“As you can imagine, it came as something of a shock, and at first, like Holmes, I suspected trickery—a man in my position gets much attention from people intent on relieving me of some of my money. But he showed me wonders, this Londoner who had taken a leap of faith and been rewarded with the stars.
“His story was of a mind unfettered by the bounds of Earth, and a race of people who have watched us from afar for millennia but now feel it is their duty to save us from war and disaster—to save us from ourselves.”
I almost interjected at that point. I have seen enough of war to know that it is brutal and ugly—and that many of our fellow men revel in its beats and rhythms. You cannot save those that do not want to be saved. I held my peace—for the time being, even as Mains paused, and coughed into a handkerchief that was quickly stained red. To my trained eye it was obvious: something was eating away inside him, an advanced consumption that must be burning through him like wildfire. He was not long for this world.
“The Londoner asked for my help in his quest,” Mains continued after a pause to gather his strength. “And I gave it gladly, sending telegrams out to garner support in the ports where my cargoes were gathered and where my ships visited. In a matter of weeks, we had a cadre of like-minded individuals, meeting across the world, organizing in the background, making the way ready. And now our work shall bear fruit. Things are almost in place.”
“In place for what, may I ask?” Holmes asked. He had sat silently so far, his gaze never leaving Mains’ face.
“It is almost time for the revealing,” Mains said. He smiled, but that merely brought on a fresh coughing fit that left him even weaker than before. “An event has been planned that will change the world and end war forever—we will usher in a time when we will become students at the feet of new teachers.”
Holmes snorted. “You are not an idealist, man—you’re a naïve fool. And tell me—apart from the man we all saw in the church—have you seen these so-called teachers of yours?”
“Not yet—the time is not right, and when they come we will have …”
Holmes waved him away. “Yes, yes; a new, better tomorrow—that has been the promise of the strong to the weak since time began. The weak are still waiting. I have heard more than enough to know they will be waiting for a while to come. Tell me one more thing, Mr. Mains—did these new teachers of yours ask you anything else? Did they, for example, ask you to seek out anyone in particular?”
Mains grinned—without the accompanying cough this time. “Yes, indeed. I knew you would be the one to see that. They asked me to find extraordinary minds—and I have been doing so—have done so—and now we have one of the most extraordinary of all right where we want him. Welcome to the future, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes sprang to his feet. “It’s a trap, Watson.”
Mains smiled as a vibration started up around us, the library resonating as if we were inside some great bell. Books shuddered in position on the shelves, and the rugs seemed to dance lightly on the floorboards as the hum grew louder, more insistent. Holmes turned towards the door, effort clearly visible in his face as he strained and tried to push against some unseen force. The hum rose in pitch, and then rose again, a banshee screeching in my head, a banshee with a hammer that pounded behind my eyes until I could endure it no more.
I fell away into a mercifully silent darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
EF
I woke to a blinding light in my eyes and a distant hum that was all too reminiscent of the one I had fled my senses to leave behind. It was several seconds before my sight adjusted and I was able to take in my surroundings, and when I did so I half-thought I was still unconscious, still in the throes of a fevered dream.
I was securely tied, hands behind me, roped to a tall metal column—a support stanchion, and one of many that ran in a twin row along the length of the building away from me. I knew exactly where we were—three brick kilns dominated the far end of the old mill, and the sandstone of the main walls of the building was most distinctive. The composition of the interior, however, was another matter entirely. The space was full of shining metal and sparkling crystal, a bewildering array of objects—obviously mechanical—whose purpose I could not even begin to discern. High above, the whole mill was lit by two large shining globes of white light that seemed to hover without support a yard or so below the rafters of the ceiling.
The vibration was coming from the metal and glass contraptions—lights pulsed and static cracked, sending a short burst of blue sparks running up one wall before dissipating in the rafters.
Holmes was tied to the next stanchion in sequence to my right. He smiled thinly when he saw I was awake.
“Welcome to the future, Watson,” he said, and motioned with his head that I should look to my left. Someone stood there with his back to me, bent over a long table, obviously intent on some task. It took me a second to realize it was not even remotely human.
It was the size of a grown man, but looked more like a hideous shrimp. The body was segmented and chitinous like that of a crustacean, but this was no marine creature—it had membranous wings. The wings were currently tucked tightly against its back, giving it a hunched appearance, and judging by the size of the hunch, they would be adequate to lift its weight into powered flight—and more than large enough to look almost like a leather coat when pulled around the body.
There were no arms or hands to speak of; I counted four pairs of limbs. The pair the thing used as legs—I use the word loosely here—were more stout and thicker than the rest, each being tipped with three horny claws extended to balance its weight at the front while a segmented tail completed the tripod behind it. I knew now what had made the bird-like markings we had observed in the crypt, the church, and outside the railway carriage.
