The Martian Ambassador

by Alan K Baker

  Stepping around the nearest of the machine’s three-lobed feet, Blackwood stood directly in front of the control cabin and looked up past the cyclopean eye of the observation blister at the strange feature.

  What the dickens is that? he wondered.

  The answer, he knew, would have to wait, for he had more pressing business to attend to. Leaving the hangar behind, he headed off into the darkness towards the house. He hadn’t got very far when the temperature of the amulet began to increase again. It was clear that the house was protected by the same dark Magick which had given life to the pile of masonry outside, and Blackwood wondered what would have happened to him had he not been carrying the ward.

  He also wondered how much hotter it would get, and if he could stand to keep wearing it once inside…

  CHAPTER SEVEN:

  His Lordship’s Plan

  Why the devil didn’t Saint Germain warn me about this? Blackwood wondered as he reached a door at the rear of the house. The amulet was becoming quite uncomfortably hot, so much so that he was tempted to take it off and put it in a pocket. He decided, however, that such an action would probably not be wise.

  The door was clearly for servants and tradesmen, and the lock was defeated as easily as those in the two hangars. As he opened the door, Blackwood felt a painful flaring of heat in his amulet, and surmised that, had he not been wearing it, he would have died there and then.

  He took out his electric lantern and cast a low-power beam into the room beyond. It was a large scullery, containing two slate sinks and numerous shelves on which sat a vast array of copper pans. At the centre of the room stood a worktable, and in a far corner a large, evil-looking mangle squatted like another bizarre sentinel.

  Blackwood passed quickly through the room and on into the vast kitchen, where he played his beam upon the black-and-white-tiled floor and the tables, oven and cooking range, and finally the shelves containing all the arcane accoutrements of cookery, which he had always considered to be as impenetrably mysterious as the contents of any scientific research laboratory. He cast a brief glance at the shelves containing pie forms, pastry jiggers, patty pans, sugar nippers, larding pins and sculpting tools and a dozen other types of culinary contrivance, before leaving the kitchen and moving swiftly along the dark corridor beyond and ascending a steep flight of stairs.

  From his external survey of the house, Blackwood had a rough idea of its basic layout and of the direction he should take in order to reach the room in which he had seen the single light burning, which he suspected to be Lord Pannick’s study. As he moved silently along the corridors of the first floor, he called out to Shanahan with his mind.

  Presently, a voice – or rather, the mental impression of a voice – replied, Here, sir.

  Did you manage to get inside Pannick’s cogitator?

  I did indeed, sir, and I have some very interesting information for you.

  That can wait. For now, I need to know where he is and what he’s doing.

  He has just retired. I can direct you to his study, if you wish. I’m sure you’ll find much of interest there.

  No doubt. Lead the way.

  With the faerie’s voice to guide him, Blackwood quickly arrived at a stout oak door.

  You’re sure he’s not in here?

  Quite sure, sir.

  Blackwood tried the handle; the door was unlocked. He pushed it open, entered the room and turned up the gaslights a fraction. In the dim light, he could see that Lord Pannick’s study was vast and opulently furnished with an eclecticism which bordered on bad taste. Indeed, Blackwood’s first impression was that he had stepped into the world of fifty years ago, when the vogue in Victorian society was for all manner of clutter. But the clutter in this room came from the four corners of the globe, and from periods remote in history.

  Blackwood’s astonished eye quickly took in the room’s contents. It was a veritable museum of artefacts from many ancient civilisations, both familiar and mysterious. There were examples of the first technological fumblings in flint and sandstone produced by humanity’s forebears, relics from the era of civilisation’s first primordial flickering; there were priceless artefacts from Mesopotamia and Egypt and mysterious, distant Asia; there were exquisite examples of pottery, sculpture and metalwork from the Hellenistic world and from fabulous Rome and from the Arab empires and glorious Byzantium; there were delicate marvels from the far side of the world, from China and Japan; there were glimpses of the intellectual flowering of the Renaissance, embodied in oils and marble and illuminated manuscripts; and there were idols and figurines from the New World, the violent strangeness of their aspect offering eloquent testament to the singular history of those distant people.

