by Eric Brown
Holmes nodded sagely. “Allow me to hazard a guess – not something I am usually wont to do,” said he. “The equatorial politicians suggested that a wholesale removal of their people to the neighbouring world, namely Earth, might prove a more practical solution to their problems?”
“Exactly so,” said Hadfield-Bell. “They saw that planet Earth was an ideal refuge. It possessed just the right mix of oxygen and nitrogen in its atmospheric make-up, had bountiful supplies of raw materials, vast uninhabited tracts of land, and a population that was relatively technologically unsophisticated. So the peaceful solution of the northerners was ignored, and preparations were made for the invasion of Earth.
“At the same time as the first armadas set sail for Earth, the Arkana declared war on the states of the north, in a blood-lust fuelled, no doubt, by the prospect of their imminent victory over we humans. But their triumph was premature.”
“And all on our planet duly rejoiced!” said I.
“In the months that followed,” Hadfield-Bell went on, “the Arkana set about creating antibodies to combat terrestrial diseases, and in due course they set off again for Earth. Since the first invasion, however, the Martians had taken the time to reconsider the modus operandi of their invasion. Rather than expend money and valuable resources on conquering Earth militarily, it was decided that they would cow our planet by ostensibly peaceful means, and so came masquerading as altruistic benefactors – a ruse that pulled the wool over the eyes of the leaders of our planet.”
She paused to point through the glass. “There, on the horizon, is what remains of the city of Zenda-Zenchan. We will make landfall nearby and head for a system of tunnels where my rebel comrades have their base.”
The air-car banked, and I held on as we swooped through the air towards the surface of the desert.
“And the ultimate aim of the equatorial Martians,” Holmes said, “is to take control of our world until such time as all opposition has been wiped out and they can effect the mass transfer of their citizens to Earth?”
“That is the situation in a nutshell, Mr Holmes,” said Hadfield-Bell. “Already they are moving their attention away from the war against the Korchana, and concentrating on Earth. Now we will land, take sustenance, and plan the next phase of our journey.”
“The next phase...” I echoed. “To where, exactly?”
“Back to Glench-Arkana,” she said. “But more of that later.”
She frowned in concentration as she brought the air-car in low over sand-sculpted dunes, decelerated, and landed on a featureless swathe of sand as fine and red as paprika. As we climbed from the vehicle, emerging into the merciless heat of the evening sun, I saw a dark patch in the side of a nearby dune, and no sooner had I set eyes upon this feature than a dozen or more small, dark-skinned Martians emerged from the tunnel and scuttled across to the air-car. Amid much waving of tentacles, and high-pitched Martian greetings, we were surrounded by the Korchana people, and Hadfield-Bell bent to embrace certain individuals and speak to them in their staccato tongue.
She laughed and turned to us. “They are overjoyed to see us,” she explained, “as they feared that we’d been captured and killed. This way.”
Buoyed along by the crowd, we followed the woman across the sand and into the welcome shade of the tunnel. When my vision adjusted, assisted by strip-lighting that illuminated the tunnel at intervals of twenty feet, I saw that we were hurrying down a steeply sloping mineshaft shored up by metal girders. Soon the sandy surface underfoot gave way to ringing metal, and as if by some miracle – for surely we had descended a hundred yards beneath the surface of the planet already? – daylight shone ahead of us. We came out on to a great gallery running along the edge of a vast chasm, and I looked up to see an extensive honeycomb awning of glass, through which the setting sun cast its rufous rays. We were in the bomb-blasted city of Zenda-Zenchan.
I glanced to my left, over the gallery rail, and wished that I had not given in to my curiosity. The chasm seemed bottomless, and my head swam vertiginously. Far below, I made out the fire-blackened ruins of gallery after gallery.
Hadfield-Bell turned right, down a wide, burnt-out corridor. She came to a double door and pushed it open, standing aside so that we could enter. The room was large and sun-lit – its far wall comprised a single floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the chasm and was illuminated by sunlight slanting in through the glass roof high above.
“You will find hot running water,” she said, pointing to an arrangement of brass piping and a large water tank. “I suggest that you refresh yourself and meet me, next door, in thirty minutes. We have much to discuss.”
With this, she withdrew from the room, taking with her three or four curious Martians.
I stripped to the waist, ran a tank full of hot water, and proceeded to wash myself with a great scouring sponge no doubt designed for Martian skin, and handfuls of liquid soap. Holmes, for his part, merely paced back and forth, lost in introspection.
