“Yes?” Roosevelt said.
Tesla stopped pacing, and looked down at Roosevelt. “What if it could be used as a weapon?”
Roosevelt stood, aghast at the horror Tesla’s words intimated. “The Martians wouldn’t dare! They wouldn’t poison the very land they wish to conquer. Why… there’d be nothing for them to rule!”
Tesla’s gaze fell to the floor. He shook his head. “No, Mr. Secretary. It is not the Martians who concern me.”
“What are you saying, Nikola?”
“Desperation breeds madness, Mr. Secretary,” Tesla said.
Chapter Ten
Coventry, England - A.R.E.S. Battle Train “Adder”
Coventry burned. The railcar’s sole occupant stared out the window as flames danced all the way to the horizon. Only the black silhouettes of the squadron of Storm Crow fighters escorting the train cut through the brilliant, orange glow. Dr. Christopher Honeycutt placed his palm against the glass; it was warm.
A sentry stood in front of the door at the forward end of the car. The flames’ reflections flickered in the lenses of his dark goggles. He cradled a light machine gun in the crook of his right arm.
Honeycutt pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, tapped one out, and tossed the pack onto the table in front of him. He struck a match, and his nostrils flared as the scent of sulfur reached them. The flame wavered, and he stared at it for a moment before his addiction demanded satisfaction and he lit the cigarette, tossing the dying match over his shoulder. The sentry left his post to grind the smoldering stick under his boot and cast Honeycutt a scornful glare.
As he walked back to his post, the man’s eyes lingered on Honeycutt’s right wrist and the thick pink scars crisscrossing the vein. Honeycutt told anyone who asked that the wounds, which were still painful and healing, were the result of overdrinking. This was half-true. After downing half a bottle of whiskey, in a fit of guilt, he’d taken his straight razor to himself on his daughter’s birthday.
He closed his eyes and inhaled the soothing smoke, listening to the clatter of the wheels against the iron rails. When he opened them again, he found himself staring into the stern countenance of Lord Herbert Kitchener. The British Secretary of State for War scowled up at him from the poster spread across the table.
Kitchener’s finger pointed directly at Honeycutt, and below him—in bold print—were the words “YOU ARE THE MAN I WANT!” Honeycutt scoffed and inhaled another lungful of smoke. He wasn’t sure why he’d snatched the recruiting poster off the wall before boarding the train. When the cigarette burned down, Honeycutt crushed it out on Kitchener’s right eye. In his periphery, he saw the sentry stiffen, but the man made no move to stop him. The crumpled butt stood there, smoldering as white wisps of smoke curled from the Field Marshall’s empty socket.
Honeycutt had had such high hopes on the day he met the Right Honourable Lord Kitchener five months earlier in London. It had been quite a surprise when he received the summons.
He was a scientist developing promising new energy sources from recovered Martian machinery. The invaders had left behind incredible technologies, particularly the power sources for their monstrous machines. During the reconstruction, the world militaries had seized the cores but had no idea what to do with them. That is, until Honeycutt and his colleagues at Manchester made a breakthrough.
The Martian power core emitted incredible amounts of energy! Enough to power Manchester for years. More than that… Honeycutt’s research could very well mean clean, abundant energy for the entire planet.
Which begged the question, what could the Secretary of the State of War possibly want to see him about? He soon found out when Kitchener interrupted his presentation.
“Professor Honeycutt, you’re saying that this… engine… of yours can use the invaders’ machinery to—what? Power Manchester’s industries?” Kitchener had said.
“Yes, and more!” Honeycutt said. “The quantity of energy involved is incalculable given the actual dimensions—”
“Can it be used as a weapon?”
The question had perplexed Honeycutt. “Well, yes, I suppose it could. But—”
Kitchener stood, his palms flat against the top of his desk. “And what manner of weapon, sir?” He walked around the desk toward the professor. “Anything like those damnable fire-bombs those bastard creatures used on us? That, my good man, is precisely what we must have.”