  As he surveyed these treasures, Blackwood modified his opinion of Lord Pannick’s taste in furnishings: he had chosen well, with a highly educated and discerning eye, and if his enormous study was cluttered, it was cluttered with the very best of mankind’s striving towards the divine. It was an incongruity strange and sad, Blackwood reflected, that such beauty belonged to a man of such malevolence.

  Shanahan became visible as Blackwood closed the door. ‘Over here, sir,’ he said as he fluttered across to a large, ornately carved oak cabinet. ‘Top drawer.’

  Blackwood opened the drawer, which contained a number of sheets of paper. He took them out and carried them to the desk that stood at the centre of the room. The first sheet contained a complex and highly detailed diagram of a Martian walking machine. ‘Good Lord!’ he whispered. ‘This is the one I saw in the hangar outside.’

  ‘Quite so, sir,’ agreed Shanahan. ‘But this is different from any other. Look here.’ He indicated the strange, unsightly bulge on the upper surface of the machine’s hull.

  ‘Yes,’ Blackwood nodded. ‘I noticed that… but what is it?’ Hardly had he voiced the question before his eye took in the annotation on the diagram. ‘A… Heat Ray?’

  ‘A weapon, sir,’ said Shanahan. ‘A projector of violent destruction. Its power is vast and lethal…’

  ‘And Lord Pannick possesses it. But how did he get hold of it? The Martians must have given it to him… but why the deuce would they do that?’

  ‘The answer lies in his cogitator, sir,’ replied Shanahan, indicating the machine on the desk. ‘Lord Pannick is brokering an arms deal between Her Majesty’s Government and the Martian Parliament…’

  ‘An arms deal?’

  Shanahan nodded. ‘This is merely the first of many such fighting machines, which are to be shipped to Earth in order to consolidate the power of the British Empire. It is quite secret, for the moment at least, since knowledge of such a deal would drastically destabilise international relations.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Blackwood muttered.

  ‘But this is not our most pressing concern at this point,’ Shanahan continued. ‘Please look at the next sheet.’

  Blackwood folded aside the diagram of the Martian fighting machine, and the frown that had clouded his features deepened still further when he saw what lay beneath. ‘This is a map of Hyde Park,’ he said. ‘And the New Crystal Palace…’

  ‘Do you recall, sir, what you said back at Station X?’ said Shanahan. ‘Indrid Cold has sown the seeds of fear and mistrust between Earth and Mars, but that in itself is not enough to start a war. Something more is required, you said, and you are right.’

  ‘Yes,’ Blackwood whispered. ‘A powerful catalyst, a final outrage to tip us over the brink… except that there are two catalysts: the first is the planned infestation of Mars with Acarus galvanicus… and the second… oh, dear God!’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Shanahan. ‘The second is the destruction of the Greater Exhibition by Martian Heat Ray, in two days’ time!’

  Blackwood felt sick to his stomach as he said, ‘The Queen is going to be there, at the grand opening.’

  ‘That is when Pannick and Cold will mount their attack, for they will certainly not miss the opportunity of assassinating the British monarc
h and symbol of the Empire.’

  Blackwood quickly gathered up the drawings, folded them and put them in an inside pocket of his coat. ‘I’m taking these back to Station X,’ he said. ‘If we give them the plans, perhaps our technical chaps will be able to find a weakness in the fighting machine.’

  ‘I doubt it, sir, but it’s worth a try,’ said Shanahan.

  ‘Now, can you tell me where Lady Sophia is being held?’

  Shanahan smiled. ‘That I can, sir.’

  *

  Sophia lay on the bed, still dressed in the evening gown which Lord Pannick had had the impudence to provide for her. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, only that when she had finally awoken, she was back here in the bedroom. As soon as awareness had returned, she felt a scream of terror rising in her throat, and it was only with the greatest of determination and self-control that she had prevented herself from letting loose with it. Instead, she had buried her head in the pillow and sobbed.

  The memory of Indrid Cold’s true appearance was awful beyond imagining, and try as she might, she could not rid herself of it. It was emblazoned upon her mind as if branded there, an indelible image which tormented her with the horror of its uttermost alienness.

