The Martian Simulacra

by Eric Brown

  “There!” cried Holmes, pointing.

  A domed air-car came into view and settled on the sands a hundred yards before our gaol. At this distance I could not make out the pilot behind the tinted glass enclosure, and I waited with baited breath for the individual to show itself.

  “This is it,” Challenger said. “The blighters have come to proposition us – or threaten us. Whatever, I fear that soon we shall learn our fate.” He slammed a fist into his meaty palm. “But I for one refuse to go down without a fight!”

  “It might not come to fisticuffs,” Holmes said. “I advise caution until we learn what the Martians require from us.”

  “If they ever get round to it,” I said, for whoever had piloted the air-car thus far was showing no inclination to climb out and approach our prison.

  The air-car sat, a paralysed trilobite, under the ceaseless sun.

  An hour elapsed, then two.

  “This is intolerable!” Challenger raged. “Are they playing games with us, d’you think?”

  “I am at a loss to second guess their motives,” Holmes admitted.

  Three hours passed since the arrival of the air-car, and the sun, moving overhead and slanting its light now from the west, shone directly into the glass cabin of the vehicle.

  I gasped. “Upon my word, Holmes! Look, the vehicle is quite empty.”

  Holmes and Challenger peered through the bars. “You’re right, Watson. There isn’t a soul in the driver’s seat, nor in the rear.”

  “But why should our enemies have sent an empty, remote-controlled car?” Challenger mused.

  Holmes said, “Perhaps not our enemies, Professor. But our allies?”

  “You think someone sent it so that, were we able to escape this chamber…?”

  “It seems an odd way to go about achieving our salvation, Watson,” he admitted.

  Again I fell to struggling with the bars, but I might as well have attempted to uproot an oak tree: they were immovable – and no matter how hard I tried, I could not force myself between the rods of iron. I gave up and slaked my thirst with water.

  Ten minutes elapsed. I expected something – I know not what – to happen at any second. But all was still and silent out there, the only sound I heard the occasional imprecation from the professor, and my own thumping heartbeat.

  And then, of a sudden, the roar of an engine filled the air, and I rushed back to the opening, fully expecting to see the air-car powering up and taking off.

  Instead, a second air-car swooped down from the heavens, approached the opening and hovered before us.

  Its pilot leaned forwards, gesturing frantically behind the windscreen for us to move away from the opening.

  “By Jove, Holmes!” I cried.

  My heart surged with joy, for the pilot, our saviour, was none other than Freya Hadfield-Bell.

  Nine

  A Simulacrum Revealed

  We hurried to the far end of the chamber and turned to watch as Hadfield-Bell reversed the air-car away from the opening.

  “How in damnation does the gal hope to get us out of here?” Challenger asked.

  “By the only expedient open to her,” said Holmes. “Watch.”

  Hadfield-Bell eased the air-car forward slowly; its front fender came up against the bars. Through the domed windscreen I made out the young woman’s face, her features drawn in concentration as she increased power and the air-car pressed forward.

  As I watched, three bars bent, and then popped from their moorings with an explosion of shattered stone, and skittered ringing across the stone floor; the air-car surged forward, sending more bars rattling across the chamber, then reversed from the opening and settled in the desert. In a trice Hadfield-Bell leapt from the pilot's seat, climbed on to the dome of the air-car and from there jumped through the opening and into the chamber.

  She wore the green uniform of the Martian spaceship line, with the little pill-box hat perched on the side of her head, and I thought I had never seen a more beautiful sight in all my life.

  “But how did you find us?” I blurted, rushing forward and taking her hand in gratitude.

  “My comrades traced your progress from the Institute and north to this prison,” she said. “We then had to second-guess the motivation of your captors.”

  “That,” said Holmes, “is what has been taxing my thoughts for some time. It occurred to me that we might very well be the bait in a cunning trap.”

  “In which case,” I said in fear, “have the Martians succeeded?”

  “You are correct, Mr Holmes,” said Hadfield-Bell. “The Martians did indeed sequester you here in an attempt to lure me, or members of the opposition.”

  “But in that case...” I moaned.

