by Sulivan, Tricia; Nevill, Adam; Tchaikovsky, Adrian; McDougall, Sophia; Tidhar, Lavie
Sally Fairbanks gave a disdainful shake of her head. “You are a clever man, Mr Tesla. We had not expected to encounter one of your ability. But being unique, your talents are easily disposed of…”
It was now that one of the most terrifying events of my entire life took place, an event which still, with poisonous regularity, invades my dreams and upsets my spirits: Sally Fairbanks mutated into a monster! One moment she was a young and quite frail woman of twenty and two years and the next she had metamorphosed into a screaming, spitting vampyre, equipped with savage claws and long and viciously pointed incisors. She leapt at Tesla in a howling fury and would have done for the man if I hadn’t drilled her through the forehead.
It was fortunate I had my dress uniform with me. Roosevelt was so grateful to Tesla for the expediency with which he had dealt with ‘the Martian problem’ that he insisted upon hosting a celebratory dinner at Delmonico’s and, as you are no doubt aware, Delmonico’s was – and remains – the most highfalutin’ restaurant in the whole of New York. So, even gussied up in my best bib and tucker, Delmonico’s was a test of my nerve: a poor man might despise the rich but that detestation doesn’t stop him being intimidated by the varmints.
Nine of us were seated around that table in one of the restaurant’s private dining rooms. Other than Tesla and myself, there was Teddy Roosevelt with his square jawed Edith in tow – who, apart from an “It is an honour to meet you, Major Arnaud,” uttered not one further word to me throughout the entire evening; a bushy bearded individual named Robert Underwood Johnson – apparently an editor of some magazine or other – and his wife Katherine who had eyes only for Tesla; the multi-millionaire John Jacob Astor and his highly-strung wife, Ava, who, I reckoned, was much given to conniption fits; and finally the lovely and imperious Countess Mircalla Karnstein.
Seems it was Katherine Johnson who had taken it into her head to invite the Countess, who was visiting New York from some place in the Balkans that I couldn’t pronounce without a surfeit of phlegm in my throat. My guess is that it was the combination of the Countess being both royal and a real head-turner that persuaded the Johnson dame to bring her along. Yankee nobility always has a soft spot for real royalty. Not that I was complaining: I was seated next to her at the table and, having a weakness for women with prominent bosoms and snow-white skin, I was pleased to see that the gown the Countess was wearing allowed her to flash a deal of both.
“This dinner,” Roosevelt announced when we were all seated, “is being given to celebrate the triumph of one man’s genius in vanquishing the most despicable enemy ever to confront humanity. But, as this is a private celebration, I must insist that every one of you pledges total secrecy with regard to what will be revealed this evening.” He glowered at Robert Underwood Johnston, “For news hounds like you, Robert, that means we’re off-the-record.”
Even as Johnson nodded his reluctant agreement, Ava Astor clapped her hands and announced that she had a great fondness for secrets and confidences, to which her husband grumped that it was unfortunate that she had not a similar fondness for maintaining them.
Hardened politico that he was, Roosevelt ignored the bickering and ploughed on. “Today, our friend and fellow patriot, Nikola Tesla, used his incomparable intellect to defeat an attack made against this planet by agents sent from Mars.”
There was stunned silence around the table and then Ava Astor began to laugh. Her laughter was contagious and soon all but three of the guests had joined in the merriment. Roosevelt was not impressed. “This is not a matter for levity. I say to you flat out that Nikola Tesla, with the courageous assistance of Major Arnaud, has today tracked down and executed a Martian, whose intent was to subjugate mankind.”
“Are you serious, Teddy?” asked John Astor as he poured himself another slug of champagne.
“Never more so, and as proof we have the body of our dead Martian lying in a lead-lined coffin in Tesla’s laboratory waiting to be dissected tomorrow.”
Astor turned to Tesla. “This is not a jape, Niko?”
“You should know me well enough by now, John, to appreciate that I am not built for jests and japes.”
“Then tell all, Teddy, tell all.”