The other appendages looked more flexible and nimble, and as I watched, the thing leaned forward and delicately picked up a tool from the table. It turned slightly as it did so, and for the first time I got a good look at its face—or rather lack of one. Instead of features, there was only a mound of ridged flesh, pale and greasy, like a mushroom towards the end of its cycle. A multitude of thin snake-like appendages wafted around its head, and I took these to be the equivalent of sensory organs, although quite how they might function, I had no idea. There was also a scar down the whole left side of the ridged flesh, and when I smelled vinegar, I knew where Holmes’ alkali had struck it.
I also knew what the thing was doing—it was preparing for surgery. Mains lay supine on the table beneath it, naked as the day he was born, his head tilted to face us and completely shaved in readiness for what was to come. He was fully conscious. He saw me looking, and smiled.
“Now you will see the glory that is waiting,” he said. “I will show you the way to a future without fear.”
I have no idea what form of alien science accomplished what happened next—it is a procedure far beyond the skill of any medicine with which I am familiar. Within seconds, and with only a few deft strokes of a tool that seemed to cut and cauterize in the same movement, the back of Mains’ skull was laid open. The creature took up another tool and made a long slit down the length of the backbone. To my further amazement and wonder, the man was still fully conscious throughout, and showed no sign of pain or even discomfort.
“Goodbye, Holmes” he said, and smiled. “I shall see you on the other side.”
The crustacean—for that was how I thought of it—moved aside to fetch a tall cylindrical jar of glass and silver. Mains winked at me; the creature leaned forward and, using three limbs at once, tugged in a single sharp movement, swiftly lifting and turning to drop the detached brain and spinal column as a bloody mess into the jar, where it floated in a thick fluid, as if suspended there. Mains’ body jerked, just once, and then slumped—stone dead without the controlling influence of his senses.
3
There was more to come: the creature lifted the jar—which must have weighed several stone at least—and carrie
d it to a long metal wall. With a wave of a limb, a door slid silently open to reveal a shelf running almost the whole length of the mill, stacked tightly with more of the tall jars, each of which had a brain and spinal column floating inside like some mutant jellyfish.
Within seconds of Mains’ brain being added to the line, a misty haze of dancing light filled the space before us. It seemed to come from everywhere yet nowhere, accompanied by a distant hum. I knew what was coming—we’d seen this before, in the ruin of St. Columba’s. The light and color coalesced and thickened, hanging into a similar flattened oval to the one we’d seen in the church. The surface dulled to a flat gray, and a new image formed—a head, out of focus at first and then sharpening to clarity.
Mains’ smiling face looked straight at us. He had lost all hint of illness, and now looked like the healthy man we had met in London. He spoke, echoing his earlier words. “Welcome to the future.”
The face turned to look at Holmes. “Pure intellect, unburdened by the day-to-day need for sustenance, untainted by the filth and grime of modern living—no need for conflict or strife—an end to war. Imagine it, Holmes.”
“Oh, I can imagine it all too well,” Holmes said. “And so can these creatures you call your teachers. Tell me—how do they plan to convince those without the benefit of your new freedom that this is the future? A glass jar for every man, woman and child on the planet? That is hardly a strong case for change, is it?”
“They have a demonstration in mind,” Mains said. “A new power source myself and my research team have been working on alongside them—something that will make coal, gas, even electricity obsolete—free power, for all.”
Holmes spoke quietly. “And tell me—were you sick at all before you began working on this new power?”
I caught a movement at the corner of my eye; I looked over at Holmes and then quickly away again lest my glance was noticed—he was attempting to loosen his bonds, and had indeed almost got one hand free.
“Join me, Holmes—the Mi-Go can take us away, show us the stars; we can travel out and meet our destinies.”
“I fear you have been misled,” Holmes said. “They intend to use you for their own purposes—such is often the way of the strong when the weak capitulate. And this time, I shall prove it to you.”
Holmes shouted, his voice ringing through the room. “John Green? Are you here? It is Holmes, John. Help me understand.”
A new oval coalesced in the air beside the first, and John Green’s face looked out at us. “Mr. Holmes? Is that you? It’s proper dark in here—I can’t rightly see you. Have you come to take me home? This was nice for a while, but my poor Jean will be beside herself if I ain’t home soon.”
Holmes had his right hand free now, and was working quickly on the left.
“We can’t go. Not quite yet, John. Tell me—have you seen this demonstration that Mains is expecting? Can you show me the details?”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes, sir,” John said. “It’s some kind of bomb and …”
Mains screamed. “That is a lie. It is a power source—freedom from slavery.”
The alien creature had not remained idle during this exchange—it moved to one of the crystal-and-metal contraptions—a twenty-foot-long tube of silver, brass, and glass coils. I had no idea how it might work, but I immediately knew I was looking at a weapon. The crustacean made some movements above the metal and crystal tube with the clawed appendages that seemed to pass for hands. It spoke, alternately hissing and guttural, completely unintelligible to my ears. But the meaning was clear enough as a three-dimensional image formed in the air above the weapon—the well-known outline of the Thames at Westminster, the Houses of Parliament bathed in sunshine.
“Do you see?” Holmes said, turning to Mains. “They mean to destroy London—there’s your demonstration.”
Mains looked close to tears. “I would never …”
Holmes broke free of his bonds and strode to stand face to face with the oval images.
