by Alan K Baker
‘Good grief,’ said Victoria, casting an uneasy glance at Blackwood. ‘Did you ever discover the origin of this horrible scourge?’
‘Our astronomers and archaeologists have concluded that it was caused by our world’s passage through the tail of a comet in the distant past. We have long speculated on the possibility of comets being bearers of primitive life, or at least the building-blocks of life. We discovered that Mars’s proximity to this comet coincided with the period of the great catastrophe, the near-extinction of our race.’
‘How did your people survive?’ Blackwood asked, his voice tinged with appalled sympathy.
‘The immune systems of some proved capable of defeating the infestation, and once our planet had passed out of the comet’s tail, the rain of death ceased.’
‘And I take it the comet has never returned,’ said Blackwood, thinking of the horrific consequences of such an event befalling the Earth.
‘No, it has not. We assume that its period is long... perhaps it has left our Solar System entirely, never to return. We hope so.’
‘And the memory of that dire event has remained with your people, down all the long millennia since it occurred,’ said Victoria in wonderment.
‘The concept is not nearly so strange as you might believe, Your Majesty,’ replied Voronezh. ‘Your Mr Darwin explained the true history of your species fifty years ago, and there are memories of your earliest times that exist still in the dimmest recesses of your minds: memories of the caves in which you dwelt, memories of the dangers lurking perpetually beyond your ill-defended thresholds, memories of your own trials and disasters which have given rise to the myths and legends on which your civilisation has been built. And would you deny that there are yet other memories unaccountable in their strangeness, the origin of which has long slipped from the consciousness of your species? I am reminded of words written by your fine essayist, Charles Lamb: “Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras – dire stories of Celaeno and the Harpies may reproduce themselves in the brain of superstition – but they were there before. They are transcripts, types – the archetypes are in us, and eternal.” The great catastrophe which befell my race all those hundreds of thousands of years ago has become just such an archetype in the collective consciousness of all Martians. It has been strengthened by the passage of time, and will, I fear, never leave us.’
Blackwood considered this in silence for a long moment. Presently, he looked up at Voronezh. ‘So what you are saying is that this was more than a “mere” assassination, if you will forgive the expression. In fact, it was an act of terror, calculated to cause maximum fear and distress among your people.’
‘It is the only explanation I can think of to account for such a bizarre method of committing murder, to use Her Majesty’s phrase.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Victoria, ‘the question remains: why? Why commit this act of psychological warfare? Who is behind it, and what are their ultimate intentions?’
Blackwood sighed. ‘I regret to say, Ma’am, that I have yet to discover the answer to those questions.’
‘Apologies are quite unnecessary, Mr Blackwood,’ replied Victoria decisively. ‘I am sure Mr Voronezh will join us in thanking you for your work thus far, with which we are quite satisfied.’
Victoria glanced up at Voronezh, and Blackwood couldn’t resist doing so as well. The Martian regarded them in silence with his huge, inscrutable eyes.
‘Is that not the case, Mr Voronezh?’ she persisted.
After a moment’s hesitation, he bowed slightly and replied, ‘Quite so, Your Majesty... although I would repeat my earlier request to you to allow our own investigators to handle this affair.’
‘And we repeat to you our earlier response,’ said the Queen forcefully. ‘We believe that the answers we seek will be discovered much more quickly by operatives who can blend in with their surroundings, which would, with all due respect, be quite impossible were your own people to become directly involved.’
Voronezh seemed to bridle somewhat at this. He blinked rapidly several times, and his head gave a spasmodic twitch.
‘This crime,’ continued Victoria, driving her point home, ‘was committed on British soil, and it will be investigated – and solved – by the British authorities. Make no mistake, Mr Voronezh, we are quite adamant in this!’
Blackwood waited with more than a little trepidation for the Martian to respond. Presently, Voronezh bowed again, and replied, ‘As you wish, Your Majesty. But I have been instructed by my government to inform you that we do require a satisfactory conclusion to this lamentable affair. As you yourself have noted, this crime – the first of its kind: the murder of a Martian – took place on British soil, and if the British government cannot solve it and bring the perpetrator to justice, I can assure you that the Martian government will.’
