?”
“You are correct, Mr Holmes,” said Miss Hamilton-Bell. “The Martians did indeed sequester you here in an attempt to lure members of the opposition.”
“But in that case…” I moaned.
“Fear not, Dr Watson.” She smiled at me. “The Martians would not be satisfied with the capture of just a single rebel. They desire far more than that.”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“When we learned where they had taken you,” she said, “we decided to send in an air-car by remote control – to test the waters, as it were. If your Martian captors then pounced, we knew that this was a simple trap designed to capture one or two members of the opposition. If, however, they let it be, then we knew that a much more sophisticated operation was under way.”
“And the latter has proved to be the case,” Holmes said. “But what is that operation?”
Miss Hamilton-Bell paced back and forth. “For a long while the Martian authorities have attempted to locate the rebels’ base. They have followed my comrades, recruited spies, employed all manner of devious means to root out and destroy those Martians which oppose their draconian rule – but to no avail. We have always remained one step ahead of them. However… I suspect that we were observed, or overheard, by government spies in the restaurant in Glench-Arkana, and they devised a scheme to imprison you here as bait. No doubt they plan to follow us to the rebels’ headquarters in the north.”
Her lips formed a stern line as she looked at each of us. “We had a comrade working in the museum,” she said, “who reported that you had all been scanned, and that you were unconscious for an hour or two afterwards. That was all the time they required to put their plan into action.”
“Scanned?” I said.
She pulled something from the pocket of her jacket. It was a small, silver object about the size of a cigarette case. Set into its leading edge was what looked like a small glass bead. She directed the device at Professor Challenger and pressed a stud on its side. Instantly, the small bead glowed blue.
What happened next not only shocked but horrified me.
Professor Challenger, one moment at my side, at the next leapt forward with a deafening bellow and dashed the implement from the woman’s grip. “No!”
The device flew through the air and rattled across the stone floor, and Challenger, like a man possessed, dived after it. I watched in shock, hardly able to believe my eyes, as Miss Hamilton-Bell – with lightning-fast reactions – leapt towards the professor and, with a display of startling acrobatics, swivelled in the air and lashed out with her right leg. Her shod foot caught Challenger in the midriff and with a mighty gust of expelled air he barrelled backwards and hit the wall. She lost no time in diving for the device, snatching it up, and backing away from Challenger as he staggered forward and gathered himself to attack.
“What’s possessed you, man!” I cried. “She rescued us, for pity’s sake! Can’t you see that she’s on our side?”
As Challenger surged towards Miss Hamilton-Bell, she drew a second device from her pocket and directed it at the professor. This was a handgun, and had the immediate effect of bringing Challenger up short.
His consternation was short-lived, however. In the act of raising his arms into the air, he dived sideways towards me, gripped me about the neck and then manhandled me so as to put my body between himself and Miss Ham
ilton-Bell. I was now, in effect, a shield.
Moreover, he fastened his meaty fingers around my neck and called out, “One move and Watson is dead!”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” I choked. “Unhand me at once!”
His fingers increased their grip on my throat.
Holmes took one step towards me, consternation twisting his features.
“I never had you down as a traitor to the human race,” said he. “You, of all men, I would have thought loyal to king and country. What are you thinking of, Challenger? What twisted motive has made you throw your lot in with the Martians?”
Miss Hamilton-Bell stepped forward. She, of all of us, seemed in charge of the situation: her demeanour possessed an enviable sangfroid as she smiled across at Challenger. “Would you care to answer Mr Holmes’s question, or shall I tell them?”
“We shall prevail!” Challenger bellowed. “We invaded Earth for good reason, and we shall prove ultimately victorious! The perfidy of the opposition, in attempting to waylay our masterplan, is misguided and short-lived!”
“You say ‘we’?” Holmes said. “How can you align yourself with our oppressors, Professor? Consider how the people of Great Britain might view you, a hero of the nation, a man decorated and feted for his unswerving devotion to the Empire, grovelling now at the feet of tyrants! What have they promised you, Challenger? Wealth, power – the means to explore the solar system at your leisure?”
Challenger growled, his fingers tightening on my oesophagus.
I fought for breath, but my lungs were bursting and my vision failing.
Miss Hamilton-Bell lifted the weapon in her right hand and aimed it in my direction.
“Dr Watson,” she said calmly, “I apologise in advance.”
And so saying, she lifted the handgun a fraction and fired.
I expected to hear the deafening report of a bullet, but heard instead the sharp crackle of an electrical current. And instead of a bullet, there issued from the handgun a dazzling blue light which missed me by a fraction and hit Professor Challenger square on the forehead. He cried out, electrocuted, and in that instant I too felt a jolt of electrical current conducted through his hands. Challenger released his grip on my throat and fell to the floor, choking. I staggered across the chamber. Holmes caught me and lowered me to a sitting position against the wall, and together we watched the next act of the drama play out.