Scarlet Traces: An Anthology Based on H. G. Wells' War of the Worlds

by Edited by Ian Edginton

  “Mam? Sure you have. At my baby brother Frankie’s wedding. She was the one in mourning.”

  “No, Gisela. It was before we began our partnership.”

  Waldo does not react, but his heart lightens at that word. Partnership.

  “It was in the aftermath of the invasion, when I turned to working on prosthetics. To help people like you.”

  Waldo freezes, bad memories rising in him. Of the searing pain of the Martian Heat Ray. The stump of his arm pulses. For a moment he is a boy again, lying among the rubble of his home, dust in the air, screams shaking the earth in tandem with the awful tread of the Martian war machines...

  His voice sounds to his ears as if it echoes from a faraway place. “What did she want?”

  “She wanted me to design a new race.”

  THE OFFICE HAS glass walls offering a supreme view of the snaking River Thames and its array of coruscant columns.

  “London is the jewel of the world,” Gisela is saying, her accent alluringly exotic but she speaks with received pronunciation. She sits behind a modern Italian desk with flowing lines, and is immaculately dressed in relaxed, but exquisite tailoring. Waldo has never been in the presence of a woman so perfect before. Her face is a serene oval, her blond hair a coiffed halo, and her eyes are bewitching—direct and suggesting dark passions.

  Her desk is bare except for a top-of-the-range Screen Phone and a tiny china cup of espresso.

  Belsa wears a trouser suit with an overcoat he’s never seen before. A wide-brimmed stylish hat completes her outfit. He is used to her practical work-wear and this change throws him. Despite their long association it hints that there are aspects she keeps hidden from him. His one frayed unfashionable suit does not fit and he wants to fidget constantly. He wears his fake-skin arm which never feels right.

  They sit in sculpted oak chairs that are not comfortable.

  “From here,” Gisela continues, “one can influence the future.”

  As usual Belsa has not tried to hide her scars. In the bright office, with marble tiled floors, the light is unforgiving. Waldo realises that he rarely sees Belsa outside during the day. Her skin has a blueish-white hue, and the scars are a bruised purple. With a start he realises she is the same as that first day she began building his arm, a year before he became her assistant.

  The years have worn on for him, but she is fixed in time.

  “I read about your marriage in the papers,” Belsa says, noting the large diamond engagement ring and wedding band, “and your husband’s passing, my condolences.”

  Gisela smiles with the expression of a cat who has licked up all the cream. “Poor Harry. He was carried away by a lethal fever native to that little island of his. I reluctantly took over the firm.”

  “Robots are all the rage in Europe.”

  “Our models lead the market, despite not having access to Martian technology. You British horde it so.”

  Belsa shrugs. “Our country alone endured invasion. Vae victis.”

  She nods slowly. “Of course, but there are older methods and previous experiments for ambitious innovators to develop.”

  “I’ve seen your slogans. Designed by Humans for Humans. I notice you don’t add ‘replacing human jobs.’”

  “But isn’t this what people yearn for: freedom from base labour? To have more time to garden, or watch cricket? We’re moving from the industrial market and into the home now. Eventually people will be able to live with a helpful, obedient companion, modelled anyway they please.”

  Belsa’s posture stiffens. Waldo warily observes both women. There is an odd charge between them. As if they are speaking in code.

  “Our domestic robots are very expensive, but very popular among a particular market.”

  “They are animated shells repeating recorded words, from that I’ve read. Pretty toys for wealthy controlling men. Hardly a good use for technology, Mrs Domin. Surely experience has taught you that?”

  Gisela’s eyes glitter, but she exudes amusement.

  “I’m flattered you’ve kept up with my work, Dr Sullivan. But we have acquired new talent, and we have exciting plans to meld robotics with organics. Eventually they will be indistinguishable from their masters.”

  She points to Waldo’s arm. “Prosthetics such as Mr Rana’s will be seamless, and very powerful.”

  Waldo flushes with embarrassment and places his fake hand under his warm one.