“S-sir?” Honeycutt stuttered. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I’m talking about scorched earth!” Kitchener bellowed, spit flying from his lips as he came toe to toe with Honeycutt. “Were you a fighting man, you might have some notion of what that is. When those things return—and mark me, sir, by God they will—I mean to leave them no succor in England! Do… you… understand?”
Honeycutt swallowed and tugged at his tie. His nose wrinkled at Kitchener’s hot, fetid breath. “Well, Lord Kitchener, the core is itself a bomb. But surely it’s capacity for construction far outweighs its destructive—”
The door to the office was thrown open, rattling the portraits and military regalia on the walls. A sentry stumbled into the room and leaned against the doorframe.
“My Lords!” he said, breathless. “Flash traffic from Manchester!”
Kitchener glared over Honeycutt’s shoulder. “What is it?”
“It’s gone, sir!” the sentry said.
Honeycutt whirled. “What?”
Kitchener shoved him aside. “What do you mean ‘gone,’ soldier?”
“It… It has exploded, sir,” the sentry said. “The entire city is gone. Destroyed!”
Honeycutt stared. “My God. The core! Susan!”
The destruction was unfathomable. The fires burned for days, and the wind spread the devastation far beyond the blast zone. The soil and water supplies were tainted for miles. Bizarre, previously unknown illnesses sprang up virtually overnight. The road to Manchester was littered with refugees and animal carcasses. Honeycutt’s already rattled nerves were only exacerbated by the sound of birds falling onto the roof of the train that carried him and Kitchener into what could only be described as hell on earth.
Honeycutt’s own personal hell was just beginning, however, because when he saw the destruction, he knew there was no chance that anything survived. Search teams could only enter the city in full-body lead suits lined with asbestos. After searching the ruins of his home, Honeycutt lifted the charred remains of his six-year-old daughter, Susan, out of the ashes. Her arms were frozen in the position of their last action before the blast… held in front of her eyes. Her jaw was locked in a twisted scream of agony.
For Honeycutt, his world had ended. Everything he loved had gone up in flames. For Kitchener, however, his suspicions had been confirmed. The Martian core was a devastating, unstoppable weapon! The only thing Kitchener mourned was the loss of valuable data, but that could always be reproduced.
Honeycutt had successfully lobbied to have the remaining energy research facilities shut down and their respective cores locked away in secure A.R.E.S. facilities. It hadn’t been hard to convince A.R.E.S. High Command of the dangers the cores posed to the planet, and public opinion was almost unanimous. Kitchener had been furious—raving mad!—and Roosevelt had ordered him restrained for the duration of the hearing. It seemed Earth had been spared the horror of another Manchester.
But then the green stars fell.
They returned, just as Kitchener said they would. They descended on England like a biblical plague. A.R.E.S. forces held the invaders back in London, and the city was safe for the time being. For a moment, it looked as though the A.R.E.S. initiative had been a resounding success.
Then Coventry fell.
The Martians’ air superiority overwhelmed the poor souls stationed there. Instead of destroying the city and moving on to the next, however, the invaders stayed and built a strange black tower over the ruins of St. Michael’s Cathedral. Red searchlights swept the sky for Ravens and Storm
Crows foolish enough to attempt bombing runs on the devilish stronghold.
Having exhausted every other resource at England’s disposal, Kitchener—with no small degree of satisfaction—issued an executive order. The London core was to be loaded onto a train, taken to Coventry, and detonated before the Martians could put their plans—whatever they might be—into effect. Kitchener had actually smiled. He wanted scorched earth, and by God he was going to get it.
The plan was simple. They would take the Adder into the center of the city where Honeycutt would disable the coolant system and overload the core, triggering a catastrophic meltdown. There was no chance of escape; this was a one-way trip, and everyone on board knew it. Meanwhile, Kitchener was snug inside his subterranean A.R.E.S. bunker in London.
Honeycutt’s fingers clawed at the poster until Kitchener’s smug face crumpled into his fist. The sentry took a step, and Honeycutt thought he was coming to smash his teeth in, but then the guard stopped and tilted his ear toward the window.
