by Eric Brown
The Martian Simulacra
NewCon Novellas
Set 1: (Cover art by Chris Moore)
The Iron Tactician – Alastair Reynolds
At the Speed of Light – Simon Morden
The Enclave – Anne Charnock
The Memoirist – Neil Williamson
Set 2: (Cover art by Vincent Sammy)
Sherlock Holmes: Case of the Bedevilled Poet – Simon Clark
Cottingley – Alison Littlewood
The Body in the Woods – Sarah Lotz
The Wind – Jay Caselberg
Set 3: (Cover art by Jim Burns)
The Martian Job – Jaine Fenn
Sherlock Holmes: The Martian Simulacra – Eric Brown
Phosphorous: A Winterstrike Story – Liz Williams
The Greatest Story Ever Told – Una McCormack
The Martian Simulacra
A Sherlock Holmes Mystery
Eric Brown
NewCon Press
England
First published in the UK by NewCon Press
41 Wheatsheaf Road, Alconbury Weston, Cambs, PE28 4LF
January 2018
NCP 139 (limited edition hardback)
NCP 140 (softback)
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The Martian Simulacra copyright © 2018 by Eric Brown
Cover Art copyright © 2017 by Jim Burns
All rights reserved, including the right to produce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
ISBN:
978-1-910935-63-7 (hardback)
978-1-910935-64-4 (softback)
Cover art by Jim Burns
Cover layout by Ian Whates
Minor Editorial meddling by Ian Whates
Book layout by Storm Constantine
One
A Visitor to 221B Baker Street
In 1907, one year after my friend’s involvement in what became known as the Tragic Affair of the Martian Ambassador, Sherlock Holmes was once again called upon to render assistance to our extraterrestrial overlords.
In the interim, Holmes had worked on just one case, an inquiry so trifling I elected not to add it to the already copious annals of his exploits: it was at the request of an old acquaintance that he solved the theft of a priceless diamond tiara, an investigation which taxed him for a mere two days. For the most part his time had been spent conducting a series of chemical experiments, studying his twelve volume set of the Encyclopaedia Martiannica, and scanning the crime pages of the London Gazette. Often, late into the evening over a glass of brandy, he would regale me with what he had learned of Martian life from the encyclopaedia, as well as offering his own solutions to the crimes and scandals of the day.
I, for my part, divided my time between my club and a select group of private patients in west London. I was well into my sixth decade, and slowing down; the old war injury was troubling me from time to time, and my concentration was not what it had been. Holmes upbraided me on this score: “What you should be doing, Watson, is not so much slowing down but speeding up.”
“What on earth do you mean, Holmes?”
He examined me over his toast; it was a brilliant summer’s morning, not yet eight o’clock, and through the windows of 221B Baker Street I looked out upon yet another cloudless day. To the north, the cowl of a Martian tripod towered, silent and brooding, over Regent’s Park.
“People of our age often make the mistake of thinking that they should reward themselves – grant themselves a gift for long-service, as it were – by ‘slowing down’.” He pointed a thin finger at me. “But this is lazy thinking. Only by keeping active, physically and mentally, can we hope to keep senility and decrepitude at bay.”
“That’s all very well for you to say,” I retorted, “the possessor of a relatively healthy body and a brilliant mind.”
“I appreciate your war injury, Watson, but what I suggest is that you take up a hobby, embark on something new and mentally invigorating.”
I blustered and feigned absorption in The Times. “You’re probably right,” I said.
The arrival of the Martians ten years earlier had prompted Holmes to teach himself the fundamentals of their complex language; he had mastered their tongue in a matter of three years, and not only was he now one of the few human beings fluent in demotic Martianese, but he was proficient in the classical form of their language as spoken by the aristocracy of the Red Planet.
As if this were not enough, Holmes had thrown himself into studying the basics of Martian sciences, or rather what crumbs of knowledge our overlords allowed to fall from the banqueting table of their vast scientific and philosophical feast.
“But dash it all, Holmes,” I burst out a little later, “it’s not as if I possess your mind, you know? What is it you advise me to do?”
He pondered the question. “Perhaps what you need, Watson, is to embark upon an affair?”
I goggled at my friend. “An affair?” I choked. “Be gad, an affair… At the age of fifty-five?”
Holmes raised an amused eyebrow. “Why not? Just last week Lady Allbrighton was enquiring as to your availability.”
“Lady Allbrighton?”
“She has a friend, a widower in her early fifties.”
“Are you playing matchmaker here, Holmes?”
He regarded the crime pages of the London Gazette. “Perish the thought.”
“Anyway,” I blustered, “I’m way past anything like that.”
I was saved further embarrassment by a commotion in the street. Glancing through the window, I saw an automobile swerve to avoid an obstruction in the road, blaring its horn as it did so. The saloon had fetched up on the pavement and a noisy crowd had gathered and was remonstrating – not at the driver of the car, I hasten to add, but at the cause of the vehicle's sudden veering from the highway.
“My word,” I gasped.