And with that, Petrox Voronezh turned and stalked from the room.
When the door had closed behind him, Victoria looked at her Special Investigator and said, ‘Mr Blackwood, we are presented with the greatest crisis in six years of relations between Earth and Mars. For the love of God, sir, get to the bottom of this, and quickly!’
CHAPTER SEVEN:
The Ætherial Virus
It was mid-morning when Blackwood returned to his rooms in Chelsea. His meeting with the Queen and Petrox Voronezh had deeply disturbed him, particularly Voronezh’s outburst. He had not expected the Martian to be so forthright in delivering what was in fact a thinly-veiled threat of direct intervention in the affairs of Her Majesty’s Government. Victoria had been visibly shocked, and Blackwood sympathised entirely: such was the Martian level of technological development that, were they to decide to make good on their threat, there would be precious little to be done about it.
For his part, Blackwood felt that the ultimatum had been presented a little too quickly: it had been only three days since the Ambassador’s death, and already it looked like the Martians were beginning to draw plans against the British Empire. While human relations with the Red Planet were, of course, still in their infancy, the Martians had until now shown themselves to be a very calm and level-headed people, and while the loss of Ambassador R’ondd was a tragedy of the first order, it was most worrying that they had reacted in this way.
And yet, he mused, according to Voronezh, the manner of the Ambassador’s death had been intended to create the maximum level of fear and revulsion in the Martian mind, to rekindle the ancient terror the species felt for the notion of parasitical invasion. Voronezh was quite correct: this was an act of psychological warfare. Was it any wonder, then, that the Martians should react with such anger, that they should be prepared to act in such a peremptory fashion?
In addition, Blackwood supposed, the intricacies of Martian politics and governance were ill-understood by Humanity, and one could easily imagine the existence of movements and factions which would demand strong and decisive action in response to this crisis. He found himself wondering how long it would be before the Human Ambassador to Mars, Lord Ashbourne, was expelled and diplomatic relations between the two worlds broke down completely.
Heaving a dejected sigh, Blackwood went to his study and sat down at his desk. There was nothing for it but to follow up the single lead he had. He needed more information on this Andrew Crosse fellow, and the nature of the strange experiments he had apparently been conducting at his home in the Quantocks. Blackwood still considered it most unlikely that a recluse living in the wilds of Somerset would have been able to infiltrate the Martian Embassy and place the Acarus galvanicus larvae in R’ondd’s breathing apparatus. Nor was a motive clearly apparent. Of course, Crosse must have been hurt and angered at his treatment by the Royal Society and may even have harboured the desire for revenge... but why would he visit that revenge upon a man from another world, who had taken no part in his humiliation?
Blackwood decided that there were three possibilities: one, Crosse had placed the larvae in the Ambassador’s breathing apparatus; two, he had suppli
ed the larvae to someone else, who had then committed the deed; and three, someone else had succeeded in creating Acarus galvanicus independently and had used the creatures to assassinate R’ondd.
In any event, Blackwood felt that a visit to Andrew Crosse was in order. He reached for the brass switch on the side of his new cogitator, flipped it, and was gratified to see a pale mist form in the scrying glass. The Helper had been true to his word: it looked like the contraption was up and running. The mist formed itself into words:
Welcome to the Tara III, powered by De Danann.
What would you like to do today?
Blackwood flexed his fingers, typed on the keyboard PLEASE CONNECT ME TO THE ÆTHER and pressed the carriage return key.
Almost immediately, the message in the scrying glass dissolved into mist again and then formed a new message:
You are now connected to the Æther.
Please type your next command.
Blackwood typed: I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW THE ADDRESS IN SOMERSET OF THE AMATEUR SCIENTIST MR ANDREW CROSSE.
A moment later, more words appeared in the glass:
Mr Andrew Crosse lives at Fyne Court,
in the village of Broomfield, four miles north of Taunton.
