Once inside the shed, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Well?”
He grinned, revealing white, pointed teeth. “Don’t you have an office in the barn?”
She sniffed pointedly. “I can’t have my barn reeking of predator. You upset Beezus.”
His grin slipped a notch. “They’re used to me, up at the house,” he offered, chuckling nervously. “Still can’t believe they’re stabling horses in the ballroom.”
“They’re preserving my modesty.” Emma couldn’t help smiling. Here she was, wearing trousers, a revolver belted around her waist, and the general was concerned about her sleeping in the same building as the soldiers.
The Moreauvian pulled a message tube from his pocket and handed it to her. “A map and a copy of your orders.”
She took the tube, made no move to empty it. “Thanks.” As if the map would be useful, with the polluted landscape and destroyed landmarks.
He seemed to understand. “It has tripod locations marked. Or where they seem to be patrolling, anyhow.”
Emma nodded.
He held something else to her. A sweat-stained glove. “You’ll need this too.” When she hesitated, he clarified, “Your horse needs this.”
Emma reluctantly accepted the smelly item. Oh, no. She shut her eyes, counted to ten. Re-opening them, she stuffed the glove in her pocket and upended the tube. She scanned the parchment, already knowing what she’d find.
…to aid in the successful completion of the mission, several messengers will be sent, following separate routes. They are as follows…
She skimmed the list, finding the name she sought at the bottom.
Henry Fletcher, Moreauvian
Bad enough that he was acting as a sort of aide-de-camp. She didn’t need the Moreauvian monster on the field in addition to the Martians. Emma rolled up the paper and stuffed it back inside the tube. She did not look at Henry Fletcher.
“All the messengers need an item of clothing, in case we encounter each other—”
“I understand,” she snapped. “I have to finish preparing for the ride.” When Fletcher didn’t move from the door, she said, “Don’t you? Have to prepare?”
He shook his head. “I don’t need a horse.” He paused. “I…can move quite fast…when I need to.”
She had a good idea of what that meant. Even the lowliest of chimney sweeps had heard of Dr. Moreau and his…experiments. She didn’t want to hear the details of what Henry Fletcher could do. She gestured to the door. “I have to saddle my horse.”
Fletcher sketched a bow and stepped to the side, allowing her to venture out into the gloomy day. “Good luck,” he called.
Beezus hated the stink of the glove, and shifted uneasily as Emma fastened it to the saddle, moaning.
Emma stroked the mare’s shoulder. “He can’t smell much worse than a dog, can he?”
Beezus snorted, wagging her head.
“Well, then.” Emma whispered into the horse’s ear, “I don’t like it either, but we’ll make do.”
Beezus bobbed her head. Emma smiled, resting her forehead against Beezus’ neck, breathing deeply of the horse’s scent, feeling her heart slow. They would get through this—Black Smoke, Martians, and Moreauvian ally be damned.
Emma inhaled deeply, taking some peace from Beezus’ solid presence. She tugged on the bridle’s buckles one last time to ensure a secure fit.
Satisfied, she led the mare outside. A small group of soldiers huddled in the yard. There was no sign of Henry Fletcher, or any other messengers. One of the men, the general, approached her.
“You have your orders?” he asked.
Emma nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Right, then.” He waved a boy forward, who boosted Emma up on her saddle.
“God speed,” the general said and thumped Beezus on the shoulder. “Off you go.”
Although the dense Black Smoke eventually sank to the ground, the air was still smoky from decimated buildings and vegetation. People, too, probably. She groped for the message tube containing her orders and the instructions for the fleet and squinted through the haze.
This section of London was desolated, the people long since fled or killed and many of the houses smoking, empty shells. A few, like the one the military had commandeered, were more or less intact. They didn’t look inhabited, but then, it wasn’t wise to do anything to attract the attention of the tripod patrols. Especially—Emma shuddered—since she’d heard that there were worse fates than death to be had from the tentacles of the Martians.