“Do you hear that?” he said.
Honeycutt shook his head. Then he heard it: a high-pitched hum growing louder. It didn’t sound like it was coming from the train. It was coming from outside.
A green flash illuminated the inside of the car, and one of the Storm Crow escorts exploded. Guns and heat rays mounted to the Adder’s hull fired on the unseen foes, sending a shudder through the train. Two more emerald flares, and the window beside Honeycutt imploded. Shards of glass sliced his arms, and a third beam seared his shoulder.
“Get down!” The sentry shouted.
He need not have bothered. Honeycutt was already scrambling out of his seat before the words passed the man’s lips. Blistering heat singed the professor’s arm, and he looked up into the one good eye of Lord Kitchener as flames consumed the poster’s edges. Gunfire rang out both inside and outside the car as the sentry added his ammunition to that of the Storm Crows.
A thunderous impact rocked the Adder, and the railcar lurched. The car rolled onto its side, throwing both men against the seats. The sound of screeching metal drowned out all else as the train slid against the rails. Honeycutt’s head struck something solid, and his vision flared for a moment before all went black.
*****
Blood dripped from Honeycutt’s nose. He wiped at it, but only smeared the sticky mess onto his fingers. He wiped them on his trousers and sat up. His head throbbed, and he fought the urge to vomit.
Through the shattered windows—which were above him—green beams slashed across the sky, cutting through the black smoke. A deafening howl pierced the night.
“We have to get out of here,” he croaked.
There was no answer.
“Hullo?” he called.
The only reply was the dreadful cry, which was now much closer.
Honeycutt climbed over the seat in front of him and immediately saw the sentry. His body was sprawled atop one of the bench seats, his neck bent at an impossible angle. The man’s goggles were askew, and one glassy eye stared into space.
Dead.
Honeycutt made his way to the front of the car, stopping along the way to collect the sentry’s weapon. The door was already growing hot from the blaze outside, but Honeycutt padded his hand with his shirtsleeve and turned the handle. He threw it open and was hit in the face with scorching wind and sparks.
The next car lay fifty feet ahead, thrown off the rails but still upright. The rear wheels had dug deep furrows into the earth beside the tracks. Honeycutt climbed down from the wreckage to the ground. A trio of Martian wings shot overhead, their engines screaming.
Honeycutt waited, but the craft did not turn. He wiped the sweat and blood from his mouth with the back of his arm and took a faltering step toward the next car. In the distance, the blasphemous Martian stronghold loomed, the steeples of St. Michael’s jutting from its black surface.
Crimson searchlights swept the battlefield and wreckage. For a moment, Honeycutt was caught in the glare of one of the crimson beams. An earth-shaking impact behind him stopped him short, and he turned. Two glowing eyes stared down at him through the smoke.
The tripod trumpeted its hellish call and charged its heat ray. Honeycutt raised his gun and fired, but he was unaccustomed to the weapon’s kick and the shots spread erratically. What few rounds did manage to find their mark bounced off the Martian’s armor. The heat ray flared, and Honeycutt dove out of the way.
Searing pain shot through his leg as he struck the ground. He looked back. Smoke rose from a blackened, bleeding wound on his calf. The tripod took another step forward, stirring up clouds of ash. The heat ray prepared to fire.
“Do it,” Honeycutt said. “Do it!”
Gunfire erupted behind him, and an instant later, a hail of bullets struck the tripod’s cowl. A Storm Crow roared overhead and banked, coming around for a second pass at the Martian. The fighting machine turned and tracked the plane’s movement, its heat ray shooting into the sky.
Honeycutt tried to stand, but the pain in his leg was excruciating. He crawled toward the train, casting fleeting glances over his shoulder at the distracted machine. When he reached the car, he gripped the handles on either side of the door and pulled himself up.
Honeycutt threw open the door and limped inside. Before him, crammed into a space hardly sufficient to accommodate it, was the spherical enclosure of the Martian core. Pipes and conduits snaked from its surface to various apparatus packed into every available corner. Honeycutt stared into the core’s unblinking red eye.
