The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Martian Menace

by Eric Brown

Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Death of Professor Moriarty

  I stood transfixed, stunned by the enormity of Moriarty’s words. That he was granting us our freedom was hard enough to take in, as I had reconciled myself to the prospect of certain death; but that he was in effect begging Sherlock Holmes to end his life was almost too much to believe. Even now, at the eleventh hour, I suspected some trick or subterfuge from the villain.

  “I have informed Karan-Arana-Lall of my desire,” Moriarty said, “and though he understands, he cannot bring himself to be complicit in my death, nor to kill me himself. He has served me well for almost twenty years, after all.”

  “But the bombs that the Korshana will unleash on the city,” Holmes said. “Why did you not arrange for them to fall on Hakoah-Malan, too?”

  “For one thing, Holmes, the Arkana built this dome to be bombproof – and for another…” He hesitated.

  “And for another,” Holmes said, “you wish me to be the agency of your demise.”

  “Of all the human beings against whom I have pitched myself,” said Moriarty, “only you do I deem a worthy opponent. Only you have thwarted my efforts to rule supreme, and while in the past I have cursed your name and reviled your soul, yet I must acknowledge you as… as my equal.”

  Holmes’s lips quirked at this. “An accolade indeed,” he murmured with heavy sarcasm.

  “I am at the end of my tether,” Moriarty went on. “If I were to survive, my future would be bleak, kept alive artificially with all the time in the world to dwell on what might have been, to regret past decisions and failures. You cannot begin to imagine the hell of my situation thus far… It gives me immense satisfaction to know that with my death I will be defying the Arkana – and that, thanks to my scheming, they might even be defeated and driven from Earth.” He hesitated. “Well, Holmes?”

  My friend was silent for a time, his gaze distant even as he stared at the shackled apology for a human being hanging before us.

  “I have never knowingly taken a human life in all my time,” he said.

  “But you tried,” Moriarty interrupted, “at Reichenbach.”

  “No,” said Holmes. “There I was fighting for my very life. But now…”

  “Yes?” Moriarty’s eagerness was almost pathetic.

  “Now, Moriarty, you leave me with little choice. But let me say – I am doing this for myself and for Watson, not through any misplaced sympathy for you or your predicament.”

  An expression of relief swept over Moriarty’s features. “There is little to it – merely disconnect the catheter in my jugular and I will be dead within a minute. Earlier I informed the guards that my audience with you will last two hours. You will have sufficient time to flee before they become suspicious.”

  “And alarms will not be triggered?” Holmes asked.

  “I prevailed upon Karan-Arana-Lall to disable all the fail-safes and alarms that monitor my well-being,” Moriarty said. “Now, time is of the essence. Please, Holmes, step up.”

  My friend hesitated, and I gripped his arm and murmured, “Holmes, if you’re in doubt – then I will gladly do as he bids.”

  “No, Watson, I could not let you…” He paused, then went on in a whisper, “To take any life, even one so vile as Moriarty’s, is a burden.”

  He stepped forward. Moriarty’s eyes stared with a dark intensity absent until this moment. I looked on, aware that I was witnessing a historic event – both in the grander scheme of things, in that it was part of the larger fight against the Arkana, and in the more personal arena of the long-running contest between two men on the opposite sides of good and evil.

  “Do it!” Moriarty cried in almost orgasmic glee.

  Holmes reached up and gripped the tube penetrating the professor’s jugular – and hesitated. He leaned close to his enemy then, and murmured something to him – quite what, I never did learn, for despite my entreaties in the months that followed Holmes kept his silence.

  Moriarty’s eyes widened fractionally – and then Holmes tugged on the jugular catheter, and blood syphoned out and spurted across his emaciated frame, and the light in his eyes dimmed and he slumped, rapidly dying.

  Holmes turned away, his expression unfathomable.

  * * *

  We hurried down the ramp where Karan-Arana-Lall was waiting, his eyes averted from what had taken place.

  “It is done?” the Martian enquired in English.

  “It is done,” Holmes replied.