  “Fear not, Mr Watson.” She smiled at me. “The Martians would not be satisfied with the capture of just a single rebel. They desire far more than that.”

  “I don’t quite follow...”

  “When we learned where they had taken you,” she said, “we decided to send in an air-car by remote control – to test the waters, as it were. If your Martian captors then pounced, we knew that this was a simple trap designed to capture one or two members of the opposition. If, however, they let it be, then we knew that a much more sophisticated operation was under way.”

  “And the latter proved to be the case,” Holmes said. “But what is that operation?”

  Hadfield-Bell paced back and forth, holding her chin. “For a long while the Martian authorities have attempted to locate the rebel’s base. They have followed my comrades, recruited spies, employed all manner of devious means to root out and destroy those Martians which oppose their draconian rule – but to no avail. We have always remained one step ahead of them. However… I suspect that we were observed, or overheard, by government spies in the restaurant in Glench-Arkana, and they devised a scheme to sequester you here… as bait.”

  Her lips formed a stern line as she looked from one to the other of us. “We had a comrade in the Institute,” she said, “who reported that you three had been scanned, and that you were unconscious for an hour or two afterwards. That was all the time they required to put their plan into action.”

  “Their plan?” I echoed.

  Hadfield-Bell pulled a device from the pocket of her jacket. It was a small, square object, about the size of a cigarette case, but jet black. Set into its upper fascia was a tiny screen, which she peered down at intently.

  What happened next not only surprised but shocked me. Professor Challenger, one moment at my side, at the next leaped forward with a deafening bellow and dashed the device from the woman’s grip. “No!”

  The device flew through the air and skittered across the stone floor, and Challenger, like a man possessed, dived after it. I watched in shock, hardly able to believe my eyes, as Hadfield-Bell in lightning reaction leapt towards the professor and, with a display of acrobatics I later learned was termed ju-jitsu, swivelled in the air and lashed out with her right leg. Her shod foot caught Challenger in the midriff and with a mighty gust of expelled air he barrelled backwards and hit the wall. She lost no time in diving for the device, snatching it up, and backing away from Challenger as he staggered forward and gathered himself to attack.

  “What’s possessed you, man!” I cried. “She rescued us, for pity’s sake! Can’t you see that she’s on our side?”

  As Challenger surged towards her, Hadfield-Bell drew a second device from her pocket and directed it at the professor. This was a handgun, and had the immediate effect of bringing Challenger up short.

  His consternation was short-lived, however. In the act of raising his arms into the air, he dived sideways towards me, gripped me about the neck and then so manhandled me as to put my body between himself and Hadfield-Bell. I was now, in effect, a shield.

  Moreover, he fastened his meaty fingers around my neck and called out, “One move and Watson is dead!”

  “Have you taken leave of your senses, man!” I choked. “Unhand me at once!”

/>   His fingers increased their grip on my throat.

  Holmes took one step towards me, rage and knowledge of his impotence twisting his features.

  “I never had you down as a traitor to the human race, Challenger,” said he. “You, of all men, I would have thought loyal to king and country. What possessed you, Professor? What twisted motive made you to throw your lot in with the Martians?”

  Hadfield-Bell stepped forward. She, of all of us, seemed in charge of the situation: her demeanour possessed an enviable sang froid as she smiled across at Challenger. “Would you care to answer Mr Holmes’ question, or shall I tell them?”

  “We shall prevail!” Challenger bellowed. “We invaded Earth for good reason, and we shall prove ultimately victorious! The perfidy of the opposition, in attempting to waylay our master-plan, is misguided and short-lived!”

  “You say ‘we’?” Holmes said. “How can you align yourself with our oppressors, Professor? Consider how the people of England might view you, a hero of the nation, a man decorated and feted for his unswerving devotion to the Empire… grovelling now at the feet of tyrants! What have they promised you, Challenger? Wealth, power – the means to explore the solar system at your leisure?”

  Challenger growled, his fingers tightening on my oesophagus.

  I fought for breath, but my lungs were bursting and my vision failing…

  Hadfield-Bell seemed preoccupied, attending to whatever was displayed upon the screen of the device. She smiled to herself, then looked up at me. She lifted the weapon in her right hand and aimed it in my direction.

