by Eric Brown
“A tall order indeed, sir. The only alternative – and we might be forced into it, if all does not go well – would be to send you two back to Earth aboard a vessel we have readied here. But I will be honest and tell you that the vessel is old and not a little unsafe, and since the war killed many of the Korshana’s finest scientists and technicians, our interplanetary vessels are not of the best.”
“If we fail to make the switch with our doppelgängers in Glench-Arkana,” Holmes said, “then to leave for Earth aboard the substandard ship is a risk that we must take. We must return to Earth, to continue the fight against our Martian oppressors.”
“Hear, hear!” I called out.
Miss Hamilton-Bell gave a thin-lipped smile. “Excellent. We will spend the night here, and at first light proceed to Glench-Arkana and attempt to effect the switch. To that end…” She called out in Martian, and a pair of aliens who had been guarding the entrance hurried out and returned, a minute later, hauling what at first I assumed were three captive Martians.
They dropped the captives before the table – yet they were not Martians at all, but rubber suits.
“I am afraid,” said Miss Hamilton-Bell, “that if we are to succeed in the next step of the operation, then tomorrow we must travel to Glench-Arkana in disguise.”
I stared down at the macabre sight of the flopping rubber Martians prostrated at our feet, and I could not help but laugh.
Chapter Eleven
Disaster Strikes
The following morning Miss Hamilton-Bell helped us into our rubber disguises, which opened via long lateral slits at the back of the head-torsos. While she held my suit steady, I stepped into the gap and worked my legs into the two thicker, central tentacles. I could not stand upright, of course, due to the short stature of the average Martian, but was forced to assume an uncomfortable crouching position, working my head into the space at the front of the suit and ensuring that I could see through the opening of the beak. A series of levers to my left and right worked the supernumerary forward and aft tentacles, as well as opening and closing the beak. Locomotion was achieved by moving one’s lower legs in an excruciating series of shuffles.
Once we were installed in the suits, Miss Hamilton-Bell examined us closely and declared that we would pass muster, then donned her own suit.
“The situation is this,” she said as she piloted us south. “The Martians are holding your simulacra in a safe house close to the spaceport. We have spies in place, monitoring the situation. The next ship will leave for Earth at four o’clock, eight hours from now. The simulacra will be transferred to the ship a few hours before it is due to depart.”
I stared through the glass at the land passing far below. A canal arrowed towards the horizon, dotted with all manner of sailing craft.
“I have been contemplating the situation on Earth,” Holmes observed sometime later, his voice muffled. “Our task of defeating the invaders is made all the more difficult due to the fact that among our own kind are the simulacra, scheming to further the ends of the Martians.”
“The good news on that front,” she replied, “is that, thanks to the network of spies in Glench-Arkana, we know who some of these mechanical imposters are. The difficulty will be to neutralise them and persuade the various governments on Earth of the Martians’ intentions.”
“On the face of it,” I said, “that appears a hopeless task.”
“All is not hopeless, Dr Watson,” she said. “The forces of the north, though punished heavily in the war, are not defeated: they have armaments and citizens aplenty with which to oppose the Arkana. Also, among the ranks of the equatorial Martians there are those who oppose the barbarity of their fellows. Together we can overcome our oppressors and rid our planet of the Martian menace.”
“Well said,” Holmes applauded. “I for one relish the task ahead.”
I stared through the glass and wished that I could be as sanguine as my friend, then settled back in my seat for the remainder of the journey south.
* * *
In due course the ugly spires and domes of Glench-Arkana hove into sight, sectioned by the spoke-like roads and monorails that converged on the central spaceport. Miss Hamilton-Bell brought the air-car down between a quiet canal and a terrace of low dwellings constructed of the ubiquitous dark grey material. The only splash of colour was provided by the red weed that climbed the frontage of the buildings.
To our right, beyond the canal, was the corrugated grey perimeter wall of the spaceport. Beyond loomed the towering nose-cones of Martian spaceships, standing tall beside ugly webwork gantries. Terminal buildings, bending like scimitars embedded blade-first into the ground, gave the skyline a wholly exotic appearance.
Miss Hamilton-Bell pointed a tentacle along the street. “The building with the green door is the safe house.”
“What is the plan?” Holmes asked.
“Your simulacra are in the safe house,” she said, “watched over by two security guards. However, in a little over fifteen minutes, two guards from the spaceport will collect your copies for the short journey to the ship that will take them to Earth. These guards are Korshana sympathisers. They will take custody of the simulacra in their air-car, and we will follow them to a quiet area of the city. There they will deactivate the simulacra and you will take their place. You will proceed with the guards to the ship, and in a week will once again be on Earth.”
“But if we take the place of the simulacra, then presumably we will not be fed for the duration of the voyage? I for one don’t fancy going a week without food or water!”
“Nor I!” I said.
“Do not worry,” she said, “we will have agents aboard the ship who will ensure that you are supplied with food and drink.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I will remain here, working for the rebel cause in whatever capacity I can.”
