The Martian Ambassador

by Alan K Baker

  Looking up through this arrangement, Sophia tried to make sense of the fabulous and exquisite complexity of the horizontal cog wheel assembly which surmounted it, and which formed the mechanism by which the planets, mounted atop sturdy brass spars, revolved around the golden orb of the Sun. It was impossible, however, and she smiled in spite of herself at the incredible profusion of steel and brass components, all of which worked together in perfect synchronisation to make the gigantic model of the Solar System turn about itself.

  ‘How utterly marvellous!’ she said.

  ‘Indeed,’ de Chardin replied.

  ‘Do you think the Universe really does work with such precision as this?’

  The detective chuckled. ‘Would that it did, my dear Lady Sophia.’ He indicated a large wrought iron staircase which ascended to the first tier. ‘Would you care to see it from a higher vantage point?’

  ‘Thank you, I would.’

  They climbed the staircase and joined the crowd, which was at present observing the operation of the Orrery. In recognition of the epoch-making events of recent years, the globes representing Earth and Mars had been mounted higher than the other planets of the Solar System, so that the twin worlds circled in apparent solitude through the air. The smile which brightened Sophia’s expression as she watched their slow, graceful movements faded when she looked down upon the pale yellow sphere representing Venus. She thought again of Blackwood, out there somewhere in the Æther, perhaps alive and victorious, perhaps dead, his mission failed, while the zeppelin sailed on towards Mars to deliver its hideous cargo.

  She glanced to her left and saw, away in the distance, the Queen and her entourage making their way along the exhibition hall towards the area devoted to the Martian exhibits. She turned away from the Orrery and said, ‘Perhaps we should make a tour of the exits. I’d like to know their exact locations and the whereabouts of your men.’

  *

  The sickening pain in Blackwood’s shattered forearm had diminished somewhat, until it was now merely an intense and distracting ache. As he moved the joystick a little this way and that, making minor course corrections to keep southeast England squarely in the centre of the forward windows, he allowed his left arm to float outstretched. He knew that the lessening of the pain was only a brief respite: the forearm was beginning to swell with the internal bleeding, and once he was back within the gravity field of Earth, he’d be in for a rough time once more – especially with what he was planning to do.

  In spite of his intense discomfort, he watched in fascination as the green and ochre mottling of the landscape was gradually transformed by his approach into a fantastically complex patchwork of fields, partially obscured by drifting mats of cotton-white cloud. He felt a strange ache in his heart when he recalled seeing the Earth in its entirety from the depths of the Æther: how small and fragile it had seemed – unreal, somehow, as if it were merely a subtle and delicate representation of the world rather than the world itself. The idea that it was home to vast mountains and plains, wide oceans and sprawling cities, that it contained millions upon millions of human souls, was strange beyond countenance, and he felt a sudden rush of existential anxiety when he considered the brute fact that this tiny orb represented the entirety of the human presence in the Universe.

  Whatever the trials and hardships that awaited him, Blackwood was immensely relieved and thankful to be returning, even after so brief a sojourn in the outer darkness.

  The world, however, has a peculiar habit of responding to such feelings by hurling an unexpected obstacle into one’s path. Suddenly, the joystick began to buck and twist in Blackwood’s hand, so that he was forced to brace himself by thrusting his knees underneath the lower edge of the instrument panel to maintain his grip on it.

  ‘What the devil…?’ he muttered as he struggled with the joystick, which appeared to have taken on a life of its own. The Æther zeppelin began to pitch and roll wildly, so that Blackwood wondered fleetingly whether Lord Pannick had somehow sabotaged the craft through Magickal means, his final act of mischief.

  A glance at the instrument panel quickly told him otherwise. The needles on several gauges were fluctuating chaotically, as the various systems of the vessel began to fail. The lights on the flight deck flickered dangerously, while from somewhere above him, Blackwood heard the sharp crack and hiss of bursting pipes.