  “Dr Watson,” she said calmly, “I apologise in advance...”

  And so saying, she lifted the handgun a fraction and fired.

  I expected to hear the deafening report of a bullet, but heard instead the sharp crackle of an electrical current. And instead of a bullet, there issued from the handgun a bright blue light which missed me by a fraction and hit Professor Challenger square on the forehead. He cried out, electrocuted, and in that instant I too felt the pain of the charge conducted through his hands, though diminished. Challenger released his grip on my throat and fell to the floor, choking. I staggered, reeling, across the chamber. Holmes caught me and lowered me into a sitting position against the wall, and together we watched as the next act of the drama was played out.

  Hadfield-Bell strode across the chamber and stood over the prostrate form of Professor Challenger, staring down at him with neither pity nor revulsion on her face. Business-like, she replaced the screen-device in the pocket of her jacket, slipped the handgun under her belt, and drew a knife.

  She knelt before the professor and, as I watched in horror, thrust the blade into the professor’s throat. With a savage downward motion, she opened the man’s torso from pharynx to abdomen.

  I expected blood, of course, and was wholly unprepared for what did emerge from the gaping wound – which was precisely nothing.

  Holmes left my side and joined Hadfield-Bell, kneeling to closer examine her handiwork.

  I struggled to my feet and, still reeling from the after-effects of the electrocution, joined them.

  Hadfield-Bell had taken a firm grip on the flesh to either side of the gaping wound and, as I watched, ripped open the chest cavity.

  I stared, disbelieving, as I attempted to work out quite what I was looking at.

  Not blood and bone, or glistening musculature or adipose tissue, no – but masses of wires and circuitry and silver anodes.

  “What the…?” I began.

  Hadfield-Bell smiled up at me. “Not Professor Challenger,” she said, “but a devious simulacrum.”

  Holmes said, under his breath, “I begin to see...”

  Hadfield-Bell climbed to her feet, dusting her palms together and staring down at what I still thought of as Professor Challenger. “The Martians, in ‘scanning’ you three at the Institute, were creating what they call ‘cognitive copies’ – in other words, copies of your minds, your personalities, which they then downloaded into mechanical simulacra.”

  “You mean,” I gasped, “they made copies of me and Holmes, too? But…?”

  She smiled. “Don’t worry – in case you’re wondering, you are the originals.”

  “My word, that’s good to know, Holmes, isn’t it?”

  He smiled to himself, then addressed Hadfield-Bell, “And they switched the real Professor for this copy in order to carry out their scheme to entrap you and your comrades?”

  “Precisely,” she replied. She nodded at the simulacrum. “I suspect that somewhere amid all that machinery is a beacon, relaying to the Martians its precise whereabouts.”

  “But what now?” I asked.

  She gave a winning grin. “Our spy at the Institute informed us that Professor Challenger was taken, still unconscious, from the building and imprisoned in the city gaol. When we worked out just what trick the Martians were playing, we devised a counter-plan of our own – which was another reason we sent in the first air-car. Now, if you would be so good as to help me drag the simulacrum to that vehicle.”

  We bent and took hold of the unholy creature, and I must admit that the sensation of gripping its clammy ersatz flesh – some kind of life-like rubber compound – was altogether sickening.

  Holmes and I took a foot each and, with Hadfield-Bell gripping its arms, we hauled the body towards the arched opening and with little ceremony pushed it through and on to the sand a yard beneath. We then jumped down and dragged the thing across to the first air-car. Hadfield-Bell opened the pilot’s door and we heaved the bulk of the fake Challenger into the front seat.

  Panting at the exertion, she mopped sweat from her brow and stared about the cloudless sky. “And now,” she said, “to send our enemy on a wild goose chase, as it were...”

  She ducked into the cockpit of the air-car, ran an expert hand across the control console, then stepped back smartly and slammed the door shut. We retreated as the engine powered up and the vehicle rose into the air, banked and accelerated in a westerly direction. Soon it was but a dwindling dot in the alien sky.

