The Martian Simulacra

by Eric Brown

  Two

  Conversation in the Park

  I was in a state of febrile excitation and anticipation for the rest of the day. Unable to settle to The Times crossword, after lunch I took myself from the house and wandered the streets until finding myself at Hyde Park.

  A Martian tripod stood sentinel beside Marble Arch, something grave and monumental in its very silence and stillness. For the most part these great ironclads, stationed at strategic locations about London, remained in situ; it was the smaller tripods – such as we had seen in Baker Street that morning, bearing Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee – that were ambulatory. The stationary behemoths such as the one here were the very vehicles that had wrought such havoc around the world a decade ago, until common terrestrial viruses had proved the invader’s undoing. Little did we know back then, as we celebrated our unlikely salvation, that soon a second wave of Martian battleships would be on its way across the gulf of space, this armada bearing extraterrestrials inoculated against Earth’s microscopic defenders.

  Later this evening, as at every sunset since the second invasion, the sentinel tripods ranged around London would begin their signature call: “Ulla, ulla… Ulla, ulla...” The eerie double-note, plangent and melancholic, would eddy across the rooftops of the boroughs, as one tripod enigmatically called to another, just once, in an acoustic chain diminishing from west to east and, eventually, fading into the distance beyond Barnes.

  I passed the tripod and continued to Speakers’ Corner.

  A protest or demonstration of some sort was in progress here, and I slowed my walk to take in the swelling crowd and the platform of speakers.

  Five men and women stood upon the platform beneath a banner which declared: “Terra for the Terrans! Free Earth Now!” Amongst the crowd I espied home-made placards bearing such legends as: “Martians Go Home!” and “The Tyranny Must End!”

  A tall, full-bearded figure in his fifties, I judged, stepped up to a microphone and began his peroration, and as I moved closer to the platform I realised that the speaker was none other than the celebrated playwright George Bernard Shaw. Seated beside him as he awaited his turn at the microphone, harrumphing through his moustache like some huge, disgruntled walrus, I recognised G. K. Chesterton: I smiled my amusement that it had taken the arrival of the Martians to bring these two literary giants, normally at polemical loggerheads, to some form of rapprochement.

  “Domination of one race by another can never, ever, under any circumstances, be tolerated; look upon the sorry plight of those countries and peoples under the oppression of our very own Empire. Ask the citizens of India and Africa if they welcome our rule, depriving them as it does of the opportunity to grow as nations, to express their sovereign individuality. I say that the same is true now, on Earth, as humankind grovels under the tyrannical heel of our otherworldly oppressors!”

  Cheers greeted Shaw’s words, as he went on to enumerate his grievances in more specific terms. I estimated the crowd now numbered a couple of hundred, made up of citizens from all walks of society; barrow-boys and costermongers rubbed shoulders with bowler-hatted bankers and businessmen in pin-stripes. I made out dowagers and dustbin men, aristocrats and artisans; if nothing else, opposition to the Martian’s occupation had produced a democratising effect amongst the populace. Though it struck me that, perhaps, just as many people, and from just as broad a cross-section of society, saw the benefits that the Martians had brought to our world.

  I was casting my glance about the crowd when I caught the eye of a rather striking young woman standing at my side.

  She was attired in a jade green ankle-length dress, with a lace cloche perched on her head at a jaunty angle. Her hair was golden blonde, her face pale and breathtakingly beautiful, with a symmetry of feature set off by a wide, smiling mouth whose full lips suggested to me a happy and generous nature.

  She noticed my attention and smiled. “Mr Shaw performs his usual trick of revealing truths with uncommon insight, don’t you think?”

  I smiled to myself: the young woman possessed intelligence to complement her beauty.

  I ventured, “That all depends, I suppose, on whether you consider the Martian’s presence good or ill.”

  She looked at me. “Are you here to join the protest, Mr…?”

  I offered my hand. “Doctor,” I said. “Doctor John Watson, at your service. And you might be?”

  She blessed me with a delightful smile and took my hand. “Freya Hadfield-Bell.”