Going through the city center would be the quickest route, but the most hazardous—too much rubble obscured by the haze and therefore too risky for Beezus. They would, instead, skirt along the edges of the park and then cut over to the docks. There would be less cover for them, but Beezus was a fine runner. Her speed and nimbleness would get them past the tripods, where human runners and mechanical motors had failed.
It was so quiet that Emma wondered if the Martians had stopped patrolling in this particular area. She guided Beezus around a coach abandoned in the middle of the road. The horses in the harness were dead, sloppily and hastily butchered. Chaos and violence had overcome the people quickly, even in this respectable part of London. Emma grimaced, recalling the confusion yesterday as her family had forced their way through the streets, her father striking people with a riding crop to keep them from climbing atop the laden carriage.
A crash to her left startled her out of her musings. Emma glimpsed a tripod from the corner of her eye and hunched over Beezus’ neck, asking the horse for more speed. Their best defense against the tripods was distance. The Black Smoke and heat-rays could not be defeated or deflected, only outrun. Beezus leapt forward as a spindly metal leg stabbed the earth where they’d just been.
Zig-zag, Emma thought, communicating her directions to Beezus through subtle touches of her heels, hands, the reins. The mare responded lightning fast, almost instantaneously. The resounding clangs and stomps of the tripod followed them, not able to catch up despite its long legs, not quite, but—
Zot.
A tree turned to ash on their right as they jigged left.
The heat-ray. Emma’s mouth went dry. Probably better than canisters of Black Smoke, but still not good.
Zot.
Emma stood up in her stirrups, her head alongside Beezus’ neck. She was calm. There was her, there was Beezus, and there was the road in front of them. The buzzing of heat-rays was no more bothersome than a fly.
“Cart!” she yelled. Beezus’ ear flicked, but she’d already seen the obstacle. Her muscles bunched, and Emma adjusted her seat as the horse jumped the over-turned cart.
Beezus came down fine, no stumbles, and Emma was already communicating a course direction as the cart disintegrated behind them.
Emma glanced over her shoulder. The tripod didn’t seem to be gaining. Would it let them escape? Find easier prey, or—
Emma steered Beezus off the road into the trees as a second tripod erupted from the houses, a heat-ray blasting holes in the road.
Emma gulped. They’d have to slow down, sacrificing speed for the cover of trees. Beezus pushed through a clump of bushes, and Emma nearly sobbed with relief as the mare’s hooves came down on a well-maintained bridle path. Beezus picked up her pace, her stride lengthening, and the noise of the tripods faded.
These trees were faring well, still leafy and green—healthy—and with none of the powdery residue of the Black Smoke. It was tempting to stop, to rest, but she didn’t dare. What if the tripods decided to follow her into the park? Distance. Distance was her best defense.
Gradually, the trees thinned and then ended abruptly, abutting against a once-elegant house which now lay in ruins. Smoke spiraled in the distance. Through the miasma, Emma could see dark, irregular shapes. Houses, perhaps, with their roofs blown away.
Beezus shifted and whickered softly. Emma patted her neck. “Hush, my lovely. Let’s get our bearings.”
Emma pulled out the ma
p. Buildings would be next to useless, but surely the park…? She located it on the map and grunted with surprise. They had come farther than she’d thought. The road before them would lead to the docks—the Navy. If they were even there.
These ships, she had heard, had been called from the North by telegraph before the Martians had disrupted communications. They might not have arrived yet. And if they had, they might have been discovered by the tripods and burnt to ash with the heat-rays, or the crews killed with the Black Smoke.
She sighed, staring glumly at the road. The most sure way to reach her destination; the most sure way to be found by tripods. She peeked behind her. The park was silent and green. No Black Smoke, no rotting corpses, no foulness. She and Beezus could scrabble there for a while. The Navy and the Army could fight the Martians, figure out ways to counteract the Black Smoke and heat-rays. It was their responsibility, their duty. She and Beezus would sit this out. They would be safe.