  “That should keep them busy for a day or two, until the fuel runs out and it crash-lands – and oh, wouldn’t I like to see the expressions on their faces when they find the wreckage of the air-car and realise that their devious scheme has come to nothing!”

  I stared at her. “You can detect expressions on their hideous faces?” I laughed.

  “I was speaking metaphorically, Doctor.” She gestured across to the second air-car. “After you, gentlemen.”

  We had scarcely settled ourselves in the back seat of the vehicle, and Hadfield-Bell taken the controls and lifted us into the air, when Holmes leaned forward and said, “So the Martians have made copies – simulacra – of Watson and myself...” He mused a while, then went on, “But what I would like to know, Miss Hadfield-Bell, is why?”

  She looked over her shoulder, tossing her blonde tresses, and graced us with a beautiful smile. “I will explain that, Mr Holmes, and much more besides, when we come to journey’s end. You have had a trying few hours, and must be exhausted. I advise you to try and sleep for the remainder of the flight.”

  I thought that a capital idea, and sank back into the padded seat as Hadfield-Bell flew us at speed towards the northern fastness of the Martian rebels.

  Ten

  Miss Hadfield-Bell Explains

  I woke with a start some time later, and heard Hadfield-Bell call from the pilot’s seat, “My apologies. We hit a little turbulence back there.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Holmes replied. “I was awake already, though I think the good doctor’s slumber was disturbed.”

  “I feel well rested,” I said, stretching in my seat. “I say, how long have we been aloft?”

  “A little over six hours,” Hadfield-Bell replied. “We should arrive at Zenda-Zenchan in less than an hour.”

  Holmes repeated the name. “The capital city of the rebels?”

  “That’s right – one of the f
ew remaining, thanks to the relentless bombing carried out by the Arkana.”

  I peered through the side window to my left; far below, the red sands stretched to the curved horizon, the only interruption being a low range of mountains to the west and, straight ahead, a lake similar to the body of water I had witnessed from the Valorkian on our arrival on Mars. However, as we approached the ‘lake’ and overflew it, I saw that my vision had been tricked. The shimmering silver expanse was not a lake at all, but a vast flat plain of glass like the roof of a gigantic hothouse. Here and there across its scintillating surface I made out dark jagged gashes or rents, where the glass had been smashed.

  “What the blazes is that?” I asked, pointing.

  Hadfield-Bell peered down. “That is the abandoned city of Kalthera-Jarron,” she said. “It was once the second largest city of the Korchana people, until the Arkana bombed it to oblivion. You see the damage where the atom-missiles struck. The chaos caused far below, in the city itself, and the loss of life occasioned twenty years ago, was truly horrific.”

  “But why were the Arkana and the Korchana at war?” Holmes asked.

  Hadfield-Bell smiled, sadly. “For the same reason that wars occur on Earth,” she said. “The two peoples are ideologically opposed. This was not a war over territory, though that did come into it, so much as two implacably opposing views on how to manage the future of the Martian people.”

  “Intriguing,” Holmes murmured. “And what were these mutually exclusive ideologies?”

  “For you to fully understand that,” she said, “first I must explain something about the cosmological situation of the Red Planet. You see, for as long as the Martian race has been technologically ‘civilised’, that is, for the past five hundred years, scientists have been aware that Mars is moving slowly but inexorably away from the sun; this has the double effect of making the surface of the planet ever cooler, and reducing the oxygen content of the atmosphere. For a few hundred years, the ability of Martian scientists to do anything to effect a change in the situation was scant; however, with the advance of their science, methods have been devised whereby the future of the planet and its people was made secure. Engineers from the northern university at Zenda-Zenchan came up with a means of making many of their cities hermetic by covering them with glass roofs – such as you saw back there. Also, scientists devised machines which could extract oxygen from the very rock itself, and in so doing employ the planet as ‘lungs’, as it were. This was a cripplingly expensive scheme, but one which would ensure the survival of the race. The northern cities underwent a transformation; it helped that many of them were already ensconced in great rift valleys or fissures. The cities of the equator were built upon flat plains, however, and moving them and their populations to vast, pre-built underground domiciles proved more problematic, as well as costly. So the politicians of the equator came up with an alternative solution.”