by Eric Brown
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 Hadfield-Bell with whom to share the fight.
“Two minutes to go,” she reported.
In due course an air-car landed in the street outside the safe-house, and two Martians climbed from the vehicle and approached the house. One of them pressed a panel beside the door with its tentacle, then stood back and waited.
The door opened; the hideous face of a Martian appeared, ogling the pair with its huge grey 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…?” Hadfield-Bell said at one point. “The hand-over was arranged at the highest level – the authorities should have no cause for suspicion.”
The two rebel guards passed what looked to be official papers over to the house guard, who scrutinised the documents. A second house guard appeared, and the first passed the papers to it.
“Make haste…” Hadfield-Bell exhorted.
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 myself and Holmes left me speechless. Holmes was as I had always seen him, an exact replica down to his precise gait and the way 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 which 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 Hadfield-Bell would say.
As we watched, my heartbeat rapid, one of the house-guards pulled a weapon from a bandolier 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...”
And, so saying, she reached out 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 the girl doing!” I cried.
Beside me, Holmes urged caution. “I am sure she has plan of action.”
Hadfield-Bell approached the four aliens and two simulacra, evidently speaking to the house-guards in their native tongue. It was obvious that this was a pre-arranged tactic of diversion – for as the house-guards turned to address the newcomer, the rebel pair acted. One drew a weapon and shot the first house-guards dead, then turned it upon the second.
“But what’s this!” Holmes cried, pointing a tentacle.
I stared in horror as at least four Martians tumbled from the safe-house, drawing weapons and attacking the rebels – and attacking, also, Freya Hadfield-Bell. She threw herself to the floor and rolled towards her attacker, 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 – Korchana or Arkana, I was unable to discern – 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 stock still like shop-window mannequins while the battle raged about them.
At one point in the fight, Hadfield-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. Useless in combat within the suit, she was attempting to squirm from it.
I was almost beside myself with apprehension. I would rather she played dead, and survived, than take it upon herself to play the hero!
Duly Hadfield-Bell succeeded in fighting free of the suit, and emerged – like a beautiful butterfly from an ugly chrysalis – into the fray.
“No...” I wept as she pulled a weapon and fired at an advancing alien.
She missed, and her attacker raised its weapon. Hadfield-Bell, displaying her skill at ju-jitsu she had first exhibited in the desert, pirouetted and lashed out a long leg, catching the alien its face and sending it sprawling across the street. She ducked the blow of an advancing alien, raised her weapon and shot it dead.
Unable to help himself, Holmes tried to open the door, crying, “No!”
Despite sharing Holmes’ fears for the safety of the girl, I knew the folly of embroiling ourselves in the melee, and I reached out a tentacle and restrained my friend. “We can do nothing, Holmes, other than needlessly sacrifice ourselves!”
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 the whirl of confusion as shots rang out and perhaps two dozen aliens lashed at each other with flying tentacles.
“Freya!” I cried out, more to myself, “run!”
She looked around her in desperation as the Martians converged, and I was willing her to take to her heels when a Martian drew a weapon and, with a deliberation terrible to behold, fired at her from close range. She staggered backwards, clutching at the ragged hole in the centre of her chest – her eyes wide with terrible shock – and tumbled backwards on to the ground.
I cried out and, despite my earlier reservations, scrambled out into the street.
Before I could reach the dying woman, however, I felt strong tentacles impede my progress. I struggled, assuming that Holmes was the agent of my arrest – but saw that he was struggling with his own captors. I fell to the ground, the impact softened by the thick padding, and looked along the level of the street to where Freya Hadfield-Bell lay inert, her glassy eyes staring lifelessly into space.
Stricken, I gave in to my captors and allowed myself to be dragged along the street, whereupon I was unceremoniously bundled into the back of an air-car the size of a pantechnicon. Holmes landed 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 mere seconds ago.
A part of me disbelieving still, I said, “I should never have stopped you, Holmes! Had we acted upon your impulses we might have saved her life...”
Holmes was struggling from his Martian suit. His head and torso emerged, and he said, “You did right in restraining me, Watson. Don’t berate yourself on that score. We could have done nothing. Did you see how many of them there were down there? It would have been folly to have joined in the fray.”
“Any more futile than the position we now find ourselves in?” I asked. “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 w
ill 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 small 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 great glaucous eyes.
I rose to my feet, ready to leap at the first opportunity.
The monster’s beak 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 flung back his head and laughed.
I stared at Holmes in mystification. “Have you taken leave…?”
He pointed at the Martian. “The Martian is a Korchana, Watson. A rebel. It apologises for the failure of the operation, and says that it is taking us to the city of Zenda-Zenchan, where its compatriots are readying a ship to take us back to Earth.”
Thereupon, the terrible events of the day finally catching up with me, I fell to my knees and wept.
There was little to report of the next few hours; I passed them in a state of numbed disbelief, too grief-stricken to appreciate the miracle of my salvation, and perhaps even then feeling a nascent guilt at having survived the ordeal while Freya Hadfield-Bell had not.
We made it to the northern city of Zenda-Zenchan as the setting sun lay down a patina of marmalade hues, and were thence ferried by land-car through the tunnels and galleries of the subterranean city until we emerged into an open-air bowl in the centre of which stood, proud yet battered, a small 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. “Very well.”
I watched as the Martian raised a tentacle in farewell, then backed from the tiny room.
I recalled Freya Hadfield-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, never to emerge.
I was still gripped by grief when the engine thundered deafeningly and the sedative finally took effect.