But her father was on the road to Chelmsford, along with hundreds, maybe thousands of people. The Navy needed to be there to guard the retreat and to do that they needed to be told where to go. She stroked the butt of her revolver. She couldn’t be with her family, but she could still ensure that they escaped the Martians.
Emma patted the mare and urged her forward. “We’ll see it through to the end.”
Beezus’ eager strides ate the road, and it wasn’t long before the odor of the Thames reached them. Sewage. Fish. Rotting humans.
Many of the buildings were husks, the air full of smoke and dust and grit, the hazy sky making it difficult to gauge the distance to the actual docks. Bodies littered the streets and sidewalks, trampled, rather than victims of the Black Smoke. She didn’t want to imagine the horror and chaos of yesterday’s evacuation. A glimmer of white shone through the haze and her heart jumped in her chest. Sails!
As she directed Beezus toward the sails, a dark form darted into the street in front of them. Emma blinked. Another rider? She whooped with excitement. Another rider had survived the journey!
The second rider also veered toward the glimmer of sails. Emma bent low over Beezus’ neck. They would arrive together, triumphant, and see the ships off to Chelmsford where the evacuees waited.
Flooded with elation, Emma nearly missed the tremor that shook the earth.
Beezus didn’t.
The mare canted sharply to the left. The ground burst behind them, spewing rocks and dirt. A Black Smoke canister? Emma kept her mouth shut tight and prayed for Beezus to run faster.
Peeking underneath her arm, Emma could see the low-hanging cloud of Black Smoke. And beyond that, the tripod navigating the narrow streets between buildings. She gulped. It was stepping over the buildings. But it had to sacrifice speed for the shortcut, since it could only move one spindly leg at a time, ensuring solid footing before initiating its next step.
Emma turned forward. Beezus could outrun it and the Black Smoke, she was positive. But…with a tripod so close, they wouldn’t be able to watch the ship take sail. In fact…in fact, they would have to charge the tripod after delivering the message. She and Beezus playing decoy while the ship made way.
Emma gulped again, laying one hand flat against the mare’s neck. They would do it. They wouldn’t—couldn’t—falter now, not with so many relying on them.
Maybe, she thought, and the tightness eased in her throat, maybe with the other rider, she and Beezus could peel away now, lead that monstrous machine a merry chase in the park, and give everyone a better chance at survival.
Her fingers tensed on the reins, and Beezus’ ears twitched, waiting for the new direction.
Zot.
A hole, in front of them.
Zot.
A building, engulfed in flames, spewing ash.
A rock struck Beezus and she squealed, weaving sideways.
“Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall,” Emma chanted, hauling on the reins to help the mare recover her balance.
Beezus’ stride smoothed, and Emma drew her to a halt.
“We’re lucky its aim is so bad,” she panted, slapping the mare’s shoulder and leaning to one side to check for a wound.
Zot.
A horse screamed.
Emma jerked upright and gasped. The other messenger was…gone. His horse—
Gagging, Emma drew her revolver and fired. The terrible shrieking ceased, and Emma dug her heels into Beezus’ side. Beezus bolted forward, and Emma holstered her weapon before concentrating on guiding Beezus through the debris- and corpse-ridden street. They could still make the ship, a promise of hope gleaming in the gray, smoky air.
A second tripod appeared among the buildings and strode down the street toward them.
“Damn it!” Emma yelled.
The shock froze her brain for a moment, but the sails beckoned. They could dash behind that abandoned carriage, dodge into the alleys…use the buildings as shields. The alleys probably connected and formed their own crooked and narrow pathway to the docks. Before she could put the sketchy plan into action, Beezus neighed and rushed straight for the Martian tripod.
“No!” Emma yanked on the reins. “Beezus, no!”
Red light blazed on the hull of the tripod. Emma shut her eyes.
Zot.
Squealing…metal?
Emma’s eyes snapped open. Beezus was still running like hell for the new tripod. Emma threw a glance over her shoulder. A hole smoldered in the body of the first tripod; its legs wobbled. With another scream of distressed metal, it toppled, crashing to the earth with a resounding thud.