  “And you are here because you side with Shaw, Chesterton and the rest?” I enquired.

  She raised a finger. “But I asked you first, Dr Watson...”

  I laughed, “So you did! Very well… I am here through happenstance, as I was taking an afternoon constitutional. And as to whether I oppose the presence of the Martians… I must admit that I can see both benefits and disadvantages.” A thought occurred to me, and I indicated the café beside the Serpentine that served afternoon teas. “I wonder if you would care to join me in refreshment, Miss Hadfield-Bell?”

  “Do you know, I rather think I would, Doctor.”

  “Capital!” I said, and led the way to the café.

  We took our seats and I ordered tea and cakes, Darjeeling for my attractive companion and Earl Grey for myself.

  “Now,” she said as she raised the china cups to her lips, and took a tiny sip, “those benefits you mentioned, Dr Watson?”

  “It cannot be denied,” I began, “that the coming of the Martians has revolutionised our understanding of the sciences, and the benefits accruing from this are indisputable...”

  She pointed an elegant forefinger at me; she was, for a woman of tender years, rather forthright, and I found this somewhat refreshing. “But who gains from this ‘revolution’, Doctor? Do you realise that the profits made from the increase in manufacturing goes not into the coffers of our government, but straight back to our oppressors on Mars? Do you realise too that poverty in this country, in real terms, has increased for the majority since the Martian invasion? Oh, the Martians might condescend to give us advanced medicines and Electrical Automobiles and other meretricious gewgaws to keep the populace subdued, but without doubt the Martians are stripping our planet of resources for their own material gain.”

  I smiled to myself. “Now I understand your presence here, Miss Hadfield-Bell. You clearly oppose Martian rule.”

  “I shock you, Dr Watson?”

  “Not at all. I am rather impressed by your arguments, and the manner in which you express yourself. The term ‘a breath of fresh air’ comes to mind. From one so young and...” I faltered.

  She frowned. “I detect a patronising note in your assessment, Dr Watson. My age and gender, I rather think, do not enter into the equation.” She gestured to the crowd and the speakers. “Minds greater than mine can see the iniquity of the Martian regime. But it does not take intelligence or insight to realise that the arrival of the Martians is founded on a great and terrible lie...” At this she bit her lip, and it occurred to me that she had vouchsafed more than she thought safe to let slip.

  “I am intrigued,” said I. “Please, go on...”

  She took a breath in hesitation, regarding her half-finished Darjeeling. At last she said, “The Martians would have us believe that the first wave of invaders from the Red Planet were of a tyrannical political faction that had gained dominance on Mars through ruthless oppression of the populace, terrible wars, and merciless pogroms; the invasion of Earth, current Martian leaders maintain, was but the logical consequence of that bellicose regime: they had subdued their own world and, seeking others to oppress, and more valuable territory to occupy, had set their eyes on Earth. The story goes – or so our Martian overlords would like us to believe – that these initial aggressors were brought to their knees by the common terrestrial virus… and that the second wave of Martians comprised of the more peaceable, liberal schism left behind on Mars. They further assure us that the two are distinct, and that our current Martian oppressors bear no r
elation to the former tyrants.”

  I sat back, hiding a smile of amusement at her fervour. It made her even more beautiful, I thought. “And you think differently, Miss Hadfield-Bell?”

  She swept on, “They would have us believe that, with the invasion forces intent on the subjugation of Earth, defences back on Mars were neglected, and that the liberal forces then took advantage to wrest control of the scant armies left behind. They say that they despatched a liner to Earth, and that a scientific team alighted in Africa and manufactured an antidote to the virus that had put paid to the initial invasion.”

  “And according to you?”

  She smiled, but without an iota of humour. She fixed me with a steely gaze. “The fact is, Dr Watson, that the Martians, the initial wave and the second front, are one and the same. It was merely a political expedient, promulgated by the second set of invaders, to claim that the original were murderous tyrants. Oh, they worked it very cleverly; I would go so far as to say that they were politically brilliant – and we, sad dupes that we were, played into their hands and fell for their lies hook, line and sinker.”