As we waited, my thoughts strayed to Professor Challenger and all the other innocent humans who had been lured to their deaths on the red planet. I thought of Asquith, our prime minister, and William Howard Taft from the States, and the leaders from nations all across the globe. I recalled that just last year the press had made much of Field Marshall Kitchener’s voyage to Mars – being the first military man granted the privilege – and before that writers such as Jules Verne and Joseph Conrad had accepted invitations to lecture there. I thought of Shaw and Chesterton, whom I had listened to in Hyde Park little more than a week ago: I wondered if they had been informed, by the rebels, of the imposition of the simulacra?
It struck me, as I sat in the back of the air-car, my pulse racing, that the situation was bleak: great forces were ranged against us, and our resistance seemed puny by comparison. At least – I cheered myself with the thought – we had feisty individuals like Freya Hamilton-Bell with whom to share the fight.
“Two minutes to go,” she said.
In due course an air-car landed in the street outside the safe house, and two Martians climbed down from the vehicle and approached the building. One of them pressed a panel beside the door with its tentacle, then stood back and waited.
The door opened; a Martian appeared and ogled the pair with its huge black eyes. Conversation passed between the aliens, and I awaited the appearance of the simulacra. Truth to tell, I was more than a little curious at the notion of looking upon a copy of myself.
“What’s taking so long?” Miss Hamilton-Bell said at one point. “The handover was arranged at the highest level – the authorities should have no cause for suspicion.”
The two rebel guards passed what looked like official papers over to the house guard, who scrutinised the documents. A second house guard appeared, and the first passed the papers to him.
“Make haste!” Miss Hamilton-Bell urged.
At last, the house guards stepped aside, apparently satisfied, and gestured back into the building. At this, two familiar figures stepped through the doorway and joined the rebel guards.
The sight of Holmes and m
yself left me speechless. Holmes was as I had always seen him, an exact replica down to his long, measured gait and the alert way in which he held his head – but their version of myself? Was I really that short, and portly; and did I comport myself with such a rush, and on such short legs?
I did my best to banish vanity and watch as the bodyguards led the imposters across the street towards their air-car.
Just as I was thinking that the operation was going without a hitch, one of the house guards called out something that made the rebel pair stop in their tracks and turn. The house guards stepped into the street and faced the rebels. A lengthy altercation ensued.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“I don’t like this one bit,” was all Miss Hamilton-Bell would say.
As we watched, my heartbeat rapid, one of the house guards pulled a weapon from a bandolier slung around its torso and waved it at the rebels.
“I can only assume that they found some irregularity with the false documentation,” she muttered. “I must do something. Remain here!” she added.
And so saying she extended a tentacle, opened the door, and before we could say a word to make her think again, slipped from the vehicle and hurried along the street.
I leaned forward, sweating all the more in the infernal Martian suit. “What the bally hell is she doing?” I cried.
Beside me, Holmes urged caution. “I am sure she has a plan of action.”
Miss Hamilton-Bell approached the four aliens and two simulacra. As the house guards turned to address her, the rebel pair acted. One drew a weapon and shot the first house guard, then turned it upon the second.
“Look!” Holmes cried, pointing a tentacle.
I stared in horror as at least four further Martians tumbled from the safe house, drawing weapons and attacking the rebels – and attacking, also, Miss Hamilton-Bell. She threw herself to the floor and rolled towards the Martian, skittling it in short order and regaining her feet.
While this was going on, another air-car arrived upon the scene, a larger one this time, which disgorged half a dozen Martians – both Korshana and Arkana – who flung themselves into the melee.
The fighting was hand-to-hand now, with tentacles flailing and only occasionally a Martian able to use its weapon with any certitude.
Soon I found it impossible to tell friend from foe as squat aliens fought in the street. An incongruous sight amid the carnage, however, was the simulacra: either deactivated by the house guards, or finding themselves in a situation they had not been programmed to handle, they stood frozen like shop window mannequins while the battle raged about them.
At one point in the fight, Miss Hamilton-Bell fell to the ground and lay still. At first I thought that she had fallen victim to the assault, but Holmes cried out, “No! Look…”
The suit that contained the woman was moving, and I knew then what she was doing. Her freedom of movement hampered by the suit, she was attempting to squirm from it.
I was beside myself with apprehension, willing her to play dead.
Duly she succeeded in fighting free of the suit, and emerged – like a beautiful butterfly from an ugly chrysalis – into the fray.
Then she pulled a weapon and fired at an advancing alien.
She missed, and her attacker raised his weapon. Miss Hamilton-Bell, displaying her skill at ju-jitsu that she had first exhibited in the desert, pirouetted and lashed out a long leg, catching the alien in its face and sending it sprawling across the street. She ducked the blow of an advancing alien, raised her weapon, and fired. The Martian hit the ground, its tentacles thrashing.
We watched in mounting horror as yet another air-car descended. Six burly brutes jumped out and joined the fray, and for the next thirty seconds all was a whirl of confusion as shots rang out and perhaps two dozen aliens lashed at each other with flying tentacles. Miss Hamilton-Bell fought like a dervish, accounting for two or three Martians – and then turned to see three creatures advancing upon her.
“We must do something!” I cried.
“Agreed,” said Holmes, opening the door and leading the way.
We tumbled from the air-car and approached the melee.
