The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Martian Menace

by Eric Brown

  Holmes considered the question. “In the circumstance, no. We must keep our wits about us in case all does not go to plan.”

  We heard a prompt knocking upon the timbers of the crate, followed by Miss Hamilton-Bell’s peremptory, “Quiet in there, gentlemen, if you please.”

  Thus admonished, we fell silent.

  Then we were moving, the crate rolling smoothly across the floor on the trolley. The journey lasted some three or four minutes, then ceased. I could discern, through a hairline gap in the timber at the end of the crate, a splinter of sunlight. Evidently we had come to a halt on some kind of loading bay. I fell to wondering, as we waited, how strict the security checks might be at the spaceport. While the militia might have discovered Holmes’s mercy killing of Professor Moriarty, there hopefully would be nothing to link the death to the transportation of the menhir to Earth.

  Unless, of course – my overactive brain reasoned – there was a traitor among the ranks of Arkana sympathisers.

  I heard the sound of an engine, followed by Martian voices, and then we were moving once again, bumping and banging amid shouted instructions as the crate was loaded onto the delivery wagon.

  I made out the sound of a door sliding shut, and the sliver of sunlight suddenly vanished. The wagon started up and trundled off, its motor purring.

  A little later came the sound of a welcome voice. “All well in there, gentlemen?” asked Miss Hamilton-Bell.

  “As well as can be expected,” I replied.

  “I can tolerate the discomfort,” Holmes said, “in preference to the alternative: having to negotiate our own egress from the planet.”

  “You will be feted, in time, as heroes of the Resistance,” she said.

  “And you,” he replied, “as a heroine.”

  There was a lapse of some seconds before she said, “Let us hope that all goes as well as it has so far, gentlemen. We are almost at the spaceport. Silence from now on, I think.”

  The wagon stopped, then started again, then stopped – like this, for the next fifteen minutes or so, we progressed in fits and starts. I suspected we were in a queue for customs, with security checks being carried out on the vehicles ahead of us. Already I was feverishly hot, and wished I’d had the foresight to bring along a flask of water.

  Miss Hamilton-Bell whispered, “Quiet, gentlemen. We are approaching a security cordon.”

  The wagon started up again and we trundled forward, then halted.

  I heard the rear hatch slide open, then footsteps and the sound of Martian voices. Miss Hamilton-Bell spoke, and a security guard replied.

  I raised my head to the slit between the planks and squinted out. I could see nothing other than Miss Hamilton-Bell’s shoulder, and beyond her a Martian security official. They seemed to be engaged in some protracted debate. It came to me that our very lives depended on Miss Hamilton-Bell’s ability to see us through the security check.

  All it would take for us to be discovered, I thought, was for a customs official to insist on inspecting the contents of the crate…

  She moved from my narrow field of vision to reveal the Martian who stood facing the open wagon. For a terrifying second, it seemed that his vast dark eyes were staring straight through the crack at me. Then, to my relief, he turned and moved away, and Miss Hamilton-Bell climbed in beside the crate and slid the door shut.

  The vehicle started up again, and I let out a relieved breath.

  I was about to express my relief to Holmes when a deafening explosion rent the air, and the wagon rocked on its wheels. I heard Miss Hamilton-Bell exclaim aloud. The wagon accelerated. Another explosion sounded close by. I wondered if it was the security guards, firing upon us.

  We were bumping along at speed now. I heard cries and screams in Martian from far away. I wanted to call out, ask Miss Hamilton-Bell what the blazes was going on, but I was being rattled so violently from side to side that I could scarcely gather my thoughts.

  Then the wagon halted and I heard the doors open. The crate shook as it was unloaded and trolleyed, presumably, towards the interplanetary ship. We were tipped suddenly at an angle – we were evidently moving up the ramp into the cargo hold of the ship. I heard more cries in the alien tongue, echoing in the cavernous hold. The sliver of daylight winked out and I assumed the ship’s cargo doors were being closed preparatory to departure. I heard another explosion, much muffled, and guessed then that the Korshana attack on Glench-Arkana had begun ahead of time.

