by Guy d'Armen
“I’m hopelessly out of my depth here,” Monocard said. “I’ll go check on your companions and the troops. Good luck.”
Francis nodded, scooped up Button Bright, and attempted to follow the bearded man through the jumble of scientific clutter.
Professor Helvetius pulled out a metal tripod on which was perched what looked like a metal phonograph. Instead of one needle arm, this one had four.
The short scientist bustled about the device, making adjustments, attaching cables and unfolding the needle arms. He held out a hand and made an impatient gesture.
“Is he waving to us?” Button Bright asked, tilting his head.
“The gems!” the bearded savant grumbled, glaring at the duo.
Francis handed over his gem.
“How is this going to work?” he asked.
“The gems themselves are basically droplets of time,” Helvetius explained in his lecturer tone. “Some believe they are all that remains of dead chronovores. When anything or anyone travels through time, they accumulate chronal energy. Add the paradox of four versions of the same object being gathered in one place, and then the ripples caused by the coincidence of four members of one specific family bringing these gems together, and we should have enough energy to easily return everyone to their rightful place and adjust the fabric of time like if it were a child’s jigsaw puzzle…”
“Good,” Francis nodded.
“Or the resulting outburst of energy will reduce everyone in this pocket dimension to component particles and scatter them like grains of sand in a hurricane…” Helvetius continued in the same drone of a lecturing professor.
“Can’t say I like the sound of that,” said Button Bright.
Francis frowned. He held out his hand and gave his young cousin a stern look, until the child reluctantly dropped his time gem into the older man’s palm.
Once Helvetius had the two gems, he set them on the device’s disk and then placed a needle upon each gem. The machine began to hum.
“That’s a good sign?” Francis asked, concerned.
“Yes, it’s doing fine,” the older man replied, not looking up.
There then came a rhythmic roar that seemed to come from outside the tent.
“What is that?”
“Nothing to worry about,” Helvetius muttered, adjusting several dials. “It’s most likely the Morlocks making another raid…”
“What?” Francis asked, incredulously.
“What’s a Mo’luck?” Button Bright asked.
“Michel and Dale and their gems are out there,” Francis said.
He deposited his young cousin on what looked like an old fashioned barber’s chair.
“You stay here and do not pester the Professor and I’ll try and bring you back a Morlock,” Francis instructed. “Or a new marble, OK?”
The boy gave it a moment of serious thought then gave a nod of agreement.
“Good boy,” Francis said, with a brief smile.
Then he quickly made his way through the tent and out into the camp…
Dale and Michel were settled in a crude guard post. Its rough walls and the bench they sat on were all made from wood and branches from the surrounding forest.
They had discovered, to their dismay, that the difference in their time frequencies meant that, not only they couldn’t touch not the soldiers, but also their equipment, including food and drink. So, all they had were Michel’s flask, some dried strips of meat, and a few hard candies from his knapsack.
Neither was looking forward to the idea of this being a long stay.
The pair sat, quietly, intently scanning the surrounding woods.
“I… um… wished to apologize, if my earlier comments offended you,” Michel said, breaking the silence, but also deliberately not shifting his gaze away from the trees. “You seem a most… um… competent young lady.”
Dale glanced over at her relative, noting his discomfort and smiled.
“Apology accepted,” she said. “You meant well, and I will admit to having been, on occasion, a damsel in need of rescuing. Everyone needs help sometime.”
Michel turned and smiled back at her.
“I’m sorry to hear that history is going to keep us from getting better acquainted,” he said.
“Well, it is mother’s stories about you and Francis’ father that have inspired me,” Dale explained. “I became a journalist, got to see some of the world and then… Well, let’s just say I got to do quite a bit of traveling.”
“Good to hear the thirst for adventure still runs in the family,” Michel said, offering Dale his flask.
She accepted with an appreciative nod and took a sip.
“I think you’ll find that Francis and I are doing our part.”
A thin soldier in a threadbare uniform came into the guard post.
“Excuse me, Monsieur and mademoiselle,” he said, in a hushed tone. “Just wanted to warn you. We’ve spotted some movement in the woods. It looks to be Morlocks, so keep sharp. They can be a bit… um…off putting first time you see them, but as soon as you spot one, shoot, ’cause they’re vicious bastards… sorry, pardon, Miss…”
“Thank you,” Michel said. “We’ll keep an eye out.”
“Appreciate your concern, but if you guys can’t touch us, we’re probably safe from your Morlocks,” Dale shrugged. “So, we’re not sure what we can do to help.”
The soldier gave an absent minded nod and a slight shrug of his own.
“Well, the Lieutenant thought it best you knew,” he explained. “If they get past the fence, head for the field hospital. It’s the best fortified.”
He gave a salute and then left.
“What is a Morlock, I wonder…?” Michel muttered. “It seems to have these fellows anxious.”
“No idea. I’ve seen some strange creatures,” Dale mused, “but I never heard of them…wait, I think I see something!”
She pointed toward the trees, and they spotted a half dozen life-forms creeping among the trees. Both time travelers slid their weapons out of their holsters.