  “You seem,” I said, “certain of your rather… lurid accusations.”

  She smiled at me frostily. “I am as certain as I can be,” she said.

  “And how is that?”

  She hesitated. “I would rather, at this juncture, keep my sources to myself.”

  “Very well...” I said, and sipped my tea. “But look here, if you were right, then surely we would have heard a rumour of it by now? The papers would be full of...”

  “The papers,” she almost spat, “are controlled by the Martians. The press barons are in cahoots with the ruling Martian elite. They print lurid accounts of life on Mars, shallow travelogues to amuse the masses, and trumpet the benefits the invasion has brought, and all the while the barons and the editors are mere patsies to our oppressors, raking in their millions with lies and untruths.”

  I sat forward. “You intrigue me. I hear what you say, but, without corroboration to back up your claims...”

  “Without corroboration, Dr Watson, you think my stories the mere flights of fancy of an impressionable young woman?”

  “Why, I think nothing of the kind!” I expostulated.

  “But your entire manner, if I might make so bold, has been rather superior throughout our meeting. You have the air of someone allowing a child to chatter loquaciously, while you sit content in the assumption of your own superiority. Oh, I’ve seen your type before. What we need, once we’ve got rid of the egregious Martians, is another revolution to sweep away old, conservative values and traditional ideas!”

  “I take it, Miss, that you are a suffragette?”

  She glared at me and, I rather think, blasphemed under her breath, “Good God!”

  She hurriedly gathered her bag and made to depart.

  I reached out so as to delay her precipitate departure. “I wonder if we might meet again...” I said.

  She snatched her hand away, said, “That, Dr Watson, remains to be seen,” and swept – rather regally, I thought – away.

  I sat in silence for a while, digesting her words and feeling both chastised and, oddly, invigorated by the meeting with such a feisty young woman.

  In due course I finished my tea and retraced my steps back to Baker Street.

  Three

  The Mystery Deepens

  I found my friend deep in a brown study when I returned; he was pacing back and forth, chin sunk upon his chest and his fists thrust into the pockets of his dressing gown. He hardly acknowledged my arrival, merely grunted at my greeting, and I knew better than to derail his train of thought.

  Over dinner he emerged from his reverie, and I felt emboldened enough to enquire: “Well, Holmes, did you learn anything at the British Library?”

  “The mystery deepens, Watson.”

  “How so?”

  “I asked to see certain obscure Martian texts upon my arrival at the library,” he said. “They were not the originals, of course, but rather translations. They pertained to somewhat abstruse areas of Martian philosophy – you see, I was certain that in these tomes I would find reference to the work, if not the life, of the philosopher Delph-Smanx-Arapna.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, slicing into my pork chop: “there was no reference to be found, hm?”

  “Your sagacity astounds me, Watson. You’re right. There was no mention of the fellow. Likewise his name seemed to have been excised from more recent periodicals and journals. Although there was reference aplenty to other Martian thinkers, there was not a smidgen to be found on Delph-Smanx-Arapna.”

  “Perhaps,” I surmised, “he just wasn’t of the first rank–”

  “Yet according to Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee,” Holmes said, “he was feted as one of the finest Martian minds of the current era.”

  “So what the deuce do you think is going on?”

  He pursed his thin lips thoughtfully. “That, my friend, we might very well find out when we set foot on the Red Planet.”

  “We’re going!” I proclaimed.

  “I contacted Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee as soon as I returned,” he said. “Our berths are booked aboard the liner Valorkian, leaving Battersea docking station at two o’clock tomorrow. One week later we will be on Mars.”

  “My word...” I laughed. “You were not deterred by finding no mention of what’s-his-name?”

  Holmes smiled. “On the contrary, Watson, my curiosity was fired. It makes the puzzle all the more intriguing, does it not? Now the mystery is not only who might have ended the life of the Martian philosopher, but why has all mention of the worthy been omitted from every pertinent translation on Earth?”

