Scarlet Traces: An Anthology Based on H. G. Wells' War of the Worlds

by Edited by Ian Edginton

  Spry was a man who deliberately cultivated a level of unease and even disgust in those around him. It was, Spry had told Wells during one of his many rambling, overbearing lectures, the best way to keep others off guard. Too much effort was expended attempting to be liked, Spry had insisted, rather than making oneself necessary. Make yourself irreplaceable, went his mantra, and you could write your own ticket. That was how a boorish amoral lump like Spry had engineered his ascent through the ranks of the British political class, largely undetected and unseen by the world at large.

  Wells, on the other hand, had fallen into Spry’s employ almost entirely by accident, having joined the world of government bureaucracy after the invasion hoping to fill the void left by his absent muse with some sense of public duty, even if it were in service of a system he found morally bankrupt. With no income from writing, no other trade to his name and few other skills to nurture, the rapid post-war expansion of the state had been a blessing, albeit a sour one. Life as a Home Office clerk was, if nothing else, preferable to life in the workhouse.

  Upon learning of Wells’ dashed dreams of being a feted novelist, Spry had sought him out from among the many anxious young men filling the maze of Whitehall offices, ostensibly because he wanted “someone with imagination” but mostly, Wells suspected, because Spry wanted someone who could take his many secrets in their stride.

  And Spry had so many secrets. He occupied the strata of power once filled by the likes of Thomas Cromwell and Francis Walshingham. A spymaster, a kingmaker, the power behind the throne, the man who could make problems disappear and miracles happen, the means of which his benefactors wisely chose to remain ignorant of. A gutter whore blackmailing a minor royal? What could mask her disappearance more effectively than a spree of sensational murders, one directed death hidden among random others. Let the public fall on tales of the Ripper like jackals, while the wheels of true English society hummed onwards, unimpeded. Spry had engineered all of this and so much more. He knew not only where the bodies were buried, but who put them there and why.

  So it came to pass that Spry was also the first choice of a panicked and chaotic government when someone was needed to formulate a response to the Martian aggression, and to glean what insights could be taken from the alien wreckage strewn across the southern counties. Among them, His Majesty’s most remarkable prize, a secret among secrets: a living Martian specimen, trapped and helpless, and needing food...

  “How are you faring, Herbert?” Spry asked, his voice as suffocating and slippery as an oil slick, shaking Wells from his grim reverie. He always called Wells by his first name, an informal affectation that applied only in one direction, purposefully designed to reinforce their state of hierarchical complicity. “Sir?” Wells replied, uncertain as to what response was required.

  “The business in the laboratory,” Spry replied impatiently, not breaking his stride. “The detective and the soldier, and that ranting vagrant. All very unpleasant. And unfortunate. Yes, very unfortunate. We were lucky to escape with our lives, weren’t we?” Most conversations with Spry went like this, a staccato onslaught of sentence fragments, only some of which required a reply, and even those were quickly washed away by the next outpouring. Talking to Davenport Spry was much like walking with him—you struggled to keep up.

  “Oh, I’m... I’m fine, sir,” Wells replied. “Thank you for asking.” That last part came unbidden, an instinctive act of genuflection that made Wells cringe as soon as it escaped his lips. “I didn’t really witness much of the ugliness. I was back above ground before the fire got really bad.”

  “Quite a mess,” Spry continued, giving no indication that he had heard or even cared about Wells’ answer. “Yes, a mess indeed. Took some effort to keep that one out of the newspapers, though it seems that scurrilous Alarmist rag got wind of something again.” Had Spry bothered to look around, rather than stomping ahead, he would have seen Wells halt and grow pale at the mention of his covert publication. The dread moment passed, however, as Spry’s monologue bulldozed onwards. “No matter. Only drunks and lunatics read that thing anyway. The specimen certainly didn’t go quietly, did it? No, it did not. My condolences, by the way. I know you were close to the thing.”