The Morlocks moved more like apes than men. They were hunched over, and there were no signs of helmets of firearms.
“There’s a great many more of them than I’d expected,” Michel muttered. “I almost find myself hoping you’re right, and they’ll be as ghostly and insubstantial as the soldiers. Here they come!”
The duo could hear shouts going down the line of the makeshift fort, as the Morlocks burst out of the forest.
Their resemblance to apes was more distinct, seeing them in the dim, grey light. They ran like primates, using their arms, as much as their legs to propel them along. They were covered in dingy white fur, their only clothing being belts and harnesses.
Their eyes were large, round and glassy, like polished opals.
“Beast men?” Dale muttered, bringing up her ray gun.
“Dear Lord!” Michel added.
Between the forest and the camp was a short field of unkempt grass that rustled as the Morlocks ran towards them. Added to that was an odd hum, almost a growl, that came from them, whether it was language or merely an inarticulate roar was unclear, but either way it was unnerving.
Dale had seen her fair share or unearthly creatures, but there was something disturbing about the Morlocks. There was a feeling that while they were different, they were not aliens. They hadn’t come from some far off realm, but were rather men—men gone wrong.
Adding to that unnerving quality was the fact that they were concentrating their attack on the corner where the two of them were stationed.
Michel fired off two shots in rapid succession; Dale found herself feeling slightly relieved when they passed right through the bestial beings.
The Morlocks had soon crossed the field. A few fell to the French Soldiers’ bullets, but the majority reached the crude, wooden wall.
“What should we do?” Dale asked, uncertain if there was any point to staying where they were, let alone fruitlessly shooting at
the Morlocks.
That moment of hesitation was a moment too long. The Morlocks were at the wall and clambering over.
The first two reached the top and lunged at the two time travelers.
Like with the soldiers, the furred creatures passed through them. But unlike the soldiers, both Dale and Michel felt their passage, like a gust of freezing wind, or the blast of heat when a furnace door.
Michel shuddered and stumbled back a few steps, leaning against the wall.
Dale flinched and reflexively fired. The blast from her ray gun passed through the Morlocks, and they toppled to the ground, twitching and growling.
“What…?” Michel muttered. “What did you do…?”
“I don’t know!” was all Dale had time to say before the next wave of Morlocks were clamoring over the fence, hands flailing and grasping at the pair.
Some of the soldiers joined the fight, pulling the Morlocks off the wall and grappling with them. Even while fighting the time-lost soldiers, the Morlocks still seemed intent on attacking the Ardans.
“Why are they after us?” Dale asked, firing at any Morlock that came too close.
“They… I think... can touch us,” Michel muttered, one arm hanging limply at his side. “I felt… something…”
“It doesn’t make sense!” Dale shouted over the noise of the battle going on around them. “Michel…!”
A section of the wall near the older Ardan cracked and several clawed, white-furred hands burst through, grabbing hold of his coat. While they passed through his arm, he flinched, and the fabric of his coat sleeve could be seen tearing.
Dale fired off several frantic blasts, further splintering the wood and driving back the Morlocks. She lunged forward, grabbed hold of Michaels’ other arm and dragged him to the relative safety of her corner of the guard post.
They huddled in the corner, Michel tending to his unusual wounds and Dale shooting sporadically, with no real idea of what their next move should be, as the battle swirled around them.
The sidewall finally cracked and a half-dozen Morlocks came pouring through.
Dale blasted away, the beam flickering and her ray gun made a groaning noise.
She gave it a shake, fighting off a trickle of panic as she scanned her surroundings, looking for any kind of escape route.
Suddenly, Francis vaulted over the back wall and landed in a crouch next to his relatives.
“We need to get out of here,” he said, firing off a couple shots and then scowling at the lack of results.
“We are open to suggestions,” Michel commented.
“Do you both have those strange gems you found?” he asked.
They nodded, confused by this odd digression.
Within seconds, Francis had scanned their surroundings, their attackers, and the soldiers struggling to drive them back. He sighed in annoyance and holstered his gun. He grabbed his two relatives, flung them over his shoulders, lurched to his feet, and then made a standing jump at the wall.
Like some kind of surreal fox hunt, Francis ran, his two relatives slung over his shoulders, Dale still firing at the pack of Morlocks, fighting free of the soldiers and scrambling after them.
Francis wound his way through the camp, dodging Morlocks, until they reached Professor Helvetius’ tent.
He dumped them inside.
“Go find the Professor,” he told them. “Far right corner. Give him your gems.”
He ducked back out and sealed up the flaps behind him.
Dale and Michel got shakily to their feet. The older man was limping as they hurriedly made their way through the clutter, the young woman trying to adjust her ray gun in case the Morlocks caught up with them.
“What is going on?” Michel exclaimed, coming across Helvetius and the strange phonograph, trailing tubes and wires.
“Button Bright?” Dale yelped, startled at discovering yet another relative.
“Dale!” the young boy called back. “Everyone is tall. Hello, sir.”
Michel nodded in reply.
“Good, you’re here,” Helvetius said, straightening up. “Hand them over.”
Both Ardans fumbled about and held the gems out to the blustery scientist.