  He groaned as he realised what was happening. The sudden decompression of the gondola’s main compartment must have damaged the structure of the vessel. The electrical lines connecting the flight controls with the engines and manoeuvring surfaces had been compromised, perhaps sundered altogether – and if that were the case, he would be unable to control the zeppelin’s speed or rate of descent.

  As the rapidly approaching landscape beyond the forward windows continued to whirl and gyre dizzyingly, Blackwood tightened his grip on the joystick, cursing loudly as he struggled to get it under control. As he twisted and writhed, the agony in his left arm returned with full force… and he began to wonder whether the last the world would see of Thomas Blackwood would be a fiery meteor hurtling into the ground somewhere in the south of England…

  *

  As Sophia and de Chardin walked through the vast spaces of the New Crystal Palace, the detective pointed out the locations of the exits and the positions that his men had taken up in order to keep watch over the throng. Sophia did her best to pay attention but was distracted by the riot of emotions she was experiencing. She was desperately worried about Blackwood and equally concerned for the safety of the thousands of people milling around in the gargantuan building. She had seen at first hand what the Martian Heat Ray could do, the utter destruction it could wreak. If the fighting machine took them by surprise, the carnage would be unimaginable – not only from its weapon, but from the panic which would ensue when the attack began. For this reason, they were relying on a number of lookouts who were positioned throughout Hyde Park and atop the surrounding buildings on Bayswater Road, Park Lane, South Carriage Drive and Kensington Palace Gardens. At the first sign of trouble, the lookouts would release signal rockets to alert the gunners standing by in their own positions, along with the Templar Police in the Exhibition itself, and an evacuation would begin immediately.

  Sophia felt a profound sense of irritation at Victoria for having insisted that the Greater Exhibition should go ahead on schedule. And yet, she could not help but recall de Chardin’s words: We cannot allow a threat from outside to force us to abandon the best of our civilisation, to change the way we live.

  Nor could Sophia resist the sense of wonder and fascination which came upon her as she moved amongst the exhibits. There were astonishing examples of scientific and artistic endeavour from across the world, although the twin centrepieces were undoubtedly those of Great Britain and Mars. At the end of one gallery, which was given over to innovations in science and technology, she found herself facing a wall of cogitators perhaps twenty feet high and as many wide. ‘Remarkable,’ she said. ‘But why are they all the same model?’

  ‘Ah,’ de Chardin replied. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, this is the Michelson-Morley Concatenator. Those chaps really have gone from strength to strength since they proved the existence of the Æther ten years ago.’

  ‘What does it do?’ asked Sophia as she approached the gently humming wall of ornately-fashioned contrivances, which was all polished teak and glinting brass, threaded with jet-black rubber conduits and glass gauges in which indicator needles gently twitched.

  ‘I believe Messrs Michelson and Morley have developed a way of getting a large number of cogitators to work together in unison, to increase the speed with which they process information. Or something like that: science, I regret to say, was never my strong suit.’

  Sophia shook her head in wonder.

  In another area, they came upon a meticulously detailed diorama of the lunar landscape. At its centre stood a beautifully fashioned model of an Æther zeppelin, surrounded by several tiny figures dressed in wha
t looked like deep-sea divers’ suits. This, Sophia knew, was a representation of the planned British expedition to the Moon, which was due to depart in a year’s time.

  The next section contained a working model, at one-tenth scale, of the new atmospheric railway system which was at present being installed on the London Underground. The system worked by means of a sealed tube running between the tracks, to which each carriage was attached. Powerful Vansittart-Sideley Ultra-compressors at various points in the system pumped air at fantastically high pressure through the tubes, thus propelling the trains. Such was the efficiency of the compressors that the cost of powering the Underground would be half that of the electricity which was currently used.

  In spite of the profusion of singular and fascinating objects and exhibits, Sophia felt herself grow increasingly restless. She wanted this day to be over; she wanted the Martian fighting machine to make its appearance, to be engaged by the gunners and to be vanquished without anyone being killed or injured. She wanted Blackwood to return with news that he had defeated Lord Pannick…

  She wanted all this to be over.