Miss Hamilton-Bell looked around her in desperation as the Martians advanced. I was willing her to take to her heels when the leading alien drew a weapon and, with a deliberation terrible to behold, fired at her from close range. She staggered backwards, clutching her chest – her eyes wide with shock – and tumbled to the ground. Her attacker pressed his advantage, advanced upon her recumbent form, and brought the butt of his weapon down on her skull with a crushing blow.
Sickened, I averted my gaze.
Seconds later I felt strong tentacles grab my arm. As I was dragged away, I had one last brief glimpse of Miss Hamilton-Bell: she was lying immobile fifty yards away, her skull rent asunder.
I was frog-marched along the street and unceremoniously bundled into the back of an air-car the size of a pantechnicon. Holmes landed beside me with a grunt and the doors were slammed shut and locked. Seconds later the roar of engines and a certain buoyancy told us that we were airborne.
I thought of Professor Challenger, and all the other humans who had fallen foul of the merciless Martians, and though I knew that it was my fate to join them, I felt little personal fear, numbed as I was by what I had seen occur in the street.
Holmes was struggling from his Martian suit. His head and torso emerged, and he beheld my expression and said, “We could have done nothing to save her, Watson. Did you see how many of them there were?”
“At least we would have gone down with a fight!”
“The end result would have been the same, my friend.”
I pulled off my suit and cast it aside in disgust, choking with emotion. “I’ll tell you this much, Holmes. I will avenge her death. So help me God, I will! I will go down fighting, whenever the monsters show themselves.”
A sound issued from the far end of the chamber, and Holmes said, “It would seem that you do not have long to wait.”
I looked up as a tentacled beast shambled into the rear of the pantechnicon, then stopped a couple of yards away and regarded us with its glaucous eyes.
I rose to my feet, ready to leap at the first opportunity.
The monster’s mouthpiece moved, and it addressed us in its meaningless, high-pitched jabber.
Meaningless to me, at least – but not to Holmes.
I was on the point of throwing myself at the creature when my friend gripped my arm.
I looked at Holmes in mystification. “What…?” I began.
He pointed at the Martian. “He says he is on the side of the Korshana, Watson. He apologises for the failure of the operation, and says that we should return to Zenda-Zakan forthwith, where his compatriots are readying a ship to take us back to Earth.”
* * *
I passed the next few hours in a state of numbed disbelief, too grief-stricken to appreciate the miracle of my salvation, and then experienced a nascent guilt at having survived the ordeal while Miss Hamilton-Bell had not.
We reached the northern city of Zenda-Zakan and were ferried by land-car through the tunnels of the subterranean city until we emerged into an open-air bowl in the centre of which stood, proud yet battered, a small interplanetary ship.
We were escorted to our berths and submerged in the gel that would cosset us for the week-long duration of our flight to Earth, and the Martian rebel looked from me to Holmes and addressed my friend.
“What was that, Holmes?” I asked listlessly as I drank down the sedative offered by a second alien.
“He says that we will land somewhere in northern France, where the presence of the occupying Martians is scant. By that time, our simulacra will be ensconced in Baker Street. He will supply us with electrical guns so that we can despatch the simulacra when we reach London, and in due course an agent of the Martian rebels will be in touch to plan the way ahead.”
I nodded apathetically. “Very well.”
&nb
sp; The Martian raised a tentacle in farewell and left the cabin.
I recalled Miss Hamilton-Bell’s words about the safety of this vessel, and said, “Of course, Holmes, we might never make it home, you know?”
And a part of me, as I spoke these words, welcomed the thought of sliding into the balm of oblivion.
I was still gripped by grief when the engine thundered and the sedative finally took effect.
Chapter Twelve
Confrontation at 221B Baker Street
It was strange indeed to be back upon planet Earth, where the sky was blue and the gravity tugged greedily at my body. It took me a while, as we left the ship in a forest outside Dieppe and made our way towards the harbour, to take in the good fortune of our having survived the perilous voyage from Mars.
We travelled by a steam packet from Dieppe to Dover, and I considered the scale of the struggle against our oppressors that lay ahead. Perhaps my thoughts were still burdened by the fate of Miss Hamilton-Bell, for I had to admit that I had little appetite for the fight. It all seemed so hopeless, even futile, without the shining light of her indomitable spirit to guide the way.
At Dover we boarded a train for London, and a little over an hour later pulled into St Pancras, from where we made haste to the Diogenes Club and summoned Holmes’s brother, Mycroft. My friend prevailed upon that worthy to put us up for the night, and Mycroft agreed, grudgingly, to lodge us at his Pall Mall townhouse.
Over a substantial dinner that evening, Holmes recounted our adventures on Mars, then outlined our imminent assault on the accursed simulacra. On this latter point, however, Mycroft counselled us to caution, and suggested we go into hiding and think through our options.
Over a lavish breakfast the following morning, before proceeding to Baker Street, he again begged us to consider our actions. “You would be much safer assuming other identities and living incognito,” he said. “Quite apart from the dangers inherent in broaching this pair, you will be forced into assuming your old roles – and how long might it be before the Martians learn that you are not indeed their simulacra? Then the fat will be in the fire.”