Would you care to view some photographs?
Good idea, thought Blackwood. Won’t hurt to get a feel for the layout of the place. He typed: YES, PLEASE, pressed the carriage return key and sat back in his chair, thinking that cogitators weren’t such a bane after all. He certainly couldn’t deny the usefulness of this one.
This time, however, the words remained in the scrying glass. Spoke too soon, Blackwood thought, and pressed the carriage return again. Oh, dash it all! Here we go again!
He was about to press the HELP key, when the words abruptly vanished from the glass, and were replaced with another message in ugly, misshapen characters:
Error … Error … Error
Oh dear
Something seems to have gone wrong
‘Oh, bugger it!’ shouted Blackwood. He reached for the HELP key again. ‘Where’s that little blighter? I’m going to have it out with him!’
As he glanced into the scrying glass, he saw that the error message had vanished. In its place was a darkness that swirled and eddied strangely. Blackwood had the impression that he was looking into a bottomless pool of murky water, in which indistinct shapes writhed and twisted, flitting in and out of the depths.
‘What the deuce...?’
Blackwood made to turn away but found that he could move neither his body nor his eyes, which remained locked upon the scrying glass. The malfunctioning cogitator began to hum; it shook and rattled upon its ornate brass gryphon’s feet.
Again Blackwood tried to look away, but it was useless: whatever moved within the glass seemed to have reached out to his mind, defeating his volition, forcing him to remain where he was.
Oh no, he thought, as another message began to flicker intermittently in the glass.
This cogitator has been infected
with an ætherial virus.
You are advised to vacate the area immediately.
Suddenly, a tendril of writhing darkness swept through the message, transforming it into a swirling mist, which quickly dissipated. In the next instant, the tendril thrust out from the scrying glass and lashed at Blackwood, knocking him backwards off his chair. As he landed on the floor, jarring his shoulder painfully, he felt the temperature in the room drop suddenly by at least ten degrees.
Looking up at the cogitator, he saw more tendrils of darkness whipping back and forth in a horrible, unnatural silence. They appeared to be composed of filthy-looking smoke, in which pinpoints of lurid crimson light flashed and quivered obscenely. He tried to avert his horrified gaze, but it was held fast by the tentacle-like things emerging from the scrying glass.
Blackwood gazed helplessly into the smoke-tendrils and felt the lightless depths of his own mind being laid bare, his darkest thoughts and fears, the black terrors that lurk at the heart of every human being, exposed and molested in revolting ways.
He saw the lightless void of the Æther filled with gibbering stars; he saw spiked chains puncturing the flesh of screaming infants, their mouths filled with writhing maggots; he saw Precambrian oceans churning with the Earth’s first terrified consciousness, while Jesus Christ hung from the Cross, laughing hysterically; he saw columns of fire and whirling spheres of ice strung with pulsating vessels. He saw self-contemplating shadows whispering to each other across gulfs of Eternity, dreaming of the hole at the centre of the Universe, and a vast, lipless mouth shouting frantically at the bottom of Space and Time...
Somehow, in the chaos of his terror, Blackwood knew that his mind was being torn apart by the ætherial virus, and that very soon it would be eaten, leaving him a quivering lump of insensate flesh, fodder for the madhouse.
Somehow, Thomas Blackwood knew that the frenzied screams that had begun to issue from his contorted lips were the last thing he would ever hear...
PART TWO
In Which an Agent Provocateur
Reveals Himself
CHAPTER ONE:
A Charming Rescuer
Thomas Blackwood opened his eyes, unsure of where he was, unsure even of who he was. He seemed to recall a dream – no, a nightmare, filled with terrible visions of monstrous things writhing upon blasphemous alien landscapes. He recalled something unclean and invisible clawing at his mind – at his very soul – with hideous insistence, and he recalled experiencing the absolute certainty that his mind and soul were about to be devoured...
As he lay there, the memory of his own identity and location gradually returned, and he took in a great heaving breath and raised a hand to his throbbing head. ‘Good grief!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘What the dickens happened?’