Planted in the very centre of the road, as solid and immovable as the trunk of an ancient oak, was the leading stanchion of a Martian tripod. The second and third legs – gun-metal grey girders pocked with rivets the size of saucers – were positioned respectively fifty yards away in the cobbled forecourt of the local brewery, and equidistant in the rose garden of Sir Humphrey Melville, M.P. – there would be questions raised in the House, no doubt.
Holmes, alerted by the commotion and the sudden eclipsing of the sunlight by the louring metal cowl high above, joined me at the window.
We stared up in time to see a hatch in the curved underbelly of the tripod swing open like a bomb-bay door: what emerged from within, however, was not a projectile but the squat, tentacled form – hideous in the extreme – of a Martian.
As we watched, the alien descended on an elevator plate, its progress observed by a growing crowd. For all that our overlords’ many vehicles and ironclads dominated the landscape of our towns and cities, the Martians themselves were rarely seen in the flesh; therefore the descent of this ugly specimen to street level caused something of a stir amongst the observers.
A police constable was soon on the scene, and this worthy met the Martian at ground level and escorted the creature through the rapidly parting crowd.
“I do believe,” I said, “that the Martian is heading in this direction.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands, “and that can mean only one thing: that the Martians once again require my assistance.”
The alien passed beneath our window and approached the front door. Two minutes later Mrs Hudson entered the room, somewhat flustered.
“Oh, Mr Holmes! I know I shouldn’t say this, what with these ’ere creatures running things as they are, and knowing how you hob-nob with them from time to time… but there’s another of the slimy things downstairs – well, on its way up,
right now. It gave its name, but for the life of me I couldn’t make sense of its burblings.”
“It will be none other than Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee, I shouldn’t wonder. Be so kind as to show him in, Mrs Hudson, and if you would prepare a pot of Earl Grey...”
She bustled out, and in due course the door opened and the Martian squeezed his bulk through the narrow door-frame and shuffled into the room.
Holmes advanced and shook one of the creature’s tentacles. He bowed, murmured a greeting in the Martian’s own gargling tongue, then continued in English, “Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee, I am delighted to welcome you again to 221B. You have of course met my good friend, Dr Watson.”
I essayed a nod in the alien’s direction, loath to match Holmes’ greeting and grip the slimy tentacle. I hoped the creature would not be offended at this perceived breech of etiquette. Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee was the deputy ambassador to Great Britain, and a Very Important Alien.
He was squat, with a compact, cockroach-coloured torso set upon half a dozen thick legs or tentacles. He had no head as such: his facial features – a quivering, v-shaped beak and two huge cloudy eyes – were embedded in the scaly hide of his torso.
Added to the creature’s unsightly appearance was his peculiar body odour: the sweet stench of putrid meat.
“Mrs Hudson is preparing the Earl Grey,” Holmes said, “to which I recall you are rather partial. Please, take a seat.”
The alien backed on to the chaise longue, the only piece of furniture in the room able to contain his broad bulk, and sat down. His beak rattled like a castanet and a burbling approximation of our language filled the air.
“It is my honour, good sirs, to make your esteemed acquaintance once again,” he said. “Many months have passed since our last meeting, in which I have reflected happily upon the fine services you rendered to our embassy.”
“All in the line of duty,” Holmes said, pulling up a dining chair and seating himself before the alien. I remained at the table, watching the pair.
Almost a year ago the Martian Ambassador to Great Britain had been brutally murdered: an internal investigation by the Martians themselves had proved fruitless, and as a last resort the services of my friend were called upon. The case had taxed his considerable powers of deduction, but within days he had brought the culprit to book and earned the undying gratitude of the Martian race.
Mrs Hudson entered, bearing a silver tray with a teapot and three china cups and saucers. She retreated, averting her gaze from our guest, and Holmes poured the tea.
“Now,” he said, sitting back with the saucer perched upon the prominence of his right knee, “how might I be of service?”
Before replying, the alien attended to his refreshment. Gripping the delicate china cup in one of his proboscis-like tentacles, the creature raised it to his beak and, rather than taking a small sip, tipped the entire contents of the cup into his maw. He made a gurgling sound, as if in appreciation, and Holmes refilled his cup.
“The matter is one of utmost delicacy,” said Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee. “We cannot allow the news to be disseminated abroad, for fear of causing fear and consternation.”
Holmes nodded. “And the nature of the crime?”
“The gravest, the very gravest, my friend. Murder.”
“I see...” Holmes said, leaning forward, “and the victim of the crime?”
“None other than the esteemed philosopher Delph-Smanx-Arapna,” said Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee.
I looked at Holmes. The name meant nothing to me, but then I took very little interest in the high and mighty amongst the ranks of our alien overlords. By the frown that creased my friend’s aquiline features, I gathered that the name was taxing his powers of recall, too.
“Delph-Smanx-Arapna was one of our finest thinkers,” the Martian went on, “belonging to the Zyrna-Ximon school of thought. He was also a Venerable; that is, a Master entering his one hundredth Martian year, which approximates to one hundred and ninety Earth years.”
“Venerable indeed,” Holmes assented. “And do you, or rather the Martian authorities, have any clue as to who might have wanted the Venerable dead?”