  “This one serves me well,” he says a little hotly. “Belsa’s a skilled artificer. I know no better in London.”

  Belsa shoots Waldo a smile, and leans forward in her chair. “I was led to believe this meeting was about a proposed television show, Mrs Domin.”

  “Would you have come if I had contacted you directly?”

  “Probably not.”

  “In fact, I own many companies, including a film studio in Ealing. We are well acquainted with the BBC. The production is feasible, but primarily I want access to the records you inherited. Of course, I will compensate you handsomely.”

  Belsa says nothing, and Gisela glances at Waldo.

  “Is he aware—”

  Belsa stands. Waldo scrambles up, unsure of what to do.

  “I will re-iterate that I do not have the papers. They were burned.”

  Gisela stares directly at Belsa and allows a long pause to drag on with the weight of her disbelief.

  “Come, Dr Sullivan. Let us not pretend.”

  “You have wasted enough of my time.”

  “I have a keen researcher. He would only take notes, and you may keep the originals. My fee will keep your theatre,” her tone is scornful, “running for decades. Or you could retire. You’re old enough.”

  Belsa turns and walks to the doorway, with Waldo following.

  The door swings open and a tall heavy-set man in a flashy suit stands in the doorway. A long scar traverses his right cheek.

  “Hello Belsa,” he says, and smiles—his face crumples in an odd way at that. It seems like he is also sneering.

  Belsa is fixed to the spot.

  Behind them, Gisela says, “Ah, Eldon, thank you for joining us.”

  He saunters into the room and walks to Gisela’s desk, casually leans against the glass window, takes a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, and taps one out.

  Belsa pivots to observe them but does not move closer.

  Gisela waves at the man. “You’re familiar with Dr Eldon Moreau, I take it.”

  “Unfortunately so.”

  “I discovered him at a lab in Prague, wasting his talents. I offered him the resources to delve as deeply as he wants into all of life’s secrets. He’s determined to develop his uncle’s work in a new direction.” She picks up her cup and takes a small sip. “All he needed was someone to nurture him properly.”

  Belsa’s voice is stony. “He will disappoint you.”

  Gisela replaces her cup on the table. “He has performed well so far.”

  Belsa swivels smartly and strides from the room.

  “Looking forward to working with you again,” Eldon calls after her. He gives Waldo a cheeky salute. “You’d better run, old boy. She’s hard to keep up with. But I enjoyed the chase.”

  Gisela makes a shoo-ing gesture at Waldo. “Trail after your mistress. Perhaps she has some scraps for you.”

  He leaves the room, metal and flesh hands knotted in anger.

  SHE STANDS AT London Bridge, gulls sweeping overhead and a throng of people passing at her back, gazing along the Thames and its constant stream of river traffic.

  Waldo fumes at her side, huddled into his thin suit, waiting for her direction and simultaneously hating his deference. In the space of a few minutes in Gisela’s office his sense of their relationship had been shredded.

  Below them tourists from all over the Empire wave from a sightseeing cruise boat, the wind pulling on their hats and scarves. They beam, excited at being in the heart of the Empire, full of happiness and cheer. He wants to shout at them about the truth of the illusio
n: it is a light show to distract the population. This bright world is not for the likes of them.

  Belsa doesn’t turn to him when she says, “I have to leave London.”

  “What, why?”

  “You’ll be in charge of the Mob. I’ll increase your pay, of course. You deserve another raise. You should hire an assistant too.” She turns and lays a hand on his arm. “I trust you, Waldo.”

  He shakes her off, and his hurt boils up. “You trust no one!” he shouts. A couple of pedestrians look at him askance. “You know what I am to you? A pleb. Not a friend.” He sees the pain on her face but he can’t stop. “Go on, get off. I’ll manage. I’m staff.”

  She bobs her head, waves for a Black Crab, and she’s gone.

  THE NIGHT IS a blur of sullen humour fed by beer. He hunches in a corner of his local, never lifting his head from his glass except to order a refill. He replays the scene at the bridge, and every grudge and slight from their working life. His regular barman, Jack, guides other customers away from him and keeps him topped up until closing.