Twelve
Confrontation at 221B Baker Street
It was strange indeed to be back upon the planet of my birth, where the air was fresh and the gravity tugged greedily at my body. It took us a good few hours, as we left the ship in a forest outside Dieppe and made our way towards the harbour, to gain our land legs and take in the fact of our having survived the perilous sixty million mile voyage from the Red Planet.
We took a steam packet from Dieppe, and I considered what lay ahead, the hopeless struggle against our oppressors; perhaps my thoughts were still burdened by the fate of Freya Hadfield-Bell, for I had to admit that I had little heart for the fight. It all seemed so hopeless, even futile, without the shining light of her indomitable spirit to guide the way.
Six hours after touching down in France we pulled into Waterloo station, from whence we made haste to the town-house of Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft.
We lodged with him that evening, and over a substantial dinner Holmes recounted our adventures on the Red Planet, then went on to outline our imminent assault on the accursed simulacra.
On this latter point, however, Mycroft was unsure: he counselled us to caution, and suggested we go into hiding and think through our options.
Over a lavish breakfast the following morning, before we were due to set off 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 learnt that you are not indeed their simulacra? Then the fat will be in the fire.”
Holmes considered his brother’s words, then replied, “The alternative, living incognito as you say, will mean that to all intents and purposes the world famous pairing of Holmes and Watson will be free to do the evil bidding of our overlords – and who knows what nefarious activities they might embark upon! At least, with the simulacra out of the way, we will prevent that. And if things take a turn for the worse and the Martians become wise to our ruse, then we will do as you counsel, go to earth and assume other identities.”
“So there is no way I might talk you out of this course of action, Sherlock?”
“No way at all,” said my friend.
“In that case, allow me to assist you in bagging this pair,” said Mycroft.
Two hours later, Holmes and I, disguised as chimney sweeps with all the requisite paraphernalia in tow, and blackened faces into the bargain, sat drinking strong tea in a workman’s café around the corner from Baker Street. Mycroft was stationed in an electrical cab a little way along the street from 221B, from where he had seen the simulacra depart the house at ten that morning. A street urchin, with half a crown for his pains, was at the ready to convey Mycroft’s word to us just as soon as the pair returned.
It was now noon, and no word from the runner…
I was in a state of nervous apprehension.
“All will be well, Watson. It will be, as the saying goes, a turkey shoot. The simulacra are expecting no assault, and likely will be unarmed. And...” He patted his jacket pocket where he carried his electrical gun, “with these weapons we cannot fail.”
I nodded, reassured by his words and the weight of the weapon in my own pocket.
Minutes later the café door opened and the urchin hurried across to our table. “Word from fatso,” said the lad. “‘The birds have returned’ – whatever that means.”
“Capital!” said Holmes and, tipping the lad a further crown, we hurried from the café.
Never had my nerves been in such a state on approaching the familiar portals of 221b! My heart was pounding as we climbed the steps and Holmes rapped upon the door.
In due course Mrs Hudson answered the summons, and my heart leapt at the sight of her homely visage. She took in our disguise with evident distaste, until Holmes hurried forward, took her arm, and whispered, “Not a word, Mrs H! It is I, and my companion is Dr Watson.”
She looked flummoxed. “But, but...” she wavered, gesturing at the stares. “Not twenty minutes ago, you...”
“All will be explained in due course,” Holmes said. “Now, wait here until I give further word.”
She nodded and backed against the wall. “Whatever you say, Mr Holmes.”
I smiled at her as I passed, and followed Holmes up the staircase to our rooms.
He paused outside the living room door, and his long fingers wrapped themselves around the handle. With his right hand he drew the electrical gun, nodding at me to do the same.
With trembling fingers I pulled the weapon from my pocket and readied myself for action.
“After three,” his whispered. “One… two… three. Now.”
He opened the door and burst into the room.
A strange sight greeted us. I had expected the pair to leap into action, to counter our insurgence with an attack of their own – if not with weapons, then with main force. I had levelled my electrical gun in readiness, but lowered it as I beheld the scene before us.
The simulacrum of Sherlock Holmes sat bolt upright in his se
at before the empty hearth, and across from him, in his own seat – for all the world like a matching book-end – sat the exact copy of myself. They did not move a muscle at our entry, did not so much as bat an eyelid.
Holmes approached his own simulacrum, weapon at the ready, and I stepped cautiously towards the second.
“In a state of quiescence,” Holmes whispered. “Eerie, is it not?”
“Fair gives me the heebie-jeebies,” I allowed.
“Well, it certainly makes our task all the easier,” said he.
We should have known that it could not be the turkey shoot that Holmes had so optimistically forecast. No sooner than his words were out, and he was raising the gun towards the head of his own simulacrum, than the latter moved with lightning speed.
He leapt from the chair, dived at Holmes, and had his fingers about my friend’s neck, in the process dashing the electrical gun from his grip.
At the same time, ‘Watson’ sprang into action. However, more through good fortune than intent, I backed off a yard, tripped up and in so doing accidentally fired off my weapon. With providence that to this day I find frightening to dwell upon – for what might our fates have been had my shot missed? – the electrical charge hit the advancing simulacrum squarely in the chest and sent it reeling backwards. It hit the wall and slid to the floor, quite dead.
Meanwhile, Holmes and his own mechanical copy were rolling around the floor, the simulacrum’s grip upon my friend’s throat tightening all the while, Holmes’ face a shade of puce as the life was forced out of him. For one second, as he lay on his back, his bulging eyes found mine and implored me to do something.
I raised my gun, waited until the pair had completed another full roll, and in so doing bringing the simulacrum’s back towards me, then fired. The mechanical man arched with a strangled cry, then spasmed and released its grip on my friend.