  She knew that she had to find some way to escape from Furfield, but such was her fear and anguish that it seemed to drain the strength from her muscles and the air from her lungs. And so she had lain there upon the bed, panting and sobbing, utterly unable to move, while the minutes seemed to turn into hours, and the hours into days and weeks of misery and terror.

  When she heard the soft click of the lock on the bedroom door, she moaned aloud and thrust her face deeper into the pillow. Had the alien fiend returned? If he had, she knew she would die. She felt rather than heard the door opening, and braced herself to face the unendurable…

  And then, a familiar voice, deep and strong.

  ‘Sophia!’

  She raised her head, and saw Blackwood standing there in the doorway.

  ‘Thomas! Oh, Thomas!’

  Instantly, he was at her side, holding her in his arms and drawing her dishevelled, tear-damp hair from her face. ‘Great God, what did they do to you?’

  ‘Nothing… but Indrid Cold is here… and he showed me his true face… and…’ She shut her eyes tightly and gave a shuddering moan.

  ‘Come, Sophia: we are getting out of here, right this moment!’ And with that, he lifted her off the bed and placed her on her feet. ‘Be strong, my dear.’

  ‘Yes, be strong, my dear!’ said another voice from the doorway.

  Sophia gasped, and Blackwood spun on his heels to see Lord Pannick standing on the threshold, a revolver in his hand. ‘Be strong indeed,’ he added, a broad, satisfied smile on his corpulent face. ‘Although no amount of strength will serve you now.’

  ‘Lord Pannick,’ Blackwood began, but Pannick raised the gun, and he fell silent.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Blackwood,’ he said. ‘How unfortunate it is that you chose to ignore my warning. I would have been true to my word, you know: I would have returned her Ladyship to you unharmed, once all this was over. But now…’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Now you force me to a most unpleasant course of action.’

  ‘Your little plan will not succeed, Pannick,’ Blackwood said with barely suppressed rage. ‘You’ll swing for this, you filthy bounder!’

  Pannick gave a low chuckle. ‘I would dispute that, my dear sir… but even if I do, I assure you that you and Lady Sophia will not live to see it!’

  PART FOUR

  In Which the Greater Exhibition

  Does Not Go Entirely to Plan

  CHAPTER ONE:

  On the Plain of Yoh-Vombis

  The Martian moons Phobos and Deimos, twin fragments of glittering light, emerged from behind the rolling red horizon to continue their dance through the firmament. The countless stars which formed a backdrop to the moons’ eternal courtship were harder and brighter here than when viewed from distant Earth: without a dense atmosphere to impede their light, they fractured the darkness of space like gleaming blades driven through the ice of a black, frozen lake. That vast and unplumbed darkness seemed to seep down from the sky, slowly filling the valleys and canyons which surrounded the Plain of Yoh-Vombis, edging stealthily towards the gently lapping, star-reflecting waters of the great canals which threaded the land.

  A thousand years ago, Yoh-Vombis himself, the World-Builder, who united the peoples of Mars into a single planetary civilisation and left them their greatest poetry, had likened the monstrous darkness of deep space to a great beast, hungry and silent, which coveted the mountains and the rolling plains, the waters and the bright, warm lights of the scattered cities, and which descended each night to sate its hunger on Martian dreams.

  At the centre of the vast, mesa-pillared plain, amid a complex of five-sided temple pyramids, stood a singular building. Two miles long and a mile and a half wide and carved from the living rock of a mountain as old as Mars itself, the structure soared nearly three thousand feet into the air in the form of a colossal face, gazing up impassively at the stars: the Face of Yoh-Vombis, eternal shrine to the World-Builder, and seat of the Martian Parliament.

  On this evening, the Parliament had been called to an emergency session, representatives having been summoned by the High Minister from each of the planet’s ten satrapies. Their skyships now lay at anchor on the landing field to the south of the temple complex, and the electric braziers in the eyes of the Face, which were normally extinguished at night, now cast twin beams of crystalline light into the black sky.