And that was what Roosevelt did, after which there was a further bout of stunned silence, a silence broken by an excited Katherine Johnson. “But Niko, how did you come to the conclusion that the arrival of a meteor in Central Park was a portent of an invasion from Mars?”
“For the simple reason that I have been expecting one. We know from the work of Giovanni Schiaparelli that Mars is criss-crossed by canals, and did not Percival Lowell, just a few weeks ago, give a very persuasive speech in this very room, when he theorized that there is an advanced race of Martians inhabiting that planet. Lowell went on to say that because of the arid nature of their world these Martians find themselves doomed to extinction unless they find sanctuary on a neighbouring planet. His opinion was that the Earth with an abundance of water and orbiting in such close proximity to Mars is the ideal destination for these desperate Martians. Today’s events have proven Lowell correct in every aspect of his speculation.”
“But why would they come now?” enquired Astor.
“They will have recognised that mankind has now harnessed the wonder of alternating current which signals that we stand on the brink of full membership of the fraternity of intelligent life in the universe. They know that if they do not subjugate us soon we will become too powerful for them to defeat.”
Astor scoffed, “You have been reading those damned stories Lathrop is running in the New York Journal where Martians are defeated by use of a disintegrating ray developed by Edison.”
“I have little use for scientific romance, John, especially one where the plot turns on such a fanciful notion as Edison being able to contrive a device which functions properly.” There were chuckles around the table: the enmity between Tesla and Edison was legendary.
“But tell me, Mizter Tezla, if zhese Martians ov yours are so advanced how is it zhat you vere able to best zhem?” The question was posed by Countess Karnstein in seductively mangled English.
“By the power of observation,” answered Tesla a mite more churlishly than I had expected. I knew of his indifference to the weaker sex but his tone smacked not so much of indifference as antagonism. “I am able, through the diligent and detailed surveillance of all around me, to make conjectures which, to the lay man, might seem fanciful but which, upon examination, prove to be correct.”
“I can vouch for that,” mused Teddy Roosevelt. “On first meeting the Major this morning, Nikola was able to discern that he hailed from New Orleans and that he had recently returned from Cuba.”
“But Major Arnaud stated that I was in error regarding Cuba.”
It was an awkward moment and I decided that being in such elevated company there was little risk in my telling the truth. “In fact, Mr Tesla was quite correct, I have just returned from service – confidential service – undertaken on behalf of the US government in Cuba and I would be fascinated to know how he reached this conclusion.”
Tesla gave a gentle shake of his head. “I am loath to expound on the conclusions I draw from the use of my powers of observation: people become exercised when they find that their privacy can be breached in such a casual manner.”
I bridled a little at the man’s insinuation that I might be so sensitive of spirit and, having shipped half a bottle of choice claret, I gave voice to this vexation. “Tell all, Mr Tesla,” I persisted. “If I am such an open book then let us all read!”
“Very well. Your recent sojourn in Cuba was attested by your announcement of your being a member of the Military Intelligence Division coupled with the knowledge of our nation’s interest in Cuba, which, although unofficial, is widely known to the intelligentsia; by your complexion showing that you have recently seen service in a warmer latitude; by the macassar oil you employ to groom your hair being of a variety only manufactured on Cuba; by the inflection in you
r accent indicating that you were raised in a Spanish-speaking locale… these and other clues indicate that you are in New York after seeing service in Cuba.”
“Bravo Niko!” exclaimed Katherine Johnson and all those gathered around the table applauded.
I was less than impressed, and now the claret began talking. “This smacks to me of little more than organised guessing, Mr Tesla. I announce myself disappointed.”
Tesla’s face darkened: he was not a man who took lightly to having his talents criticised. “Then try this, Major. Your family made its fortune through the trading of slaves. Your father fought as a Colonel in the Civil War and lost everything to carpetbaggers when the Confederacy surrendered. You have never forgiven the Yankees for your impoverishment, but your penury has obliged you to take service in the US army, which has made much use of your linguistic abilities and intimate knowledge of the slave trade. You are also the US army’s expert on all things relating to the Martian meteors…”
“Meteors,” spluttered Roosevelt. “You mean there is more than one of the damned things?”
