The Chronological Man: The Martian Emperor

by Andrew Mayne

  “I didn’t know what to do. They tell us what to do if the gangs try to bust in and steal a shipment. They don’t tell us who to call when a star is falling on your heads. It comes down just over the top of the building. I’m staring up at it, my mouth open like a carp. I don’t know what to think. A beam of light shoots down to the ground, like a pillar. Then I see them. I didn’t know what they were then. I called them devils. Large red heads. Tall, real tall. But I guess that’s how they grow on Mars.

  “They walk over to the copper spindle. It’s chest high. Weighs several hundred pounds. I can see they’re fixing to take it. I manage to shut my mouth and go over to them. I’m so scared. But I know my job. My job is to not let them take anything.

  “I walk up to the closest one and shout at him. He just turns to me. You can’t tell by the head ‘cause it’s just round. His shoulders turn to me and he sticks out a hand and hits me in my chest. That’s how I got this.”

  The man opened up his vest and shirt to show April the red scar burned into his skin.

  “Oh my,” said April.

  “They say I did this to myself.” The man looked down at the scar. “Why?”

  April shook her head. The man didn’t seem like the type to fake something like that.

  “Next thing I know, I’m waking up and the morning supervisor is kicking me in the ribs, calling me a no-good, lazy drunk. They fired me that day. I offered to speak to the police, but they told me they were going to handle it. Didn’t even pay me the rest of my wages. Just like that. All I got is this scar to show for it. Vincent, he headed off. He’s not got a family to worry about.”

  “Did you get a good look at the craft?”

  “Burned into my eyeballs.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to her.

  It was a pencil sketch of a saucer-shaped craft with various embellishments. There was also a drawing of a spaceman.

  “May I keep this?” asked April.

  The man looked at his wife.

  “I’ll pay you an extra dollar for it,” said April. She pulled the bills from her jacket. It was her entire week’s pay.

  Garret nodded. “You’re very kind.” He took the money and handed it to his wife.

  April stood up. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  “Which paper will this appear in?” asked the wife.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m a bit of a freelancer.”

  The woman looked at the rolled-up bills in her hand. “What happens if you can’t sell the story?”

  April could tell the woman felt guilty for taking the money. “Oh, don’t worry. I always do.” She headed for the door and stopped. “Mr. Garret, have you sought work with Tesla’s company? They might have a use for a yardman with knowledge like yours.”

  “No. That’s who Edison’s people said I was working for. I didn’t want to look a crook.”

  “Well, if they already assume that, then why not?”

  Garret nodded.

  “And one more thing. I don’t know much about the man, but if Tesla himself asks to interview you, be sure to tell him the exact circumstances of your firing. He might be more sympathetic than you think. He’s got a peculiar interest. I’d also show him the scar.”

  April smiled down at the little boy and walked down the flight of stairs. The story and drawing had cost her a week’s wages, but she felt it was well spent and would go to a good cause. Of course, the really interesting detail to her wasn’t the drawing or the tale. It was the scar on Garret’s chest. It was the most damning evidence of all. She’d known it was common for men working on inside jobs to fake injuries so they didn’t look culpable. But the scar on his chest was not only an unusual injury, the most outstanding detail of all told April that it had to either be the work of an insane man or the truth.

  Why fake an injury from a burning hand. More importantly, why fake a burn mark from a hand with only three fingers?

  Close Encounter

  Smith walked out of the Western Union office with a telegram in hand. The sun was going down and cast long shadows. Roosevelt was watching three workmen wrestling a steel girder onto the fourth floor of a building across the street. A steam-powered crane stood nearby with an angry mechanic slamming his wrench into the mechanical workings without much success.

  “Good news?” asked Roosevelt.

  Smith shrugged. “I asked Miss Malone to check in by sending an update to this office.”

  “Charming lady, that Miss Malone.”

  “This is interesting. Very interesting. She found something quite peculiar.” Smith handed the telegram to Roosevelt.

  Roosevelt held it up to his spectacles. “Quite interesting.” He handed it back to Smith. “Say, you didn’t happen to .…”

  “Count the fingers on our wounded Phobosians? I think we would have noticed. Besides, you’re not really entertaining the idea that these are real Martians?”

  “I’m not one for goblin stories. But I’ve been told a few by men I hold in high regard. There has to be a point where you take the notion seriously,” said Roosevelt.

  “Do you?” asked Smith.

  Roosevelt spat a cigar tip on the ground. “Hogwash. I’m just curious to know what your threshold is. We don’t want to be two dunderheads who dismiss everything that flies in the face of our sense of reason.”

  “So far our most promising leads have been when we chased down evidence of a hoax. We looked for men burned by acid used to make an aircraft and we found them. Miss Malone went looking for our dynamo and found a missing copper spindle.”

  “But each time we also find a clue suggesting some kind of Martian interference. Either a word or a three-fingered burn,” said Roosevelt.

  “The burn is easily enough faked. It’s the kind of trick I’d use if I was inclined to cruel pranks. As far as Phobos is concerned, well, I don’t know what to make of that,” said Smith.