  I heard the sound of feet rushing hither and thither, and then more cries. Explosions came one after the other, and I thought what tragic ill-fortune it would be if the ship were to be struck now, just as we were about to escape.

  It was infernally hot within the crate and I was finding it hard to breathe. On top of this, I was taken with an attack of claustrophobia. I wanted to get out, to stretch my limbs and run about like a fool. I took a grip on myself, closed my eyes, and sought to control my breathing.

  All was silence for a space. I heard no cries, nor footfalls. Even the crump of explosions from without had ceased.

  Then the crate was rattled like a toy in the hands of an infant, and the loudest explosion yet caused my ears to ring, and I knew for certain that the ship had suffered a direct hit. I screwed my eyes shut, waiting for the crate to be crushed by falling girders.

  “We’re hit!” I cried, unable to maintain my silence.

  But Holmes was laughing. “I think not, my friend! Though, I admit, for a second I thought so, too. No, we have taken off. Listen…”

  Oh, the calming effect of my friend’s reassurance as I heard the low, constant thrum of the interplanetary ship’s blasting engine as we powered away from the surface of Mars. Such was my relief that I almost wept with joy.

  I wanted to be released immediately. The crate was like a coffin, and I felt a resurgence of claustrophobic panic. I wanted to look upon the comely visage of Miss Hamilton-Bell, and congratulate her, and stare out at the planet as it grew ever smaller in our wake.

  The seconds ticked by; minutes elapsed. Fifteen minutes, and then thirty. I was sure that an hour had gone by, and then I was gripped by the conviction that we had been forgotten, to asphyxiate within the crate – what a way to meet one’s end!

  I was about to cry out, a little later, when I heard footsteps ringing along the deck of the cargo hold, and then voices. Presently came the welcome sound of tools at work on the fixings of the crate, and the lid was dislodged and electric light flooded in.

  Miss Hamilton-Bell stared down at me, concern etched on her features. “Why, Dr Watson… you look all in!”

  She helped me out, and then rushed around to do the same for Holmes. A Martian advanced and held out a cannister of water – bless him! – and I drank my fill and passed the cannister to Holmes. I must have presented a sorry sight to Miss Hamilton-Bell and the three Martians, beet-red of face and saturated in the juices of my own perspiration, but Miss Hamilton-Bell had more pressing matters to concern her.

  “Gentlemen, the attack on the city has begun early. We were forced to take-off against regulations, and the security forces have therefore deemed this an enemy vessel and brought their cannons to bear on us. With luck they will not find our range.”

  She led us to an elevator plate, and we rose to an observation deck and stared out through the viewscreen.

  I exclaimed in wonder.

  We were high above the city of Glench-Arkana now, and we looked down on a scene of devastation. Buildings were blazing, while others were partially wrecked or demolished entirely. A hundred vehicles shuttled this way and that alongside fleeing citizens, and still bombs rained down on the city and sent up great geysers of fire and debris.

  A puff of smoke appeared from nowhere in the sky to our right, followed a split second later by a great detonation and a concussion: the ship rocked in the blast wave of the near-miss, and we held on to the straps and swayed this way and that.

  “They have found our range,” I said. “Surely the next
missile will account for us!”

  “But we’re outstripping their guns!” Miss Hamilton-Bell exclaimed.

  I beheld another puffball of black smoke away to our right and a little below our tail fins, and then another – but she was right, the guns might have found our range, but we had powered on beyond and were making good our escape.

  I stared down at the devastated city, and wondered if this might be the beginning of the end. How long might the conflict continue before the forces of Arkana were brought to their knees – and how long might the fight on Earth continue once we had joined battle with our conquerors?

  The ship moved ever further away from the face of Mars, and now I could make out Glench-Arkana surrounded by swathes of crimson desert – and there, far to the west, connected by the silver filigree monorail, was the great grey disc of Hakoah-Malan. I considered the corpse within the chromium frame, and the hell Moriarty had endured for year upon year, and I thought of all the evil that the man had committed.

  I glanced at Holmes. He too was staring down at the disc, and his expression was as if graven from stone and unreadable.