“Of course. It would be improbable if New York was the only destination of these visitations and Major Arnaud’s attendance would suggest that there have been several other landings.” He looked towards me. “Am I not right, Major?”
I might have been part liquored-up but I had enough of my wits about me to keep my lip buttoned. “I couldn’t say, Mr Tesla.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t, it is all of a piece and does not alter the fact that the Earth is now the subject of a concerted attack by malevolent Martians.”
I sank back in my chair refusing to be drawn further and Tesla descended into a sulk. It was Countess Karnstein who attempted to lighten the mood around the table.
“Zo, Mizter Tezla, might I ask zhat you turn zhe glare of your ferocious intellect in my direction. Vot do your powers ov observation tell you about me?”
Tesla studied the Countess for a few moments as though reluctant to converse with her. His silence became so protracted that it persuaded Katherine Johnson to prompt him.
“Niko…”
“Your accent and your physiognomy indicates that you hail from Wallachia…”
“Vhich perhaps iz zhe cause of your obvious antipathy towards me, Mr Tezla, after all my people are the traditional enemies of you Zerbians.”
“Not at all, my Lady, I carry no grudge for the several betrayals committed several centuries ago, my dislike is based on traits of a more recent vintage.”
I sat up a little straighter. The tone in Tesla’s voice made it sound like somebody had licked all the red off his candy. He took a sip of water and I was surprised to see that his hand shook as he did so.
“But to continue: you wear the Order of the Dragon which indicates you are a member of the House of Drăculeşti, one of the most ancient and powerful families in that part of the world. You are unmarried – the ring finger of your right hand is bare – which I would suggest, given your incomparable beauty, indicates a profound disdain for those of the male persuasion. You suffer from extreme photosensitivity – the pallor of your skin attests to that – and you are an extremely dangerous adversary. By the indentation your purse has made in the tablecloth I assume you have a Cloverleaf concealed therein.”
This last conjecture was verified when the Countess drew the revolver from the purse, cocked it and aimed it square at Tesla. “Mizter Tezla, I vould ask you to order Major Arnaud not to attempt anything heroic; I am a first-class shot unt am unencumbered by zhe usual feminine scruples regarding killing.”
Tesla nodded towards me and I had no option but to abandon my plans to disarm the woman.
“What in the devil’s name is happening?” blustered Roosevelt.
“The Countess Karnstein is a Martian,” said Tesla calmly, “in New York to meet with the most recent arrival from that dying planet. Am I to take it, Countess Karnstein, that you Martians prefer to occupy female hosts?”
Without the revolver wavering even for an instant from its target at the centre of Tesla’s chest, Countess Karnstein rose to her feet. Looking at her in the soft gaslight, I was aware for the first time of what a powerful-looking woman she was. Her beauty – and she was radiantly beautiful – had made it difficult for me to recognise the strength in her face but it was a strength attested by the square jaw, the flint-like sparkle in her eyes and the firm set of her perfect mouth. This was one woman – Martian – who would blow your head off and not give it a second’s thought.
“You are a clever man, Mizter Tezla,” she sneered, “but you have made vun fundamental mistake: ve Martians did not come to conquer Earth but merely to peaceably co-habit zhe planet. But vhat ve have discovered iz zhat zhe male of zhe species Homo sapiens is fatally flawed: men are invariably inclined to violence – even to war – in order to remedy slights, unt mit zhe weapons of war becoming increasingly powerful zhis penchant for violence can no longer be tolerated. Zoon zhey vill possess zhe power to annihilate all life on Earth, a matter of zum importance to us now zhat ve Martians find ourselves fettered to zhe fate of humankind. Zo, vot is needed is a radical alteration in zhe vay zhe vorld is governed, unt zhat zhe more civilised attitude of vomen is incorporated into political discourse. Men are too choleric unt too antagonistic to be relied upon to govern in a satisfactory manner, zherefore it is urgent in zhe extreme zhat vomen are afforded zheir full unt rightful place in zhe shaping of your species’ destiny… especially as zhe survival ov zhe Martian race is now inextricably entwined mit zhe survival of homo sapiens. Men have failed as leaders unt zhey must be replaced by vomen!”