  Wells knew better than to offer a correction, but ‘close’ was not the word he would have chosen to describe his relationship with the bloated monstrosity that Spry had kept floating in a glass prison and fed on human blood. Fascinated, perhaps, but then who wouldn’t be, when confronted with an intelligence from millions of miles hence, even one that was brain damaged and shell-shocked? Wells had studied the creature up close whenever his courage allowed, staring into its gleaming eyes, unable to shake the unnerving accurate visions of invasion that had so troubled his dreams before the war. Maybe Wells was just unusually sensitive to the effect these creatures had. That was a thought that had occurred to him more than once, as he rested his hand on the cold glass and felt a voice, alien and incomprehensible, quietly scratching at the edges of his consciousness like a November branch against a window pane.

  “It was certainly a great loss, sir,” Wells said, doubling his pace to keep pace with Spry as they approached the door to his office. Spry laughed, a wet and phlegmatic sound that contained no trace of joy.

  “Loss?” he boomed. “Herbert, your inability to spot opportunity troubles and amuses me, as always. Truth be told, we had learned all we could from our specimen. Keeping it alive was, frankly, more trouble than it was worth. Major Autumn and his vagabond companions may have done us a rather great favour in ushering its demise.”

  They had arrived in Spry’s office now, with the man himself dropping his bulk into a leather chair behind a large polished desk. The image caused Wells to recall his dream from earlier, and a chill of illogical panic coursed quickly through his veins. He pushed it aside. “How so, sir?” Wells did not really want to know the answer, but experience had taught him that the pause Spry had left hanging required an inquisitive retort in order to continue. No amount of experience could have prepared him for the reply he received, however.

  “Sir John Cabal has been a fine Prime Minister,” Spry mused. “And he is a fine gentleman and a good friend.” Spry’s lips curled into something resembling a smile at this. “But a firm hand and a steady heart is needed as our rockets head for Mars. Oratory alone will not see us through the years ahead.” Wells nodded, still unsure as to what point was being made, nor how he was expected to respond. Spry tapped his fingertips together, once, twice, three times, until Wells felt the ominous pause would drive him insane.

  “I intend to enter Parliament,” Spry announced calmly, with no emotion in his voice. He simply stated it, as surely as one states the coming of nightfall or daybreak. Despite long years of practice, Wells was unable to mask the disbelief and doubt in his response.

  “To... to what end, sir?”

  Spry heaved a sigh from deep within his prodigious belly, as if weary of trying to gain the attention of an ill-behaved puppy. “Power, Herbert. Power and control. That is always the means and the end. Always.”

  Wells realised with mounting concern that Spry’s announcement was not couched in terms of probability. He was going to enter Parliament, with the implication that such things as selection, campaigning and general democratic process were trifles to be stepped over as one would step over a cracked pavement. Wells was uncomfortably aware that he had not yet responded to Spry’s announcement. His boss leaned forward in his chair, the casters creaking, as the sonorous ticking of his mantle clock counted the seconds that Wells was failing to fill with appropriate support.

  Spray waved a hand dismissively, signalling that a response was no longer required. “It is a lot to take in, Herbert. I have sprung this upon you unfairly and you are a contemplative fellow who prefers time to digest important matters. It is one of the things I like about you. Suffice to say, it is time I stepped out of the shadows and showed England a vision of what it can truly become. And you, dear loyal Herbert, a
re going to help me.”

  Spry smiled, a slow splitting of the lips more predatory than friendly. Wells’ guts performed somersaults at the sight. He had never been happier to have skipped breakfast.

  “HE’S A DAMNED bloody arse!” If there was a method for calming George Bernard Shaw once indignation and alcohol had stirred him up, his friends had to yet to find it. Instead, they simply laughed along and drained their own glasses in the snug of The Bull and Bush public house. Agreeably rough around the edges and a favourite of the music hall crowd, it was one of the few places where disapproval of the state could still be voiced aloud. It was also, not coincidentally, where many copies of The Alarmist were sold and where Wells would meet to eat heartily and drink with like-minded contemporaries. Shaw and Stoker, ebullient and quick witted. Chesterton, quiet and troubled. Wilde had been one of their number—the “Squandered Scribes” as he had bitterly described their circle—until prosecution, then exile, then early death had snatched him away.