I dried myself on a towel five times the size of a bath-towel, donned my old and somewhat sweat-stained clothing, and joined Holmes at the window.
He was gazing down at the wreckage with a lugubrious expression.
“A race which can visit such death and destruction to its own kind,” he said, “will have no qualms about wiping out the entirety of mankind. The ‘second wave’ have treated us with kid gloves so far, Watson, but judging by what Hadfield-Bell has told us, that will not continue. As soon as they have gathered sufficient materiel and turned their attention from subjugating their own...” He did not finish.
A communicating door opened, and a Martian appeared. He fluted something, to which Holmes replied in kind. “Hadfield-Bell is ready,” he said, “and a ‘council of war’ has convened. We had better join them.”
We followed the Martian through the door into a large room dominated by a low, oval brass table; around it, on cushions, were seated a dozen dark-skinned Martians, and as we crossed the room and took vacant cushions to the left and right of Hadfield-Bell, twenty-four great grey eyes charted our progress in silence.
Immediately we were seated, half a dozen voices spoke up, seemingly speaking across each other in high passion: it was a wonder that any sense could be made of the din, but Hadfield-Bell pitched into the debate, held forth for long minutes, and a silence descended as she spoke and all those around the table listened to what she had to say.
At last she gestured, and others spoke, and she turned to us and murmured, “They were debating how we should proceed – they had two or three different proposals. I suggested a way forward, and they are debating this now. I think it only a matter of time before a consensus is agreed upon.”
Holmes said, “Which brings me back to my earlier question, Miss Hadfield-Bell – what are the Martian’s motives in making copies of Challenger, Watson, and myself?”
“It is all part of their master-plan, Mr Holmes. To smooth the way for their ultimate invasion, they need the assistance of the human race itself – and how better to achieve that than to ‘copy’ certain individuals of influence?”
“You mean –?”
Hadfield-Bell gave an assenting frown. “Over the course of the past few years,” she said, “how many world leaders have accepted invitations to visit the Red Planet?”
At her words, a great weight settled in my stomach, and an even greater weight upon my soul.
“I would say,” said Holmes grimly, “that almost every leader of note has at some point made the journey.”
“And not returned,” she said, glancing from Holmes to myself. “Oh, to all intents and purposes they come back to Earth with great tales of the scientific wonders they have beheld, and highfalutin notions of peace between our peoples, but...”
“But these are copies,” Holmes said grimly, “simulacra of our leaders, planted to do the bidding of their masters when the time finally comes for the final push of Martian forces.”
My senses swam at the very idea, and at
length I brought myself to ask the question, “But… but what became of the originals? Why, just last year Campbell-Bannerman made the journey.”
Hadfield-Bell gazed down at her hands on the table-top, and murmured, “What do you think became of our Prime Minister, and all the others, Doctor? They were interrogated, milked of every last shred of information they possessed, and then… dispatched.”
I closed my eyes briefly, sickened. Holmes, not a man much given to profanity, swore quietly to himself.
Hadfield-Bell went on, “They copy and send forth not only world leaders and influential business-men and scientists, but leaders in other fields, too, whom they think might be able to assist the goal of world domination. Thus the world-famous zoologist and explorer Professor Challenger was abducted, along with the world’s finest detective, and his accomplice, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, as well as artists, actors and many other unfortunate souls.”
“So poor Challenger…?” Holmes began.
“I have intelligence from our agents that the Professor met his end shortly after he was taken to the Glench-Arkana gaol,” she said. “Apparently he attacked a Martian when they interrogated him, and he was summarily despatched.”
I hung my head at the thought of the death of such a brave man. “May his death not have been in vain,” I murmured.
Holmes leaned forward. “You mentioned that we would return to Glench-Arkana,” said he.
Hadfield-Bell held up a hand and said, “One moment, please.”
She spoke in Martian, and silenced the twitters around the table. She fired off what sounded like questions to various individuals, and nodded at their replies.