  Presently Miss Hamilton-Bell escorted us to our cabins, where she thanked us and left us to undress. I did so wearily, and climbed into the suspension pod in anticipation of the oblivion I would enjoy for the duration of the voyage home.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Finale in London

  Once we had landed at Battersea docking station, our exit from the ship was effected in the same manner as we had entered: we were concealed in the packing crate and in due course processed through customs – though not without a hitch. According to Miss Hamilton-Bell, the station’s security forces, alerted by word from Mars, had questioned the ship’s captain long and hard as to his precipitate departure. His claim that he had been saving his ship and crew from the rebels’ bombs convinced the security forces, and in due course he was allowed to unload his cargo.

  After a bumpy ride across the capital, the crate was opened and we found ourselves in a basement room in the Natural History Museum. Miss Hamilton-Bell greeted us, then lifted out the valise and passed it to a young man who hurried off without a word.

  She took us to her office high in the west wing of the museum and, over a welcome cup of Earl Grey, outlined the course of action the Resistance would take over the next few days. This was dependent, of course, on the success of the electromagnetic pulse generator. At eleven the next morning, an accomplice of the young man who had collected the valise would take the device aboard an air balloon and, high above London, activate the generator. Then every member of the Resistance, and the military personnel and politicians on our side, would hold their collective breath and pray that its activation had the desired effect: that every tripod and simulacrum across greater London would be disabled. Then the fightback would begin in earnest. Military leaders would send their infantrymen and fusiliers up against the Martians; the Institute at Woking would be sacked, along with the tripod manufactory and every other Martian factory and stronghold up and down the land. All across the face of the Earth, the other pulse generators that had been ferried from the red planet would be activated, in cities as widespread as New York and Sydney, Moscow and Johannesburg, and human armies would rise against the tyranny of the invaders.

  “But that will only be the start,” she went on. “Then will begin the long, arduous job of rebuilding, of wresting back control of what the Martians have taken from us. We are under no illusion as to the long haul we face, but the fact is that we will be masters of our own destiny once again, no longer corralled like sheep. We will be free!”

  “Well said,” I declared. “And if there is any way in which we can further assist the cause…”

  She smiled. “You have been instrumental in our success so far, gentlemen. I suggest that after your exertions you rest for the next few days, and watch events unfold.”

  She thought it prudent that we did not return to our rooms in Baker Street, and suggested instead that we lodge for the time being at the safe house at Willow Avenue.

  Towards six that evening we took our leave and caught a cab to Barnes, first stopping off at Baker Street to pack overnight bags and replace our timepieces taken by the Martians while we had languished in Pentonville.

  At Willow Avenue we discovered that Mr Wells and Miss Fairfield had moved to another address in London, and that only Miss Lenton was in residence. Over dinner we recounted our adventures on the red planet, and after a nightcap of brandy retired to bed. Sleep that night was a long time coming. I lay awake well into the early hours, staring at the half-moon through the bedroom window, aware that we were on the eve of a momentous day in the history of the planet.

  After a late breakfast the following morning, Holmes suggested that we stroll across Hampstead Heath and from Parliament Hill watch events unfold across the capital. Miss Lenton had business in Chiswick, supervising a first-aid post set up in anticipation of casualties in the forthcoming conflict, and she set off soon after breakfast. At ten we took a cab to Highgate and from there walked across the heath.

  It was a perfect autumn day. The sun was warm, the sky cloudless, with just the merest hint of a breeze to offset the heat. The heath was quiet on this working day, with just a few nannies and their charges enjoying the weather, along with the odd dog-walker and the occasional old couple strolling along arm in arm.

  We passed a tripod, silent and monumental, as it stood silhouetted against the sky. It was one of the multitude that were stationed around the capital, remaining in situ to relay their monotonous eventide refrain, “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla…” I considered the Martian ensconced within the cowl as he looked down upon the capital. Little did he realise what this auspicious day would bring!

  We hurried past this symbol of Martian domination, and I for one gave an involuntary shiver.