  In the surrounding cities, the people gazed uneasily at the great upturned face with its serene expression and blazing eyes. They knew why the Parliament was in emergency session – or thought they did. They were aware that the Martian Ambassador to Earth had met with an untimely end, that in all likelihood he had been murdered, and that the Parliament was deeply troubled. They did not, however, know just how troubled their leaders were, for the news had yet to reach them that two more Martians had been slain.

  The Chamber of Thought and Voice was located at the centre of the Face, and was the place where matters of government were debated. Its elegantly curving inner wall was panelled with rose-hued marble, and was bathed in the subdued light of numerous electric braziers. The circular floor of polished granite was divided into eleven segments, one for each of the ten satrapies, and the eleventh for the High Minister, whose responsibility it was to oversee the debate, and to make a final decision on which course of action should be followed.

  The satraps entered the chamber quickly and without fanfare, and they took their seats with barely an acknowledgment of each others’ presence. The final satrap to arrive, from distant Ultima Volantis in the far northern lands, hurried to take his position, and then the High Minister rose and addressed the assembly.

  ‘I welcome you,’ he said, spreading his long arms wide. ‘I welcome all the satraps of Rhenquahar. I welcome the Satrap of Ultima Volantis, of Ghot’anozhor, Kharkarras, Sten’dhek, S’aghitar, Bell’abrax, Sansarras, Fhontarras, Kharkaraphon and Khututhah. I invite to speak whomever so wishes. Who will begin?’

  ‘With the Minister’s indulgence, I will speak first,’ said the Satrap of Kharkarras. ‘I will give voice to the thoughts of many: many in this chamber, and many in the lands beyond. It was a dire mistake to initiate contact with the people of the Blue Planet Azquahar. We acted precipitously. We should have waited and gathered more information on the humans and their ways. The price of our unthinking haste is the death of three of our people.’

  ‘It was not we who made contact,’ countered the Satrap of Fhontarras. ‘The humans sent a radio broadcast across the Æther; we merely responded.’

  ‘If you must concentrate on mere detail, Fhontarras, so be it. The mistake was still ours in responding.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said the Satrap of Bell’abrax. ‘The people of Azquahar are not to blame for what has happened. Nor are we to consider them a
danger to the peace and security of our own world of Rhenquahar.’

  ‘Bell’abrax is right,’ declared the Satrap of Kharkaraphon. ‘In the six Azquaharan years since contact was established, the humans have never given us any cause to mistrust them or to suspect them of ill will towards us. The intelligence we received from Petrox Voronezh bears this out. It is the people of Zhinquahar who are our enemies, for it was their agent who took the life of Lunan R’ondd.’

  ‘With the help of a human,’ the Satrap of Khututhah interjected. ‘Let us not forget that it was human science which developed the parasites which invaded the Ambassador’s body and stole the air from his lungs.’

  All in the room shifted uncomfortably at this, the thought stirring horrible memories of the catastrophe which had nearly destroyed their race in the distant past.

  Khututhah continued, ‘I am not so eager to give Humankind the benefit of our doubts. We have learned much of their ways since contact was made – contact which I, too, consider a mistake. They are an acquisitive and warlike race, always taking what their fellows own as if it were their right, and meeting all resistance with force of arms. The empires of their history all tell the same story. They are following the same path as that followed by Zhinquahar; every passing day brings new inventions, new industrial processes, new ways of consuming their world’s resources. Their technology is still in its infancy, and yet it has the potential to grow beyond their ability to control – even should they wish to control it.’

  ‘Quite so,’ nodded Kharkaraphon. ‘But that is not what we are here to discuss. Our proper topic of debate should be Zhinquahar and its intentions.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied Khututhah. ‘Although I believe the two subjects to be inseparable, let us follow Kharkaraphon’s advice and confine ourselves, for now at least, to the matter of Zhinquahar. Their plight is obvious, as is the strategy they have formulated to escape the doom which hovers over them. In short, they wish to engineer a conflict between Rhenquahar and Azquahar, and in so doing weaken both planets to the extent that we and the humans will fall easily to a subsequent Zhinquaharan invasion. They have betrayed the world which gave them life, so that it will no longer accept their existence, and so they plan to take our worlds for their own.’