Minutes later she turned to us and said, “A way forward has been agreed. As we speak, the Arkana are preparing to send the simulacra of yourselves back to Earth on the next ship, scheduled to leave Mars in just over a day from now. Once arrived on Earth, your doubles will resume your old life in 221B Baker Street, as if nothing untoward has occurred – conveying information to their masters and awaiting the call to assist the ultimate invasion. Meanwhile, the Arkana will stop at nothing in their search for you, the originals.” She looked from Holmes to myself, with steel in her bright blue eyes. “We must at all costs ensure that they do not succeed in transporting your simulacra to Earth. To this end, we will apprehend them and make the switch – insinuating yourselves in their place – without their guards suspecting a thing. We will then despatch the simulacra, and you can proceed to Earth as double agents, so to speak.”
“A tall order,” Holmes opined.
“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 our technicians not of the finest...” She paused, and then went on, “And then, once you have returned to Earth, you must overcome your doubles and take their place… Either that, or go into hiding and take on disguises so that the Martian authorities do not learn of your return.”
Holmes said, “If we fail to make the switch with our doppelgängers in Glench-Arkana, 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.
Hadfield-Bell gave a thin-lipped smile. “Excellent. We will proceed to Glench-Arkana forthwith and effect the switch. To that end...” She called out in Martianese, 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, and I saw that they were not captives at all, but rubber suits.
“I am afraid,” said Hadfield-Bell, “that if we are to succeed in the next step of the operation, we must travel to Glench-Arkana in disguise.”
I stared down at the macabre sight of the flopping rubber Martians prostrated at my feet, and I could not help but laugh.
Eleven
Disaster Strikes
Hadfield-Bell, an expert in the utilisation of the suits, helped us into our rubber disguises. They opened via long lateral slits at the back of the head-torsos: while she held the suit steady, I wriggled feet-first through 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 a gap in the front of the suit and ensuring that I could see through a flap of gauze material positioned just behind the beak or mouth of the creature. A series of levers to my left and right working 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. Hadfield-Bell nodded judiciously and declared that we would pass muster, then donned her own suit.
“The situation is this,” she said an hour later 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 scheduled to leave for Earth will lift-off at fourteen o’clock, in just four hours from now. The simulacra will be transferred to the ship just one hour before it departs. The Martian authorities have no reason to suspect any trouble, and the simulacra will be attended by the normal level of security – that is, no more than two armed guards.”
I stared through the glass at the land passing far below; a ruler-straight canal arrowed towards the horizon, dotted with all manner of sailing craft.
“Our task of defeating the invaders,” Holmes observed, “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,” Hadfield-Bell replied, “is that, thanks to the network of spies in Glench-Arkana, we know who these mechanical imposters are. The difficulty will be to neutralise them without alerting our Martian overlords, and persuading other high-ups in the military and government of the fact of the duplicity.”
“On the face of it,” I said, “that appears a hopeless task.”
“All is not hopeless, Dr Watson,” said Hadfield-Bell. “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 the planet of the Martian menace.”
“Well said,” Holmes applauded. “And we can do our bit by succeeding in vanquishing our own simulacra and taking their places. I for one relish the task ahead.”
I stared through the glass and wished that I could be as sanguine as my friend.
In due course the ugly spires and domes of Glench-Arkana hove into sight, sectioned by the spoke-like roads and streets which converged on the central spaceport. Hadfield-Bell brought the air-car down beside a quiet canal before a terrace of low dwellings constructed of the ubiquitous dark-grey material. The only splash of colour was provided by flowering vines which climbed the frontage of the buildings.
To our right, beyond the canal, was the corrugated grey perimeter wall of the spaceport. Beyond, the towering nose-cones of Martian spaceships loomed, standing tall beside ugly web-work gantries. Terminal buildings, bending like scimitars embedded blade-first into the ground, gave the skyline a wholly exotic appearance.
Hadfield-Bell consulted her watch, then pointed a tentacle at a section of terrace thirty yards along the street. “That building, sporting the rather loud red tulip-like blooms, is the safe-house.”
“Just what is the plan?” Holmes asked, his voice muffled.
“The simulacra are in the safe-house,” she said, “watched over by two security guards. However, in a little over ten minutes, two guards from the spaceport will collec
t your copies for the short journey to the ship that will take them to Earth. These second guards are Korchana 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 do not worry,” she added, “we will have spies aboard the ship who will administer you with the sedative for the journey.”
“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 Campbell-Bannerman, our Prime Minister, and Roosevelt from the States, and the leaders of many European nations. 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 H. G. Wells had accepted invitations to lecture there… I thought of Shaw and Chesterton, whom I had listened to at Hyde Park little more than a week ago: I wondered if they had been informed, by the rebels, of the imposition of the simulacra?