  They crossed the street and started walking uptown toward the yard Smith had rented out to work on his airship.

  “Quite a showman,” said Roosevelt after each spent half an hour in their own thoughts.

  “Yes. I was thinking the same thing. I keep getting the feeling there’s some part to all of this right in front of our noses.”

  Two men dressed in black were walking toward them with determined expressions. A metal barrel poked out below one of their coats.

  “Friends of yours?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Nobody whose acquaintance I’d like to meet.”

  “Say, there’s a pretzel stand right down this street. Why don’t you go ahead and grab two? The mustard is quite good.” Roosevelt nodded to Smith and tapped his jacket pocket where he had his revolver.

  “I don’t .…”

  Roosevelt grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him down the alley. “Just go, Schmitty.”

  Smith relented and hurried down the alley. If it had been any other man, he wouldn’t have let him stand in his stead, but he knew Roosevelt could more than handle his own. He glanced over his shoulder and saw him jog ahead to confront the men nose to nose.

  Smith didn’t want to waste his friend’s distraction, so he hurried down the narrow alley and ran up the next street. He found a dark alcove that gave him a clear view of both sides of the street and backed into it.

  A gunshot echoed across the block.

  “Damn.” Smith shook his head and ran back.

  He came to the narrow alley again and started walking back down. Defensively, he held his heavy umbrella in front of his body. A man in a black coat appeared in front of him from around the corner. Smith turned around and found two more men in black coats coming from the other side. It had been a trap.

  “Come along, Mr. Smith. The Health Service Department has requested an inspection.” The man in the front held up an official-looking green document.

  “That’s quite all right. I’m feeling fine,” said Smith.

  “It’s not your health we’re concerned about,” sa
id a man from behind him.

  “That’s my concern.” Smith lifted his umbrella above his head. He was nervous about the close quarters of the alley.

  The men knew Smith was trapped. They slowed down their pace as they closed in on him. When he raised the umbrella, they thought it was an odd reaction. The man known as Contral pocketed the document and pulled out a heavy blackjack and slapped it against his palm.

  “We can do this unofficially and quite pain-free. Or you can make us go through all the channels and we’ll make it much more difficult for you,” said Contral.

  Smith looked over his shoulder at the men getting closer. His nose got a whiff of formaldehyde and he made a quick decision.

  “I really hate bureaucracies,” said Smith as he opened his umbrella and twisted the handle.

  Sparks and smoke flooded the alley from the ends of the umbrella. Contral and his men shielded their eyes.

  “Don’t let him get past you!” screamed Contral.

  The three of them stretched out their arms to touch the walls on either side and closed in on where they’d last seen Smith. The thick smoke caused them all to cough.

  Something pushed against Contral’s chest. He slapped down hard with his blackjack and felt it hit a skull. “I’ve got him!” he hollered as he leaped to the ground and put a knee in the man’s chest. He slapped the metal blackjack into the body over and over. “Filthy vermin! Goddamn vermin!”

  “Contral!” shouted one of his men a few feet away in the smoke.

  “Help me subdue him!” Contral fought with the man as he tried to get up. He slammed the blackjack into the man’s ribs. “Destroying our city! Polluting our race!”

  “Contral! That’s George!” shouted the man standing in front of him.

  Contral pulled the blackjack back for another strike and froze. The smoke had cleared enough for him to see the bloody face of the man underneath his boot. He shoved the weapon back in his pocket and pulled the dazed man to his feet.

  He panicked for an instant as he saw the condition of his helper. “Good god, George! Look what that fiend Smith did to you.” Contral gave the other man a glare to tell him to keep his mouth shut.

  Contral stood back and tried to compose himself. George looked confused and still half unconscious. Besides the three of them, the alley was empty. He was certain Smith didn’t pass him.

  “Did he pass you?” he asked Anderson.

  Anderson was still shocked by the beating he’d watched Contral give his partner. “Um, er, no. There’s no way he could have got past us.”

  Contral glowered. “Then where the hell did he go?”

  A Peculiar Sight

  Smith glanced down at the three men from the top of the building and then took off in a run. He gripped his still-warm rocket umbrella under his arm and dived under clotheslines, leaped over rooftop gardens and passed by shacks built on top of the rows of tenement buildings.

  While part of his mind was still trying to make sense of the altercation in the alley, he marveled at the ecosystem that existed on top of the buildings of the city. He had little understanding of what was on top of all the buildings he’d passed by walking or in streetcars. Every inch of the city was being used for something, whether it was the sewers underneath or the tar paper roofs overhead.

  He leaped across a four-foot gap and came to a standstill when he almost tripped over a row of several hundred flower pots. An old woman in a threadbare gown holding a candle used a dented bean can to water them. Smith knelt down to have a look at a white flower.

  “Gardenias?” he asked as he caught his breath.

  The woman tilted the can into a pot and sprinkled a small amount of water. “Most people think it’s too cold to grow them here. Secret is watering them at night.” Her voice had a faint Scottish lilt.

  “And you don’t overwater them?”

  “That’s right. Too much water makes the soil too cold. They like a warm blanket just like you and me.” She gave him a smile.