  As he staggers out Jack holds the door, and gently steers him in the right direction. “Hope can see through that black cloud.”

  “Fuckyou,” Waldo mumbles, dimly aware of the cold. A light mist haloes the street lights. His anger is morphing into morose regret. He’s never had a better job. Belsa may not have confided in him but she always respected him.

  He stumbles over an uneven footpath, and bumps into a pillar box. She had been promoting him to manager.

  “Damn and blast it,” he says out loud, and raises his face to the wet, needing its clarity. Through the watery haze he recalls Eldon’s comments and Gisela’s expression of smug condescension as she dismissed him.

  “Capitalist swine.”

  He walks without direction and arrives at the workshop with only a vague memory of his journey. His mind switches into shocking sobriety so suddenly he stands blinking in the chill pre-dawn unsure what has prompted the change. A light: bobbing in the window tucked at the apex of the roof, in the wee office that Belsa uses for totting up the accounts and sketching new designs.

  Waldo crouches instinctively by the railing, settling into the deepest shadow cast by the redbrick warehouse. Slowly, aware of the stiffness and unsteadiness wrought upon him by his boozing, he creeps toward the back of the building. The door is ajar, the lock jimmied open. Uncertain of what he should do—what he can do in his impaired state—he watches the doorway, hoping to catch sight of the thief. Two figures slip through the door. Both wear black clothing. One is a big fellow but nimble, but something is off with his companion’s proportions and movements. To develop as a puppeteer Waldo has had to study autonomy and how the joints move. This person is a bad puppet master of his own limbs. Nothing flows naturally but there is a fixed purpose to his stride.

  Waldo follows at a distance, skirting the pools of street lights, and glad of his familiarity with the local area. There is no one about at this hour. Even the milkman has not made his rounds.

  The big man motions his accomplice to a Jaguar Royale Drophead waiting under the overhanging branches of a dogwood. Its motor claws vibrate slightly to indicate the engine is running, even if the headlights are off and the interior dark.

  They stop at the back window, which unwinds revealing only darkness. He leans in and Waldo drops down onto his haunches and hands, stretching as close as possible to eavesdrop without being seen. The man speaks in German, but he recognises the smooth, snide tones of Eldon, and the melodious response of Gisela.

  The awkward fellow lumbers around to get into the front passenger seat, and the headlights turn on. Waldo starts, as the poor proximity for a man is visible in the light. He must be one of Gisela’s robots. Eldon walks around the back to climb into the vehicle via the other door, and the car begins to manoeuvre out of its parking spot. Waldo scuttles back quickly and dodges into an alley between a pawn broker and a pharmacy, startling a cat. It hisses at him as the car zips past, and as a result he doesn’t notice the person appear behind him.

  “Waldo,” Belsa says, “are you sober enough to play the sleuth?”

  He issues a small yelp of surprise, his nerves taut.

  As he turns the final words he said to her on the bridge rush back into his mind, and he speaks angrily.

  “Bloody Nora! What are you doing here?”

  “Following the thieves who broke into the warehouse.”

  He notices her dark, sensible clothing.

  “You expected this.”

  “Gisela believes if you close a door she’s allowed to break in through a window.” She holds up a thermos flask. “Thank goodness I brought cocoa.”

  “Look Belsa, if we are to remind mates you need to come clean. I can help. I’m not some useless cripple...”

  She steps close and grabs his left arm.

  “You are the most capable person I know, Waldo.”

  His eyes scald with sudden emotion. He hates that booze makes him emotional.

  She releases him and politely regards the street. “Let us return to the warehouse and fix the lock. And I’ll fill you in over a feast at Pellicci’s.”

  He coughs and blinks rapidly. “A fry-up would hit the spot.”

  “Good, because we have a journey ahead of us.”