  “Who... who are you ranting about now?” stammered Stoker, his rasping Irish brogue all but indecipherable unless you were accustomed to it.

  “Bloody Doyle, that turncoat swine!” barked Shaw in response, his sonorous voice easier on the ear but no less venomous. “We’re turning death rays on the Boers, and he’s in the bloody Evening Standard declaring the slaughter to be a moral necessity.”

  Wells added a mumble of displeasure to the rumble that passed around the table at this news. Chesterton, never a big drinker, interjected quietly. “I found his latest Holmes story to be rather disappointing. I still don’t understand why a London detective would even go to Mars...”

  “Because Arthur was always happy to chase coin, Gilbert, old man,” retorted Shaw. “He brought Holmes back from the dead to keep the peace, so why not send the bugger to Mars? It’s what the public wants.”

  “Well, at least Arthur is still writing stories that people wish to read,” Wells added, solemnly.

  “Oh, sweet merciful Christ, are you in one of your moods again?” boomed Shaw.

  Wells stiffened in his seat. He had rehearsed this moment several times on the way to the pub. “I am in a mood, as you say. And with good reason. Davenport Spry intends to enter Parliament,” he said, matter of factly. “He has designs on Downing Street, I am sure. And from there... who knows?”

  At this, the table fell quiet. All had heard of Spry’s monstrous nature, both first hand from Wells and in the pages of The Alarmist, which each of them supported, either through clandestine recommendation or editorial assistance. Each, in their own way, was wrestling with the pain of having their life’s calling torn away by a world changed beyond recognition. A fifth man sat at their table tonight, however, and had yet to make himself known. “Is this why you asked me here, Mr Wells?” the man asked, uncertainly.

  Wells nodded. “It is. Friends, this is Daniel Albone, an engineer and inventor by trade.”

  The man squirmed a little at this. “Not much of a trade these days,” he muttered modestly.

  “Indeed, indeed,” Wells replied. “We can all sympathise. Do you have the device you mentioned in your letters?”

  Albone gave an almost imperceptible nod. His designs for light tractors and other mechanical agricultural equipment had been rendered obsolete by Martian machinery, just as Wells and friends had seen demand for their fictions dissolve into nothing. Albone had come across The Alarmist at his lowest ebb, warmed to its message of resistance against the new world order, and struck up a correspondence with its anonymous editor. Following months of cautious back-and-forth, their secrecy had been broken by an urgent telegram summoning him here, to drink and plot with some of the finest forgotten literary minds in Britain.

  “Daniel here has... ideas of how we might use their technology in aid of our cause,” Wells explained. His companions bristled and became visibly agitated as Albone brought a small leather satchel from under his chair and placed in on the table. Whatever was inside was heavy and metallic. “If they will use Martian machines to ruin us,” Albone said, “I say we use Martian machines to ruin them in turn.”

  “I say,” Chesteron stammered. “We’re none of us great friends of the status quo. You know that, Wells. But this is starting to look a lot like treason of the armed variety.” Shaw and Stoker, their vision swimming and minds fogged with gin, slurred in agreement. “What the devil are you mixed up in, Wells?”

  Wells ignored the question and addressed Albone once more. “And it works?” he enquired.

  “It does,” Albone replied. “Tested it myself. I’m rather proud of it, if I may say so.” Wells nodded. It seemed strange, having something that had been an intangible possibility at the back of his thoughts now an imminent reality. There was fear, certainly, but also relief. One way or another, this ghastly situation would be resolved and he could enjoy a night without that damned dream.

  Wells drained his glass, grabbed the satchel and rose to leave.

  “Damn it all to hell, Herbert,” boomed Shaw. “What the devil is in that bag?”

  Wells took a breath, clutching the satchel to his chest. “The only weapon we have left,” he said. “The only weapon that will unseat a tyrant.”

  He smiled to himself as he walked to the door and out into the slate grey London evening. “That was a rather lovely turn of phrase,” he thought to himself. “I should write that down.”

  A FINE DRIZZLE had settled over the city the following morning, but Wells opted to make the two mile walk from his townhouse to Whitehall on foot. It was the sort of weather that was never quite wet enough to become rain, but instead covered everything in an unavoidable layer of damp. Wells found it quite invigorating, his senses awakened for the first time in years.