The alien poured the second cup of Earl Grey into his mouth, gurgled his appreciation, then said, “Delph-Smanx-Arapna’s views were seen, among certain sections of Martian society, as contentious. But as to why anyone might disagree with his ideas to the point of wishing his death...” He lifted three tentacles in an evident gesture of mystification.
“How was Delph-Smanx-Arapna murdered?” Holmes asked.
“In the most despicable manner imaginable,” came the reply. “His second forward tentacle was severed and then...” The v-shaped beak ceased its movement, and for a brief few seconds Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee closed his huge, glaucous grey eyes. The alien was clearly moved by his recall of the murder. “And then the severed limb was utilised to block the philosopher’s oesophagus. He died in terrible agony.”
Holmes murmured his condolences. “I have read somewhere – I cannot recall where – that such a killing…”
The alien interrupted, “Just so. The killing in the manner I have described is known amongst my kind as lykerchia… It means, in English, ‘to kill someone for the views they hold’... Such heinous murder is, thankfully, rare amongst our kind, which is why this particular crime is considered so revolting – and why not one word of it must filter out to the citizenry of my planet. The authorities have covered up his murder with the story that Delph-Smanx-Arapna passed away peacefully in his sleep.”
“And might I enquire where the murder took place?” Holmes asked.
“He was murdered in his home, in Keshera. That is, in the Verdant Summerlands situated in the foothills of Olympus Mons.”
“I see,” said my friend, leaning back in his chair and stroking his chin. “Now, I take it that you have reason to believe that the perpetrator of this dastardly crime has fled to Earth, hence your request for my assistance in the matter?”
“We are confident that the killers are still on Mars,” the alien replied. “It would be impossible for them to have left our planet, as flights to Earth are strictly monitored. Only accredited politicians, the military, and selected artists and musicians are accorded transit passes to your world.”
Holmes tapped his chin and stared into space for a while. Then he fixed the alien with a gaze and asked, “And so you wish me to conduct an investigation into the murder of Delph-Smanx-Arapna at a remove of some… sixty million miles?”
The Martian lofted two tentacles in a gesture known only to himself. “On the contrary, Mr Holmes. We are desirous of your presence in situ, so that you might better conduct your investigations. I am here to invite you, and your esteemed friend Dr Watson, to journey to Mars as our honoured guests.”
The alien’s words rendered me, for the time being, speechless; likewise Holmes, but not for long. “That is a most gracious honour indeed,” said he. “And one which I must discuss with Dr Watson. I trust that you do not require an immediate decision? There are various details that require our attention; arrangements to be made and appointments postponed...”
The alien waved a tentacle. “I fully understand,” he said, “but I must stress that time is of the essence. A liner leaves the Batteresea docking station at two tomorrow afternoon. Another ship does not leave, after that, for a month. We would require your decision by six this evening, my friend. Needless to say, upon the successful outcome of the case, my government would ensure that you would be generously remunerated.”
Holmes waved this aside. “Please, let us not sully the offer at this juncture with talk of monetary gain. I will require a few hours to discuss the matter with Dr Watson, and then, in the morning, if I agree to take on the case, I should like to further question yourself, and any of your colleagues you think might aid my investigations.”
Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee rose to his six tentacles and looked from me to Holmes. “I await your decision with anticipation,” he said. “For now, farewell.”
&nb
sp; The alien lumbered from the room and I turned to my friend. “Well, Holmes...” I said in great excitement. “We’re going, of course? We can’t really look such a gift horse in the mouth, can we?”
A look of abstraction passed across my friend’s ascetic features. “On the face of it, you’re right, Watson. How I have dreamed of one day setting foot upon the Red Planet! How I have mused about embroiling myself in their unique and mysterious culture! To think of it, Watson – to walk the red sands beneath the mustard skies of Mars… to look upon the Plane of Utopia from the slopes of Phlegra Montes!”
“I sense a but approaching, Holmes...”
“But, Watson, Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee’s request puzzles me somewhat. Very well, I rendered the Martians a great service a year ago in finding the killer of their ambassador, but then the killing occurred on our doorstep, as it were, and to solicit my services then was the logical option. But to request that I investigate the killing of a Martian philosopher on its own planet, when the Martians’ own detectives would be better suited to deal with the matter… It vexes me not a little, Watson.”
“But what ulterior motive might they have?” I asked. “If indeed you suspect an ulterior motive?”
My friend shook his head. “That is just the problem. For the life of me, I don’t know what I suspect, and this troubles me.”
He paced the room, his chin sunk upon his chest, and perhaps five minutes later looked up and said, “I’m going to the British Library, Watson. There are one or two details I wish to check. It concerns me that, for all the comprehensiveness of the Encyclopedia Martiannica, nowhere does it mention the philosopher Delph-Smanx-Arapna. Now there is probably a valid reason for this, and if so then my doubts might very well be for nought. Inform Mrs Hudson that I will be back for dinner at six, would you?”
And, with this, Holmes flung his overcoat about his lank frame and hurried from the room.