  DESPITE THE EARLY hour the caff is busy with a variety of patrons, from tradespeople to office workers. The everyday clatter and hubbub is soothing—a welcome reminder of normality. Waldo has a couple of queasy moments when the Full English lands on the table in front of him and he gets a whiff of the fried eggs, but he steadies himself with several draughts of strong, milky tea.

  Belsa eats porridge and drinks a coffee so black Waldo reckons it could bend time.

  His appetite improves once he eats a few forkfuls of baked beans.

  “So where are we heading?”

  “Scotland,” she replies. “Specifically, a small island in the Orkneys.”

  He nearly chokes. “Christ, do we have to? I hear the country’s a wasteland. And isn’t one of the Rocket Bases up there? It’s polluted the entire area.” He shakes his head. “Bye bye seals and puffins. The Empire needs to shoot ships full of innocent boys into space.”

  She settles back in the booth, but gazes fixedly at her spoon which she keeps flipping over in a distracted fashion.

  “It’s where I was born,” she says.

  Waldo puts down his knife and fork and gives her his full attention.

  She glances at him, almost furtively, and returns to turning her spoon over on the table.

  “I have an... unusual pedigree,” she begins, but stops. There is a long pause, during which a series of emotions chase across her face.

  Waldo drinks his tea and waits.

  “I can’t explain it in way that makes sense. Let’s just say my father was a medical prodigy and pioneer. His experiments were radical and controversial, and he regretted his work, eventually.”

  She raised her gaze and locked it on Waldo. She gestured to herself. “He regretted me most of all.”

  “He can’t have been that clever then.”

  Her small smile is heart-breaking. “He abandoned me... left me to die.”

  Waldo’s breath catches in his throat. His home life had been chaotic in the aftermath of the war, but his mother and his grandparents had loved him deeply. If anything they’d been too over-protective after he lost his arm.

  “And your Mam...?”

  She shakes her head curtly. “Non-existent.” She inhales a shaky breath. “But I was found and taken in by an order of Sisters.”

  “Nuns?”

  She laughs. “Not really. They nurtured me, educated me, and eventually I ran away to see the world. I travelled and studied in many countries. I met Eldon in Italy before the invasion. We had much in common. His uncle was also a doctor who had pushed the boundaries of respectable science. We both had something to prove, so we worked together for a year. And then he stole information from me and absconded.”<
br />
  “What happened?”

  She laughs sharply. “I cried. Then I pursued him. And I regained my materials before he disseminated it to anyone else.” She points her spoon now as if it was a sword, and her voice shifts to deathly serious. “I reminded him I am not to be trifled with and warned him never to cross my path again. Or speak of what he learned. Clearly I need to remind him of our arrangement.”

  In that moment as Waldo looks into Belsa’s dark eyes he glimpses a ruthless will that could inflict harm without qualm. Gooseflesh sprung up along his right hand and arm, and a shudder passed through him. It was like observing an alien... not a Martian, but something equally otherworldly.

  “I’m not sure I understand...”

  “Gisela has tracked me down before, when she first appeared. She had nothing back then—she had escaped a conflagration—but she had an ideology. She believes humanity is finished. That we’re primates playing with a superior technology we’re ill-equipped to understand. She thinks the future lies with evolving robots to the highest level. She wanted both of us to combine our fields of knowledge to create something new, something better than humans, but I demurred.”

  Waldo frowns, trying to keep up with the outrageous notions she is describing. “But, if she creates a robot race won’t they overthrow her?”

  “Oh, she’s an android.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “One of a kind. They literally broke the mould with her. She was designed to overthrow the world and watch it burn. I suspect she plans to create a robot race, become their Empress, and take them to the stars.”

  “Crikey,” he says, unable to believe a word she’s said.

  “Which is why we need to keep my father’s research out of their hands. This is not the threat of invasion, but the threat of being supplanted by our own inventions.”

  For several minutes they sit in silence and life continues around them at a perfectly ordinary pace. Bacon butties are consumed, gossip is shared, and a customer breaks into song for a few minutes, followed by a round of applause.

  Eventually a waitress sails over bearing a mammoth teapot.