Kitchener’s “final solution.”
How he’d ever thought this monstrosity could bring peace and prosperity, Honeycutt couldn’t fathom. It was a machine of Mars, aptly named for the god of war. No good could ever come from that red ball of death. The black tower at the heart of Coventry was proof of that.
Hugging the wall for support, Honeycutt hobbled to the control panel and pored over its multi-hued lights and dials. It was an exact duplicate of the one at Manchester. He extended his hand, stopping just short of a large, round valve.
An explosion rocked the car, followed by another, and another. Heat rays! He took the valve in both hands and turned, the wheel squeaking with every rotation. Scalding water poured onto the floor and rushed past Honeycutt to cascade out the open door. He screamed as it burned his feet and the steam found his wound.
Without the water to carry away the waste heat, the dials on the console sprang to life, needles inching into the red zones. The pupil at the center of the core dilated, and alarm bells rang out.
Honeycutt maneuvered over to the center of the console, and looked down at a large lever. He lifted his gaze to the eye.
“This is what you might call a delicious irony,” he said. “Assuming there’s anyone left who even knows what the devil ‘irony’ is.”
The eye stared. Menacing. Accusing. Evil.
“Goodbye, Kitchener,” he said as he reached for the lever. “You swine.”
As his finger brushed the metal, he felt something coil around his ankle, and his feet were ripped out from under him. He splashed onto the floor, doused in the blistering deluge flowing from the containment unit.
The tentacle dragged him toward the exit. He clawed at the floor, but his fingers found no purchase on the smooth, wet metal. His free leg flailed, and he caught the door with his toe, slamming it shut on the mechanical appendage. The tendril continued to pull, crushing Honeycutt’s foot against the doorframe.
Honeycutt screamed, certain the Martian would tear his ankle off. The tentacle tightened its grip, but instead of a foot, the professor’s empty boot slipped through the door. Honeycutt crawled across the floor, renewed stabbing pains shooting up his wounded leg. He slumped against the console, pulled himself up to his knees, and grasped the lever that would send the core into irreversible overload.
“I’m coming, Susan,” Honeycutt said. “Daddy’s coming.”
He pulled the lever.
Chapter Eleven
O’Bri
en wiped the sweat from his brow on the back of his forearm and plucked a grease-spotted rag from his pocket. He surveyed the Goliath’s engine room and ran through his mental checklist as he rubbed the grime from his fingers. Satisfied that all was in order, he stowed his tools in the lockbox bolted to the floor and slammed the lid. The sound reverberated through the tripod like a tomb.
Was that where he was? Was Goliath his tomb? Was he already buried in it and waiting for death?
He hadn’t wanted any of this. He hadn’t joined A.R.E.S. to fight Martians; the sniffles took care of that, or so they’d all thought. The only reason he’d enlisted was because Sean wanted weapons, and since “Little Paddy” was good at turning a wrench, his hope was to get a job working on battle tripods. The problem was O’Brien got more than he’d bargained for and actually got assigned to serve aboard one of the fighting machines instead of just fixing them.
Of course Sean had been thrilled at the news. His eyes had glazed over as he fantasized about marching a tripod up to the gates of Buckingham Palace and leveling it with the heat ray. He saw the Martians as a godsend; his only complaint had been that they hadn’t finished the job when they invaded London.
O’Brien didn’t completely disagree. He hated the Brits as much as any God-fearing Irishman, but Sean was obsessed. O’Brien had only been nine years old and Sean twelve when the British Army gunned down their father in the food riots in 1900. Sean killed two Tommies with a discarded rifle and cracked another’s skull with a brick before a stock to the back of the head put him down.
He spent five years in prison, living off stale bread and water whenever the bloody Sasanachs remembered him. His hatred had stewed during his hard time, and all it took was a bottle of whiskey to make the pot boil over. Sean had met Liam O’Rourke on the inside, and the minute they tasted fresh air, they had wasted no time putting their gang together.
War of the Worlds Page 11