  A peculiar combination of serene calm and intense anticipation had come over him that morning, a dormant sense of purpose brought suddenly back to life. He had cheerfully munched toast and marmalade, gulped down several cups of tea, and planted a buttery kiss on Amy’s cheek as he left. He considered that his long overdue acceptance that nothing would ever be normal again had, perhaps in an odd way, given him permission to enthusiastically embrace normality one last time.

  He felt the weight of the bag swing in his arm like a pendulum as he skirted past Trafalgar Square. Nelson’s Column had, of course, fallen in the war and even all these years later, political bickering had still to resolve the question of whether it should be rebuilt or if a new monument marking the Martian invasion should be constructed. The problem was that the Martian war had no defining heroic figure around which to construct a suitable myth. The prospect of a statue celebrating the common cold germ, while amusing to Wells, was unlikely to break the bureaucratic deadlock.

  Wells’ buoyant mood remained steadfast as each step brought him closer to a reckoning that could not be delayed any longer, but familiar darkness returned as he entered Whitehall itself and made his way up echoing marble steps towards Spry’s offices. The bag felt heavier still now. Pausing in a quiet alcove, he reached inside past cold brass clasps and allowed his fingers to find the switch that Albone had told him about. It took more pressure than Wells was expecting to flip, but when it did so, it clicked over with a satisfying finality. Wells could feel the device vibrate slightly as it hummed quietly to life. The bag seemed to somehow grow heavier as he walked the final few feet to Spry’s office door. He grasped the handle, paused, took a deep breath, and entered.

  Spry was already deep in conversation with a group of men, some of whom Wells recognised vaguely, though they were in truth largely interchangeable in both appearance and demeanour, a taciturn wall of moustaches and pipe smoke. Spry did not look at Wells as he entered, but instead gave a dismissive wave of his hand towards a corner of the room. Wells dutifully positioned himself there and waited, the bag in his lap.

  The topics being discussed were everything Wells had feared. The men reported back to Spry with news of which districts and boroughs were most pliable, which sitting members of Parliament
most vulnerable to being shunted aside to make room for his ambitions. Spry, for his part, kept referring to a schedule that must be adhered to, which seemed to hinge on the arrival of British rockets on Mars, almost a year hence.

  “Wheels must be in motion here in London,” he insisted, “so that I am in place and our advantage is not squandered once Mars is under British rule. Can it be done?” The assembled men murmured their agreement.

  “With an appropriate catalyst, it is entirely possible,” insisted one of the men.

  Spry smiled knowingly. “That is very much in hand, gentlemen. Very much in hand, indeed.” He steepled his fingers and leaned forward on his elbows. “What’s in the bag, Herbert?”

  Another of Spry’s psychological tricks, a sudden change in the direction of a conversation that leaves everyone at a disadvantage. Wells blanched and stammered as all eyes turned towards him. “Nothing. Nothing of importance.” He was failing even to convince himself, which only made him flail more desperately, like a drowning man who has just swallowed his first lungful of dirty river water and gulps harder in shock. “Paperwork. Just paperwork.”

  Spry chuckled, his jowls rippling. “Obvious and disappointing to the end, Herbert,” Spry replied, his voice low. “Shall I explain to our guests then?” At this, the assembled men squirmed awkwardly in their seats, unsure as to where Spry was leading this previously ordinary round of clandestine Westminster plotting. Spry reached into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a stack of newspapers. Wells didn’t have to look closely to know what was being revealed. Spry dropped the copies of The Alarmist on his desk with a flat thud.

  “Herbert here once had dreams of being a novelist,” he crowed. “But he lost his nerve after the war. Now he fills his days being bullied by myself, and his free time jabbing retaliatory thorns in my side with this rather cheap insurrectionist newsletter.” Wells swallowed hard. “Oh yes, Herbert,” Spry continued in a voice like bitter burnt treacle. “I’ve known for quite some time. It’s rather touching that you assumed I didn’t. In all our years together, is there anything in this blighted kingdom that has escaped my notice?”