  We climbed the hill and settled ourselves on a bench with all London spread out before us. We saw distant, ambulatory tripods marching back and forth on patrol, and a dozen or more air-cars buzzing through the air for all the world like faraway bees. The streets of the capital were busy with pedestrians – they, like the unsuspecting tripod pilot, oblivious of the events about to take place – and trilobite cars rushed hither and thither.

  At one point Holmes touched my arm and murmured, “There…”

  He indicated a group of workmen in the shadow of the tripod – surely more than might be required to dig a short drainage ditch next to the path.

  “And there, Watson.”

  An army wagon idled along Highgate Road and came to a halt beside another tripod. As we watched, several infantrymen climbed out, lit cigarettes, and stood around in groups of two or three, chatting casually.

  I checked my watch. It was ten to eleven.

  “I don’t know about you, Holmes, but I’m dashed nervous.”

  “I will admit to increased cardiac activity,” he said. “I wish my head could overrule my physiology. I know that all is likely to go to plan, with perhaps one or two hiccups along the way, but that irrational part of me cannot help but fear…”

  “Fear what, specifically, Holmes?”

  “Oh, that the Resistance has informers in its midst, and that the Martians know all about its plans.”

  I shook my head. “But surely they would have been cognisant of the pulse generator before now,” I objected, “and apprehended us yesterday? And they would have rounded up members of the Resistance worldwide, and we would have heard about it by now.”

  “I know. You are right. But so much rests on the success of the next few hours and days…”

  I had not seen my friend in such a state of tension for quite a number of years, and I sought to soothe our nerves by producing my hipflask and offering him a tot. He partook, and passed the flask back to me. I smiled to myself as I thought that we might be taken as a pair of retired old codgers, whiling away the day with reminiscences and brandy.

  Holmes regarded his watch. “One minute to eleven.�
�

  I counted down the seconds in my head. Beside the tripod, a workman was scrutinising his pocket watch and another was staring into the skies. The soldiers on Highgate Road had flicked their cigarette butts into the gutter and were fingering their rifles. I scanned the heavens, but could not discern the air balloon carrying the pulse generator.

  Ten seconds, nine…

  A tripod strode across the heath perhaps half a mile below us as the seconds counted down, and I found that I was holding my breath in anticipation.

  “Two, one…” Holmes said, and gripped my forearm. “This is it!”

  Nothing happened. I wondered if both our timepieces had been fast. I felt as if my heart had stopped, and I was clutched by sudden despair.

  And then…

  “Look!” Holmes cried.

  The tripod taking great strides half a mile away seemed to hesitate all of a sudden. Its central leg, reaching forward, vibrated like the questing antennae of an insect. It failed to find a foothold and slowly, balancing precariously on two legs, it succumbed to gravity and toppled forward, its cowl striking a high wall and splitting asunder like a ripe fruit.

  “And there!” I cried, pointing to where the workmen had sprung into action. One of their number was scaling the foremost leg of the stationary tripod, and when he reached the cowl he inserted some small device into an orifice and shinned back down with inordinate haste. The rest of his fellows retreated into the cover of nearby bushes and a second later the bomb exploded. The tripod toppled, crashing through trees and bushes, and the workmen fell upon the Martian struggling from the wreckage and beat it to death with pickaxes and sledgehammers.

  The air was rent on every side with more explosions than I could count. The soldiers in Hampstead had set up a mortar and launched a missile at the nearby tripod, scoring a direct hit. The cowl blazed and its hapless pilot squealed his death agonies as the tripod slowly toppled.

  All across the heath, men and women were running to and fro, quite startled by the violence. It must have seemed, to the ignorant citizen, as if all hell had broken loose. We sat on our bench, leaning forward and taking in the spectacle before us; we had, as it were, a ringside view, voyeurs to an orgy of violence that saw our Martian overlords opposed by those they thought quite cowed. Not that they did not fight back, however. As we watched, we saw several tripods firing their heat-rays upon innocent crowds even as they swayed out of control; we saw men and women die in flames, these victims little comforted that, soon after, their persecutors fell to earth to be set upon by angry, vengeful mobs. Some tripods ran amok, demolishing buildings in their path, and crowds took to the streets in a bid to escape.