“You Martians are Suffragettes?” gasped Robert Johnson.
“Yes, zhat is zo. It is ve Martians who first planted zhe zeeds of political impatience in vomen.”
Roosevelt slammed a fist on the table making the glasses rattle. “Damn my eyes. I always knew there was something unnatural about the demand for votes for women and now I have my proof that it is an alien philosophy.”
“Alien it might be, Mr Roozevelt, but it is a correct philosophy. If ve do nut act in all probability ve vill have sumvun as bullheaded as you as President of zhe United States. Impossible! Unt to prevent zuch a catastrophe I must ensure zhere is no further intervention by zhe meddlezome Nikola Tezla. Even as I am speaking, my agents are disposing of zhe body of Zally Fairbanks, vhich leaves only one other piece of housekeeping to attend to.” So saying, Countess Karnstein shot Nikola Tesla plumb centre, twice in the chest.
I stood the next morning in the smouldering remains of Tesla’s workshop. It had been fired during the night and everything inside – including the remains of Sally Fairbanks – had been incinerated, this presumably the work of Karnstein’s agents. Teddy Roosevelt was especially disheartened and, as he scrunched through the debris, he regaled me with his pessimistic forebodings.
“I fear the worst, Major, without Tesla I doubt whether we will be able to defeat Countess Karnstein and her Martian minions. Without Tesla I doubt we will be able to prevent the natural order of things being turned on its head and men supplanted by women in the governance of our world.”
It was a dreadful thought. “The Countess escaped?”
“Indeed, she had a carriage waiting outside Delmonico’s which took her straight to the docks where she boarded her steam yacht. The US Navy has been alerted but once she is in open ocean…” He trailed off into despairing silence.
“So there is no hope.”
“Remarkable,” came a comment from behind us. “It is remarkable, is it not, how quickly defeatism manifests itself.”
I spun on my heel and there, large as life, stood Tesla.
“Tesla, by all that’s Holy… how?”
“I suspected that Sally Fairbanks would be met by others of her foul kind and when I heard that Countess Karnstein had inveigled her way into the party I decided to take precautions, wearing under my waistcoat a patented bulletproof vest. I survived… but unfortunately my laboratory did not.”
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“Tesla, I am so sorry.”
“Then you can demonstrate your sympathy, Roosevelt, by buying me breakfast over which we three must discuss our next move in the struggle with Countess Karnstein. Make no mistake, gentlemen, the War of the Worlds is now engaged.”
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The Barricade
Nina Allan
He would be a quiet man, Christine knew. Gentle too, most likely. He wouldn’t rush to tell you what he thought. But thought would be something he valued. A man who can paint like that would be thinking to himself all the time.
The picture was quite small, about the size of a torn-off cover of the Radio Times, she supposed, no more. It was a landscape painting, not exactly uncommon in this part of Cornwall. It was different from the others though, all those nondescript pastel sketches of churches and fishing boats, even though there was a church in Jeff Turner’s painting, a squat, compact building with a square tower and Norman arches. There were also two rows of white cottages, stacked one above the other like bags of sugar on a supermarket shelf. Behind the cottages lay the moor, a green and russet sprawl of brushstrokes that looked wild and disorganised but that were actually, Christine guessed, as intentional and considered as the painstaking daubs of colour that made up the harbour wall.
The harbour wall cut the picture in two. It formed a barricade against the incoming sea, and Jeff Turner’s painting was called, in fact, ‘The Barricade.’
The difference between ‘The Barricade’ and so many of the other paintings she had seen here was that it really wasn’t as simple as it first appeared. If you looked at it a certain way the church and the tiny hamlet seemed not to be there at all. The buildings were just shapes and colours, a pattern of pale squarish blobs strung out across the murky moor-colours like a chain of fairy lights.