  She sighed loudly as she looked around at the great internal space with its thousands of milling visitors.

  ‘Are you all right, Lady Sophia?’ said de Chardin.

  ‘Yes. I just… Why doesn’t that infernal machine come? If battle is to be joined, then let it be joined now!’

  ‘I understand your frustration: in my experience, waiting for an inevitable fight is worse than the fighting itself. But be assured, your Ladyship, it will come.’

  *

  The fighting machine’s powerful headlights turned the blackness at the bottom of the Thames into a fetid gloom filled with bits and pieces of unidentifiable detritus. The lack of visibility was no impediment to Indrid Cold, however, for the vehicle was fitted with a sophisticated gyroscopic compass and proximity detectors which, combined with his knowledge of the city’s layout, allowed him to home in on his target with ease.

  The machine’s powerful piston-driven legs pushed against the soggy bottom of the river, their wide, three-lobed feet finding easy purchase upon the rank mud that covered it. Like some huge, unearthly crab, it moved with slow deliberation in the murky depths, unseen and unsuspected by the people bustling through the streets of the surrounding city.

  Presently, the proximity detectors registered the place where the Thames turned north, past Millbank, towards Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. When he reached his intended location, Cold threw a large switch on the instrument panel, and each of the machine’s splayed feet sprouted three metal claws.

  Pulling back on the control wheel, he edged the machine up towards the surface, the shock absorbers cushioning the control cabin against each violent judder as the claws bit into the slimy stonework of the river’s bank.

  On the river’s surface, the crews of barges, freighters and pleasure craft glanced westward towards the embankment below the Houses of Parliament as the water there began to bubble and surge. People near the river’s edge rushed to see what was happening and called to other passersby, who joined them. From the land and the river, curious eyes were fixed upon the mysterious churning of the water.

  The onlookers edged further forward, chattering to each other in intense curiosity… and then the chattering was transformed into a single cry of alarm as the bubbling water parted to reveal a lozenge-shaped object thrusting upwards from the depths. The crowd fell back as the object continued to emerge from the river and then clambered with terrifying speed onto the embankment to stand before them on its tripod legs.

  Women screamed and men shouted anxious questions at each other, the more gallant among them stepping in front of their female companions to shield them against the mechanical apparition.

  ‘A Martian walking machine!’ cried one.

  ‘What the dickens is it doing in the Thames?’ shouted another.

  ‘What are those blighters up to?’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘We should call the police, by God!’

  Inside the control cabin, Indrid Cold looked down at the mass of incredulous people, his hand hovering over the trigger of the Heat Ray, and he would have despatched them all to fiery oblivion there and then, had not another thought occurred to him. Instead, he twisted the control wheel, and the hull swivelled upon its gimballed mounting until it was facing the Palace of Westminster and the great Clock Tower. His eyes blazing with fiendish excitement, Cold pulled the trigger of the Heat Ray.

  The crowd screamed in unison as a beam of intense red light flashed out from the machine and struck the Clock Tower, which trembled for an instant before exploding in a horrific shower of glass and masonry, which rained down upon the Palace, smashing through the roof and into the chambers below.

  All was instant pandemonium; the crowd of onlookers disintegrated like a swarm of bees, each fleeing in a different direction, as the fighting machine strode off towards Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace beyond.

  *

  The gravity of Earth reasserted itself as the Æther zeppelin re-entered the atmosphere. Blackwood had ambivalent feelings about its return, for while at least now he could sit properly in the pilot’s chair and wrestle more effectively with the flight controls, his left arm began to bang excruciatingly against the armrest, and with each jolt he shouted out in agony.

  He had managed to effect a kind of compromise with the recalcitrant controls, so that in spite of the continuous pitching and yawing of the craft, it maintained its course in the general direction of southeast England. Shaking the sweat from his brow, Blackwood peered through the forward windows as the familiar landscape passed by beneath him. Wokingham… Ascot… Sunbury on Thames… Richmond… Kew Gardens.