“Show me,” he said to Green.
Green’s face wavered and disappeared, to be replaced by a desert scene, one that quickly turned to a flash of light so bright I had to avert my eyes. When I looked back a cloud hung over the desert—a tall mushroom-stalked cloud rising high above a fireball that consumed everything in its path.
Holmes looked grim. “And this is what they plan for London?”
Green’s face reappeared. “I ain’t thought about it that way afore now, Mr. Holmes—you know me and connections—but I suppose it must be. Can I go home now?”
Green seemed more like a lost child than a man with a brain as magnificent as that described by Holmes, and I believed I knew why.
“His brain is stagnating, Holmes—these jars are only temporary—they will never sustain the mind for very long. A brain needs a body as much as a body needs a brain.”
“That is not true!” Mains shouted. “I am free—they promised.”
The creature passed a hand over the long tube again, causing it to glow and throb, a vibration that rose quickly louder, sending a new hum through the mill. Fine dust was dislodged from the rafters to fall around us, and the globes of light seemed to tremble and fade before flaring back into full life. The long tube glowed and thrummed, and the image of Westminster came into sharper focus.
Holmes leapt forward, in the same movement taking the syringe from his waistcoat pocket. The creature turned towards him. Holmes feinted left but went right, an old boxer’s move I knew from my youth. The thing was no pugilist—Holmes got through a feeble attempt at defense, plunged the syringe deep into the flesh—right around where an eye might be, if it had had one—and pushed the plunger.
The result was immediate—the creature fell in a heap to the ground, limbs thrashing wildly. Flesh sloughed and ran, hissing and bubbling in a noxious mess. The snake-like tentacles whipped and curled in frenzy before going still only seconds later. There was a last, moist, gurgle; then the top third of the thing fell apart in wet ooze. The tang of strong vinegar scorched my nasal passages.
Holmes kicked at the solid thorax remaining—there was no sign of movement.
He came over and untied me. “I told you he would not best me another time.”
I stepped free of my bonds and looked around. The glowing tube continued to throb, the vibration quickening and the hum steadily rising in intensity. “I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet, old boy.”
Mains grinned like a manic. “You see, Holmes—it is coming anyway. You cannot fight the future.”
I had seen quite enough. I walked over to the cabinet and put my hands on the jar containing Mains’ brain.
“Shut off the weapon,” I shouted. “Stop it now, or so help me I will dash your brains all over this floor alongside your friend here.”
“I cannot stop it,” Mains said, still smiling. “Even should I want to, I do not know how.”
Holmes had moved over to the weapon and was examining the long glass tube, but seemed at a loss as to how to proceed.
“If I could be of some help, Mr. Holmes,” Green said, “I think I know how to do it—they’ve had me controlling all kinds of things for them—they said my brain was the best they’d seen for the job. I can do it—but it’ll send this whole place to blazes if I do.”
“Then do it, man!” Holmes said.
The image of London came into yet sharper focus, and grew, so that it seemed we were flying, ever faster, straight for the old clock tower itself.
“Do it now!” Holmes shouted.
“I ain’t ever going home, am I, Mr. Holmes?” Green said, a great sadness showing on his features.
“I’m afraid not, old chap.”
“Tell Jean I love her,” Green said, the image fading. The glass cylinder began to screech like fingernails on a chalkboard. Flaring light pulsed so fast it hurt the eyes to look at it.
“She knows already,” Holmes said softly, as Green’s image dissolved and the vibration rose to deafening levels. “She�
��s waiting for you.”
The globes of light dropped like stones and smashed into glittering fragments of glass and crystal, leaving us in a dim gloom. Mains’ image still hung in the air, and I still held the glass jar in my hands.
“Time to go, Watson!” Holmes shouted.
More dust fell from above and bricks loosened and tumbled from the walls as the old building shook and trembled. The weapon glowed blue and then white; then piercing silver I could not look at. Holmes had already turned to go.
“Take me with you!” Mains screamed.
I put the glass jar back on the shelf alongside the others.
“You chose your own future,” I said. “I cannot do it for you. And I believe Mr. Green would like some company on the journey.”
I left the jar on the shelf and followed Holmes in making a run for the nearest exit. I looked over my shoulder one last time to see Mains’ image dissolve and fade, just as a piece of roof timber fell on the shelf, knocking the jars over and sending all that was left of Mains flopping on the mill floor.
We made it out just in time, although even so, the force of the blast when it came was enough to knock us flying into a fortuitous snowdrift.
I spat out muddy slush from my mouth and turned to see the mill collapse in on itself, the brick chimneys the last to go as they tumbled down in a roaring cloud of dust and buried Mains’ remains under a mound of brick and rubble.
Chapter Sixteen
EF
I only started to make sense of it much later that night, back in the inn at Hawick.
It had taken us an hour to walk to a spot where we started to find signs of life, and another hour to get a ride back to town. Then there was the matter of finding somewhere to send telegrams, before finally making our way back to our rooms in the Queen’s Head.
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 9