  “This way, then,” said the alien.

  We hurried along the circular gallery. For my part, I expected the arched portal to slide open at any second and the guards to spill through, shouting orders for us to halt and drawing weapons.

  We came to an elevator plate and stepped onto it after the Martian. We descended at speed, through the floor of the gallery and into the bowels of the dome, passing banks of buzzing and flashing machinery, miles of pipework and a confusion of cables. I looked up and saw a circle of light high above us where the sunlight penetrated the skin of the dome. Of pursuing Martians there was no sign. Was it too much to hope, I wondered, that we might escape Hakoah-Malan, and eventually Mars, with our lives?

  We came to an underground chamber where a number of empty vehicles waited in line. Karan-Arana-Lall crossed to a black, beetle-shaped pantechnicon, slid open a hatch in the rear of the vehicle, and gestured us within.

  We crouched in the darkness as the door slid shut, and the alien climbed into the cab and activated the electrical motor. We started with a jolt, and I clutched my friend’s arm in the gloom.

  In due course the vehicle emerged into the light of the desert. A glass partition separated the cab from the cargo area where we crouched. Through it I could see the hunched figure of the Martian, pushing and pulling a series of levers.

  Ahead, a wide road curved through the paprika sands of Mars, with the metropolis of Glench-Arkana a grey blemish on the horizon. Perhaps a mile to our right was the monorail that had carried us to Hakoah-Malan, which this road paralleled for the length of its journey.

  We seemed to be moving at walking pace, though our actual speed was difficult to determine as the featureless desert to either side offered no landmarks with which to judge our progress. Also, my impatience was exacerbated by the notion that one of the guards might casually glance from the dome and question the presence of a vehicle making its way from Hakoah-Malan. I was beset by a hundred such fears and doubts as we headed towards the city. It was almost too fantastical to assume that, within an hour or so, we would be in the presence of Miss Hamilton-Bell. I smiled as I anticipated the expression of bewilderment, and hopefully delight, on her face at the sight of us.

  The Martian spoke, and his words came to us through a grille in the partition. “We will drive immediately into the delivery bay of the museum, and there we will collect the sacred stone from Miss Hamilton-Bell.”

  “And the pulse generator?” Holmes asked.

  “It is stowed in a secret compartment beneath your feet,” said the Martian. “When Miss Hamilton-Bell has secreted the pulse generator within the stone’s crate, you will take the generator’s place in the secret compartment. Do not worry – it is sufficiently large enough to accommodate you both. Then we will drive to the spaceport, through the security checks, and into the hold of the Xenarian, bound for Earth.”

  “You make the process sound simple,” Holmes observed.

  “With luck it will be.”

  Holmes fell silent, and I stared through the windscreen at the road ahead.

  The desert rolled away endlessly on either side, wind-sculpted into a series of rills and scooped hollows. There was a severe majesty, even beauty, in the immense landscape that in any other situation I might have been able to appreciate: as it was, I was too preoccupied with what might lie ahead. Any number of pitfalls awaited us, not least that the security check at the spaceport might uncover our ruse, while I lived in fear of Moriarty’s death being discovered and all the hounds of hell – or th
eir Martian equivalents – being unleashed.

  Less than one hour later we came to the outer environs of Glench-Arkana, a built-up area of domes and the leaning, dagger-like edifices. At the sight of these signs of habitation, I breathed somewhat easier.

  At that point Karan-Arana-Lall shattered my complacency with a casual observation. “I do not wish to alarm you, my friends, but it appears we are being followed.”

  Instinctively I turned and stared – but of course, I saw nothing more than the inner panel of the rear hatch.

  With admirable calm, Holmes said, “More details, please, Karan-Arana-Lall.”

  “A security carriage, of the type used by the Arkana militia, has been tracking us for the past ten minutes.”

  “Could this be mere coincidence?”

  “I fear not,” the Martian replied.

  “Can you take evasive action?”