  Smith watched as the woman went along the rows of flowers and watered each one. It was a distraction for him while he decided what to do next. Instincts told him that the shot he heard was Teddy warning the men off, and the route in the alley had gotten past him, too. Most likely, Roosevelt was on his way back to the train or waiting for Smith near a busier street like Broadway where the men in black coats wouldn’t try to snatch him.

  “Did you happen to see that business with the green airship?” asked Smith.

  The woman looked up from her watering. “I see lots of things up here.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Night the Lady Liberty got fire, I saw a balloon pass overhead. Not very big though. Kind of smallish.”

  “Yes, well I’m sure it gets the job done.” Smith coughed to the side.

  “I suppose. I was asleep when folks said they saw the other one. Not surprised though. I see lots of peculiar things up here.”

  The woman’s voice was old but certain. Her eyes bore into Smith.

  His curiosity was piqued. “What kind of things?”

  “Strange things. Saw a bird once as big as a small horse.” She pointed toward the corner of the roof. “I saw it perched right there one night. I shooed it away with my broom. I didn’t want it snatching one of the babes that play in the street.”

  “No. Of course not. Big as a horse?”

  “More or less. But that was years ago. It doesn’t come ‘round here no more,” she said.

  Smith decided to save his questions about that for another time. “Anything else?”

  The woman thought for a moment. “The usual, I guess.” She pointed to another roof. “There’s a young couple that likes to make hay over on that roof some nights.” She gave Smith a grin. “I suppose I would if I had a man who was inclined.”

  Smith ignored the wink. “What about the unusual? Anything else?”

  “You mean besides the two suns?” The woman tipped her can into another flower pot.

  “Two suns?” asked Smith. “What do you mean?”

  The woman tilted her head. “The two suns.” Her gnarled finger pointed past Smith’s shoulder.

  He turned to his left and saw the fading sun glowing orange back at him in the east. He jerked his head to the right and saw the sun sinking in the west. “Well, that is peculiar.”

  “It only lasts for another minute,” said the woman.

  Smith looked to the eastern sun and watched as it began to fade and then vanished. Night fell on the city.

  “You’re the only other person who’s seen it,” said the woman. “Try telling other people and they think I’m mad.”

  “You’re not mad. You’re brilliant and very observant.” Wheels began to turn in Smith’s head. A giant part of the puzzle started to resolve itself. He looked down at the flowers. “How many will five dollars get me?”

  “All of them and more,” smiled the woman.

  “I’ll just stick with the flowers,” said Smith.

  The woman wrapped a large bouquet for him. She showed him the quickest route to a busy street. He thanked her and then took off uptown across several more rooftops. He found a fire escape and descended back down to the street.

  Roosevelt was waiting for him at Chambers and Broadway.

  “Flowers for me? I don’t think I deserve them.”

  “I heard the shot. I thought it was the end of you,” said Smith.

  “One of those louts’ guns fired as I shoved him into the bricks. I realized too late there were more of them. I was going to search for you until I saw the others regroup. Looks like you went to work on one of them.”

  Smith shook his head. “They eat their own.”

  “Had run-ins with them before?”

  “Not these ones. But their kind. Usually they don’t work so out in the open.”

  Roosevelt pulled a wallet from his pocket. “I filched this out of one of their pockets.” He handed Smith an identification card and a badge. “Some kind of health commiss
ion.”

  Smith looked at the signatures and seals. “Legitimate?” This worried Smith.

  “Or as illegitimate as any other cocked-up two-bit commission in this city. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’re getting paid by some public agency. Not that that gives them any right to do as they please. But you can get away with murder under the pretext of public health, especially in a city so filled with immigrants and public health problems.”

  “And a Martian scare.”

  “There’s that. I think they have their eye on you. It’s time we took extra precautions. I’ll try to clear this up with the mayor and make sure they keep their hands off you.”

  Abduction

  Mayor Grant laid his cards on the table and took a sip from his brandy snifter. He and his partner had just lost a rubber in a game of whist and were done for the evening. His total loss for the night was six dollars, a small price to pay for the distraction from current events. He was sick of talking about Martians and had made it clear to anybody who tried to broach the subject. The rules of talking shop at the Peacock Club were quite clear, but all the men ever wanted to talk about was business and politics.

  The meeting at NYU had been a disaster, even without the interruption from the eccentric man with the phantasmagoria show. When he found out the man was the same one who’d crashed his private dirigible into the Statue of Liberty, he’d been livid. Of course he’d be an acquaintance of Roosevelt’s. Probably chomped on cigars with Mark Twain over at the Lotus Club, too, whenever that rogue was in town.

  The trouble with the city, Grant had decided, was all of the same reasons it was so interesting. He’d had a mathematician explain to him that not only would New York City be the most populous city in the United States by the end of the century, it would be the largest one ruled by the white man since the days of Rome. It was a sobering thought. There was a reason why the mayorship carried more gravitas than most governorships and why foreign dignitaries knew the two officials in the United States to speak to were the president first and the mayor of New York City a close second.