Tingly with shock, Emma looked again to the new tripod, the one which had destroyed its comrade.
“Beezus, how did you—?”
A portion of the tripod slid open. A human, not a tentacled Martian, popped into view.
“Make for the ship! Hurry, before another of the damned things arrive!”
Emma squinted. “Fletcher? Henry Fletcher?”
The Moreauvian messenger waved. “I’ll keep watch!” he shouted. “Hurry!” He ducked into the machine and the door slid shut.
With no further obstacles, Beezus ran between the spindly legs of their unlikely savior, Emma too stunned to do anything but provide basic guidance.
Emma watched the ship make way, tears streaming down her face. With luck, Thunder Child would rendezvous with the evacuation fleet.
She leaned against her mare’s shoulder. “Sorry for doubting you, my lovely,” she murmured. “I won’t do that again.”
Beezus snorted and bobbed her head.
“That was some riding,” said Henry Fletcher, stepping up beside her.
Emma wrinkled her nose at his musky scent and laughed. “I just hung on. She did all the hard work.” She hesitated. “Listen, Fletcher, I’m sorry for being so rude earlier. Thank you for saving us. For saving Beezus.” She proffered a hand.
He gripped it and gave it a firm shake, and she noticed for the first time that his fingers were tipped with thick, pointed claws.
“Think no more of it,” he said.
Emma smiled. “We’re returning to headquarters now. Will you—will you accompany us?”
Fletcher looked surprised and his cheeks reddened. “I would be honored to, under ordinary circumstances, but I have a feeling our Navy will need some help with the evacuees. And I can provide formidable support.”
“Oh, of course,” she said, squashing a surge of disappointment. “That’s a brilliant plan. I’ll inform the general.” Impulsively, she kissed his cheek. “Good luck, Fletcher.”
“And to you,” he said. “Farewell, Beezus.” He stroked the mare’s forehead, bowed to Emma, and hurried to his tripod.
Emma watched as he scaled the tripod legs with, she presumed, his claws and clambered into the body. Once it had stalked off and she could no longer see it, she grabbed Beezus’ bridle.
“We’ve a ways to go before we can rest, my lovely,” she said, guiding Beezus toward the park.
She had to report to th
e general. What she’d seen and done today would prove valuable for the military and the scientists. Aiding the evacuees was just the first step, she realized. The next step would be eradicating the Martian invaders. Messengers would be needed.
She and Beezus would be needed.
It was their duty.
***
M. L. D. Curelas lives in Calgary, Canada, with two humans and a varying number of guinea pigs. Raised on a diet of Victorian literature and Stephen King, it’s unsurprising that she now writes and edits fantasy and science fiction. Her most recent short fiction can be found in the anthology Corvidae, also edited by Rhonda Parrish. Margaret is also the owner of Tyche Books, a Canadian small-press which publishes science fiction and fantasy.
Rue the Day
Laura VanArendonk Baugh
Galyne ducked and the spear passed over her. She came up gripping the short wide sword better suited for close quarters and drove it upward beneath the cuirass of the man in front of her. Her left arm hung weakly, blood running over her dangling fingers. She tried to look around, to gauge the state of the battle, but there were three more enemy soldiers closing on her.
There was no way she could have heard a snort or hooves behind her over the clash of metal and the battle cries and the screams of the wounded, but somehow she sensed it, and she whirled away and down to her knees as Nova leapt over her and drove into the center fighter, shouldering him back and to the ground. The mare collected herself and half-reared, turning to the soldier on the left and sweeping her horn to drive him back. The remaining soldier thought to attack the unicorn from the rear, but Nova sprang into the air and kicked out in a perfect capriole, her hooves catching him full in the chest.
Galyne rose and put a hand on the mare’s shoulder, as each of them scanned for new threats. No one rushed them, and with the unicorn watching Galyne could take the extra time to look across the field and read the flags and banners. Yes, King Menshir’s troops were holding the field solidly, with only a little raggedness along the front. They were holding.
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