  The alien hesitated, then replied, “It is fortunate indeed that we are entering Glench-Arkana. I might be able to lose our pursuers in the crowded streets. However…”

  “Go on,” Holmes urged.

  “Now that, in all likelihood, the militia have the details of this vehicle, I would be unwise to use it to collect the sacred stone.”

  “Then what’s to be done?” I asked in desperation.

  The Martian considered my words before replying. “There is only one course of action. To your right you will observe a circular tentacle-hole in the metal deck. Slide the panel aside and take out the case containing the pulse generator.”

  Holmes slid open the panel and hauled out a large black valise, straining with the effort.

  We were moving at speed along a busy thoroughfare, our driver dodging other speeding vehicles with but inches to spare. Holmes and I tipped over as we suddenly turned a corner. The valise remained where it was, anchored to the deck by the considerable weight of the pulse generator.

  We accelerated along a relatively quiet street, fruit stalls and open shopfronts flashing by on either side. We turned left, then right, and proceeded down a wide tree-flanked avenue, then turned suddenly down a narrow street.

  “I think,” the alien said at last, “I have succeeded in losing the militia. I will take you within walking distance of the museum, where I will drop you. Take the case, Mr Holmes, and head for the museum, and present yourself to Miss Hamilton-Bell. Inform her of the situation, and instruct her to arrange alternative transportation for the sacred stone and the pulse generator.”

  Holmes nodded, grim-faced. “There remains the small question,” he murmured to me, “of how we might effect our escape from Mars.”

  A bolus of fear had lodged itself in the pit of my stomach. We might have evaded the militia, but I quailed at the thought of being stranded on Mars.

  Holmes leaned forward. “And you?” he asked our driver.

  “I will go to ground and make my way north to the stronghold of the Korshana,” said Karan-Arana-Lall. “And now we approach the alley where I must leave you. If you head down the alleyway, then turn right, you will see the ziggurat of the museum immediately ahead.”

  The vehicle came to a sedate halt, and we climbed out into dazzling sunlight, Holmes hauling the valise after him. Our sudden emergence into the street occasioned a small crowd of Martians to stop and gawp.

  “Good luck,” Karan-Arana-Lall called after us, and we watched as the vehicle beetled away along the crowded street, turned a corner, and was lost to sight.

  “This way, Watson,” Holmes said, and I hurried after him down the narrow alley.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  At the Museum

  We emerged onto a boulevard busy with pedestrians and wheeled vehicles. Our presence as we turned the corner and hurried towards the museum caused much comment among the Martians, with citizens stopping to stare as we passed. I felt as conspicuous as a butterfly in a beehive, and feared that it would only be a matter of time before we were apprehended by the security services.

  The weight of the valise impeded our progress; we took it in turns to share the burden.

  “Almost there, Holmes,” I panted, staring along the busy street at the stepped form of the ziggurat. I gripped the bag as if my life depended on it, its weight forcing me to adopt an ungainly limp. In my paranoid state I half expected to be stopped at any second and forced to reveal the nature of my burden.

  We came at last to the museum, and Holmes led the way into its shadowed atrium and crossed to a reception desk, our arrival attracting curious stares and comments from museumgoers and staff alike.

  Holmes addressed the Martian at reception, who heard him out and then spoke a few words over a loudspeaker. In due course another Martian approached, and Holmes repeated his story. I had taken the opportunity to deposit the valise on the floor, but no sooner had I done so than the second Martian ushered us from the foyer and along a corridor, and I picked up the bag and followed, groaning under its weight.

  We entered an elevator and descended into the basement of the ziggurat, then stepped out into a corridor of grey roughcast and followed the alien down a veritable warren of tunnels. At last we paused before a double door, beside which was a grille into which the Martian spoke.

  My heart was thudding, and not just with the effort of hauling the valise. I looked ahead to meeting Miss Hamilton-Bell, and to her reaction to our unexpected arrival.

  The door, remotely activated, swung open and the Martian gestured us inside.