‘Mr Blackwood?’ said a woman’s voice, somewhere off to his left.
‘Mrs Butters?’ he replied, turning his head.
‘I am Lady Sophia Harrington,’ said the woman, who had moved to his side. When he tried to sit up, she laid a hand upon his chest. ‘No, lie still. You need to rest. You have had a very narrow escape.’
‘Escape? From what?’
‘From the ætherial virus with which your cogitator was infected.’
At these words, the memories flooded Blackwood’s awareness, and he cried, ‘The virus! My God, we must get out, now!’
‘Hush, Mr Blackwood!’ she said sternly, pushing him firmly back onto the couch on which he lay. ‘The danger has passed, I assure you.’
‘Passed? How?’
Lady Sophia indicated the cogitator sitting on Blackwood’s desk. The scrying glass had been smashed. Jagged shards lay upon the desk and the floor around it. ‘I broke the glass,’ she explained, ‘with the small clock on the table by the door. I fear,’ she added with a rueful smile, ‘that both the clock and the cogitator are beyond repair.’
‘Apologies are quite unnecessary, Lady Sophia,’ said Blackwood as he slowly sat up, waving away her protests. ‘They are a small price to pay for my life and soul. I owe you my profoundest thanks.’
She nodded, and Blackwood regarded her more closely. He guessed her to be somewhere in her late twenties. She was dressed conservatively but elegantly in a grey jacket and long skirt, but it was not her dress which captivated his attention. The concerned frown which clouded her features could not hide the fact that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her dark hair shone with a rich, almost jewel-like lustre, and her deep brown, almond-shaped eyes gleamed with intelligence, compassion and – Blackwood thought – a subtle humour.
Discomfited somewhat by these impressions, Blackwood shook them from his mind and stood up unsteadily.
‘I really do think you should lie still for a while longer, sir,’ said Sophia. ‘To experience something like this...’
‘I assure you I’m quite all right,’ said Blackwood, harshly. He brought himself up and smiled at his guest. ‘Forgive me, your Ladyship; I didn
’t mean to speak so. But I dislike being fussed over; I have enough of that from my housekeeper...’
‘The Mrs Butters you mentioned?’
‘Indeed...’
At that moment, they heard the apartment’s front door opening and closing, and bustling footsteps sounding along the corridor leading to Blackwood’s study. As if summoned by the very mention of her name, Mrs Butters poked her large, matronly head around the study’s half-open door.
‘Ooh! Pardon me, Mr Blackwood, I didn’t realise you was...’ Her voice trailed off as she took in her employer’s haggard expression and the shards of glass scattered everywhere. ‘Oh, my! Whatever ’as ’appened?’
‘Nothing, Mrs Butters,’ Blackwood replied. ‘A minor accident – do not concern yourself.’
‘But there’s glass everywhere!’ the housekeeper exclaimed. ‘An accident it may well be, but minor it most certainly ain’t! Oh my, oh my! Now, you take the young lady into the sitting room, while I fetch a dustpan and brush...’
‘Mrs Butters,’ said Blackwood in a tone which struck Sophia as grimly determined, ‘fetch the dustpan and brush by all means, but I will clean up the mess.’
The housekeeper looked at her employer askance for a moment and then bustled out of the room, muttering, ‘Oh well, ’ave it your own way, Mr Blackwood. I’m quite sure I was only trying to be of service...’
‘And bring me the laudanum,’ Blackwood called after her, ‘for I have a damnable headache!’
Sophia’s eyes widened a little at the profanity, and she raised a long-fingered hand to hide the smile that played suddenly upon her lips.
Mrs Butters brought the cleaning implements and a little dark-brown bottle, which Blackwood took off her before ushering her out of the room. He went to a table by the window, on which stood several glasses and decanters, and poured himself a large brandy, to which he added a drop from the little bottle. Sophia watched him in silence. He seemed to have regained his vigour with remarkable speed, considering the horrific ordeal he had just endured. She waited patiently while he downed the brandy in two large gulps.