“Don’t let them touch!” he snapped, startling them and causing Dale to almost drop hers.
“You have marbles too!” Button Bright exclaimed, more entertained about events than anyone else involved.
Helvetius snatched the offered gems, holding them in separate hands, and then delicately placed them on the clunky device and adjusted the needle arms. He then turned the small metal crank on the side and the device began to vibrate and hum.
“Hmmm,” the old time traveler mused, stroking his beard and then adjusting his pince-nez. “You might want to take a step or two back,” he added, turning to the trio. “The results may be… unpredictable.”
Michel scooped up Button Bright and then he and Dale dove behind a roll top desk as the machine began to glow a bright orange.
“It was a pleasure meeting you all,” Michel said, as the glow brightened and the furniture began to rattle. “It’ll be even better if we survive this…”
“That it will,” Dale said. “It feels like we’re about to find out. Good luck in the past.”
“And you, in days to come.”
Outside the tent, Francis stood like a bronze sentry as a quartet of Morlocks came shambling around the corner of the field hospital and raced at him.
He fired a few shots into the air, knowing it was unlikely he could fight them off; his plan was merely to stall them long enough for Professor Helvetius to do whatever it was that he thought the four gems would accomplish.
“I don’t know what you are,” he said in a commanding voice, “but this is as far as you go.”
The Morlocks came to a halt, a few feet away, unsure how to deal with this new opponent. They huddled together, conversing in the coarse snarls that passed for their language, and then lunged for the young adventurer.
Like with the others, they passed through him, causing a strange distress, but little in the way of physical hurt.
Francis clasped his forearm, expected a wound, only to see unmarked skin. He swung a fist, passing through the nearest creature, which stumbled into several of his mates.
“OK, we can’t exactly hit each other,” he muttered, thoughtfully, “but whatever we are doing, whatever similar frequencies we are on, doesn’t create a pleasant sensation. Let’s see who can last the longest.”
What occurred wasn’t so much a fight as some sort of bizarre ballet. Blows didn’t connect, but resulted in a strange phantom pain, like a low level shock. Francis focused on dodging his opponents’ grasp, while making just enough contact to keep them off balance.
His skin soon glistened with sweat and his movements became sluggish.
At first, he wrote off the odd blurring effect of the dull, grey sky and surrounding trees to be caused by fatigue, but then the Morlocks ceased their attack, looking about them in anxious bewilderment. He also heard the concerned shouts of the French soldiers.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Helvetius.” Francis said, seconds before a wave of orange light washed over him and he felt his body go boneless…
When the light faded, Francis Ardan was standing in the hall of Atlantis, feeling a bit light-headed as he watched the guards fleeing from the room.
He blinked his eyes and soon regained his equilibrium.
“It must have been quite an entrance I made,” he muttered. “I doubt it’ll keep them away long. I’d best be on my way.”
He glanced over at the dais where he had found the time gem. There now rested a heavy, creamed-colored envelope, with a seal of wax, in a familiar shade of bottle green.
It was a day later, after he had managed to put some distance between himself and Atlantis, sitting by a small campfire, back out in the Sahara desert, on his way home, that he had the time to finally read the single page filled with a tight scrawl.
As he’d expected, it read:
All went well. I was able to relocate nearly everyone back to his or her proper time.
As for the Lieutenant and his troops, their “deaths” are a matter of historical record, so I merely shifted them to a time period where their presence won’t result in a paradox.
The Morlocks have grown into an arrogant civilization. I think that, in the long run, having neighbors capable of fighting back will do them some good.
Your relatives have been returned to where time took them, save for young Button Bright. Curious child. I cannot imagine where he wandered off to.
Looking forward to renewing all your acquaintances in…
Here there was a smudge, as though reaching to refill his pen, the Professor’s coat sleeve had rubbed across the page.
After several minutes of fruitless attempts to decipher the last word, Francis merely shook his head and lay back upon his bedroll.
“Time will tell,” he said, to the open star-laced sky.
There are a number of parallels between the great Belgian science fiction author J.-H. Rosny Aîné (1856-1940) (whose collected works are now available from Black Coat Press) and Philip José Farmer. Both brought a mature, adult perspective into the genre; both tackled biological, sexual and moral issues in ground-breaking fashion and, finally, both were masters of the “Lost World” genre. It was, therefore, particularly fitting that Farmer adapted and retold Rosny’s L’Etonnant Voyage d’Hareton Ironcastle (1922) into English in 1976. Win Scott Eckert, teaming up with fellow Farmerphile Christopher Paul Carey, has drawn from these prestigious sources to create another wonderful Lost World saga (previously published in Tales of the Shadowmen 5), which brings together a bevy of characters from unexpected sources…
Christopher Paul Carey & Win Scott Eckert: Iron and Bronze
Sub-Saharan Africa, November 1929
A dark form, silhouetted against the backdrop of a million brilliantly scintillating stars, loomed above Hareton Ironcastle. The shadowy shape might have been the same monstrous dreamworld being that had just startled him awake. But no. The sheen on the form’s exterior was just starlight glancing off skin. Human skin.