  The first thing I noticed within the long, low room was a packing crate the size of a grand piano laid upon a trolley in the centre of the floor; the second was the three Martians standing around it; and the third was the fact that there was no sign of Miss Hamilton-Bell.

  Holmes crossed to the aliens while I remained beside the door. He spoke to them hurriedly. I had no inkling as to whether these Martians were friend or foe, and I was ready to turn and flee at a word from Holmes.

  I saw movement at the far end of the chamber. A door had opened, and a human figure stepped from it and stopped in her tracks, staring at us.

  Far from exhibiting delight at our presence, Miss Hamilton-Bell appeared shocked. She reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew what at first I thought to be a weapon – then I noticed a simulacrum detection device in her hand. She directed it at Holmes, pressed the stud, then stared at the light. It glowed red, and an expression of relief flooded her features as she hurried across to us.

  “But… Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?” she began. “How…?” She drew us to one side, murmuring, “How on earth…?”

  Holmes interrupted, nodding discreetly in the direction of the Martian trio. “Are they to be trusted?”

  “Implicitly, Mr Holmes. They are sympathetic to our cause; indeed, they were instrumental in planning the delivery of the pulse generator.” She shook her head and gave a brief laugh. “But your presence here? And how timely! We’re awaiting the arrival of the delivery wagon containing the—”

  Holmes cut her short. “How we came to be here – it’s a long story, the details of which I will be happy to explain later. The delivery wagon driven by Karan-Arana-Lall was followed by the security forces, and he thought it wise to make himself scarce. More importantly, we have the pulse generator. There remains the small matter of concealing the valise in the crate with the menhir, and then arranging alternative transportation to the spaceport. And then,” he went on, “the not inconsiderable problem of how Watson and I might escape from the planet.”

  “One moment, gentlemen,” she said, and hurried across to the staring Martians. She spoke hurriedly to them, then returned to us.

  “I’ve given instructions for one of my colleagues to summon another haulier,” she said. “That should not take long. As to how to effect your escape…” She pressed a finger to her carmine lips.

  “There is only one thing for it, gentlemen,” she said at last.

  We crossed to the packing crate, and the Martians lifted its lid to reveal a long, grey stone nestling in what I took to be str
aw packing, before realising that it was the desiccated stalks of the red weed.

  Miss Hamilton-Bell assisted me with the valise. We lifted it onto the side of the crate and thence into the tangle of stalks at the foot of the Keld-Chenki menhir. Meanwhile, two Martians created a space in the nest of stalks on either side of the sacred stone.

  I looked at Miss Hamilton-Bell. “Are you suggesting what I fear?” I ventured.

  “It is the only means by which I can guarantee your safe passage, gentlemen. It will be a tight squeeze” – she regarded my girth, briefly – “but it will be only for an hour or two at most. Once we are aboard the interplanetary vessel, you will be released.”

  “And the vessel…?” Holmes began.

  “Do not fear – it is crewed by Arkana sympathetic to our cause. Now…” She gestured towards the hollowed nests in the red stalks, and Holmes and I clambered into the crate and lowered ourselves on either side of the menhir. I turned this way and that until I found a relatively comfortable position amid the stalks, my stomach pressing up against the cold stone.

  No sooner were we settled than she gave instructions for the lid to be replaced, and we were plunged into darkness.

  As the lid was screwed into position, I managed to arrange a bundle of stalks to create a passable pillow beneath my head. It was hot within the crate, and our breath made it even warmer. Our heads faced each other over the top of the stone, and so we were able to converse in whispers.

  “Are you aware, Watson, that the dried stalk of the Hedera helix rubrum Martiannica contains a form of opiate which, when ingested, has a soporific effect?”

  “Another fact gleaned from the Encyclopaedia Martiannica, Holmes?”

  “That is correct, and I also made my own investigations with a sample of the plant many years ago. A small amount induces a not unpleasant sense of lethargy.”

  “A seven per cent solution, perchance?”

  “It is pleasing to note that even in these somewhat pressing conditions, Watson, your sense of humour has not failed you.”

  “Do you intend to indulge now?”