  He was directly over London now, heading in a north easterly direction towards Hyde Park.

  Away in the distance, he caught sight of a grey cloud rising from the ground. While he kept a firm grip on the joystick with his right hand, he looked through the eyepiece of the zeppelin’s telescope, adjusting the instrument as best he could with his left hand, wincing against the pain.

  ‘My God,’ he whispered. The cloud was issuing from the Palace of Westminster, in the place where the Clock Tower had once stood. As he peered in appalled fascination at the wreckage, he added to himself, It’s begun. Cold is on the move!

  He twisted the brass knobs controlling the angle of the telescope, searching for the fighting machine. Where are you, you filthy blackguard?

  There!

  He saw that the fighting machine was halfway between the river and Hyde Park and was, in fact, crossing the Mall between Buckingham Palace and Trafalgar Square. For a moment, he thought that it might attack the Palace, but it moved on without pausing. Cold knew that Victoria would not be there: she was at present in a much larger palace – one which would quite possibly become her mausoleum.

  *

  Sophia and de Chardin entered the hall devoted to the Martian exhibits, where the Queen was lingering while she listened to the head of the Exhibition Committee explain to her the origin and function of the various items on display. The contents of the hall were truly fabulous to behold. At its centre stood a one-hundred-foot-high statue of Yoh-Vombis, their greatest leader, which was carved in fantastic detail from a single block of rose-hued Martian quartz. The statue’s arms were outstretched, as if in welcome to all who laid eyes upon him, and Sophia felt a near-uncontrollable urge to approach it and sit at its feet.

  Elsewhere there was a fully functional recreation of the astrogation deck of an interplanetary cylinder, at the centre of which was a slowly rotating device, apparently the Martian equivalent of an orrery – although it was far more complex, and was constructed of thin, multicoloured shards of floating crystal. Several seats were ranged around the device, each of which possessed an instrument panel of mind-boggling complexity.

  Further along the hall were examples of Martian architecture, painting, textiles, ground and air transportation
, all of which, while clearly analogous to those of Earth, possessed characteristics of an aestheticism that was utterly, beautifully alien, and which held the human eye in a rapture that was all the more intense and seductive for the subtle trepidation it inspired. At the far end was perhaps the most astonishing sight of all: an enormous panel less than an inch thick, which the Martians called a ‘hololith’, and which displayed constantly changing scenes of life on Mars. The hololith would clearly become the sensation of the entire Exhibition, if the faces of those watching it were any indication.

  From their vantage point, Sophia and de Chardin had a magnificent view of the strange device, and it quickly became apparent to them that the scenes it was displaying were not static pictures or photographs, but were actually moving. They could see the waters of the Martian canals glinting in the dim sunlight, while tiny figures moved along their banks and through the sinuously winding streets of their strange cities. In one particularly evocative scene, a flock of huge shantak birds, whose membranous wings were more like those of bats, wheeled through the pale pink sky above a vast shape on the horizon, which was clearly another representation of Yoh-Vombis, seen in profile.

  ‘The Martian Parliament, I believe,’ said de Chardin.

  ‘How utterly marvellous,’ whispered Sophia.

  She was about to say something more, but was interrupted by the sight of a signal rocket rising into the air above the arched glass ceiling of the exhibition hall. Instantly, she clutched de Chardin’s arm, and pointed. ‘Look!’

  ‘The lookouts,’ he said. ‘They’ve spotted it.’

  A few moments later, the ugly cough of cannon fire reached them.

  ‘It seems the waiting is over, Lady Sophia,’ de Chardin said as he stepped forward to address the crowd. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouted in a deep, commanding voice. ‘May I please have your attention? I am Detective Gerhard de Chardin of New Scotland Temple. I must ask you to make your way out of the building by the first available exit.’