  “Of course, there might be a perfectly innocent explanation.”

  “You are right, there might be. I hope to learn more when I question Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee and his colleagues at the Martian embassy in the morning. I have been granted an appointment at ten, for one hour. I would be grateful, Watson, if you could pack a chest with a few of my belongings while I’m away in the morning, and then take a cab to Battersea, meeting me there at noon. Oh, and I think that it might be wise if I took along my Webley.”

  “You expect trouble?”

  “One must prepare for every eventuality,” said my friend.

  Mrs Hudson entered the room, cleared away the dishes, and asked if we wanted coffee; Holmes requested Turkish, and I joined him in a cup.

  A while later, as we sat on either side of the hearth, nursing out coffee cups, Holmes said, “And how went your day, Watson? I see that you took a stroll around Hyde Park, listened to the speakers demonstrating against the Martian presence and, if I am not mistaken, took tea with a rather fetching member of the opposite sex.”

  I lowered my cup and stared at my friend in vexed admiration. “Confound it, Holmes! How can you possibly know?”

  “Simplicity itself, my dear Watson. You returned with a copy of the Weekly Sketch, a periodical you purchase only when you take a turn around the Serpentine; that you paused to listen to the speakers at Hyde Park corner is a given, as I read the notice advertising the demonstration in yesterday’s Times, and I have observed your enjoyment of public debate.”

  “Very well,” I said, “but how can you possibly know that I met a rather charming young filly?”

  Holmes cracked a smile. “Watson, old man, I can read you like a book: the light in your eyes, your somewhat dreamy abstraction, that witless smile that crosses your face from time to time when you consider the meeting. I have seen it again and again, over the years.”

  “Witless…?” I muttered.

  “And if that were not enough, then the Earl Grey tea leaves adorning your waistcoat, adhering there from a spillage, I surmise, indicate that you paused for refreshment – and, as you rarely do so alone, it is evident that you were accompanied.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Holmes. As a matter of fact I did meet a rather remarkable young woman.”

  “I am amazed that y
ou should with such celerity take up my suggestion of this morning,” he said with a half-smile, “and endeavour to embark upon an affair.”

  I feared I coloured somewhat as I replied, “Oh, it was nothing like that, old boy.”

  “I rather think you protest too much, Watson. I think you’re smitten. “

  “No, not in the least. Perish the thought!” I blustered. “Admittedly she was a corker, I’ll give you that, but her ideas were somewhat farfetched, to say the least.”

  “Farfetched?”

  I outlined my conversation with Miss Freya Hadfield-Bell, and her opinion that our current Martian overlords were one and the same with the original murderous mob.

  “The notion is absurd,” I said. “I can’t begin to imagine how she got it into her pretty young head.”

  Holmes regarded the dregs of his coffee, then said, “I have heard the theory mooted in learned circles on more than one occasion, Watson. Mark my word, there might be a grain of truth in the idea.”

  I goggled at him. “You really think so, Holmes?”

  He set his cup aside. “Shaw and Chesterton are convinced that such is the case,” said he. “Just the other week G.K. bent my ear on the very subject at the Athenaeum. I remained ambivalent. Perhaps, my friend, we might learn more on this matter, and others, when we set foot on the sands of Mars one week from the morrow, hm?”

  “Indeed we might, Holmes,” said I, and a little later we retired to our rooms.

  His words set me to thinking, and that night I lay awake long into the early hours before sleep finally came.

  Four

  All Aboard for the Red Planet!

  The Martian docking station at Battersea is one of the wonders of the world.

  As one approaches from across the Thames, the station dominates the skyline of south London, a series of jet black gantries, towers and the bulbous, geometric domes – the latter a peculiarity of Martian architecture, I understand – which resemble nothing so much as gross carbuncles. Covering an area of three miles by two, the station consists of half a dozen docking rings, where interplanetary ships make their landfall, and as many mobile gantries, great girder frameworks on an extensive network of rails.