Sherlock Holmes: The Coils of Time & Other Stories (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 1) (19 page)

The creature paused at the base of its craft and peered about cautiously, looking back and forth along the street lined with warehouses and factories. Holmes smiled as he noted similarities between the movements of the Martian and its craft.

Aha!
Holmes thought with a measure of unwonted glee.
No matter the planet, ‘The Book of Life’ still applies!

A Martian could no more escape the effects of life and trade upon body and mind than could a seamstress or a stonecutter.

Apparently satisfied that it was alone and could safely proceed in its assigned tasks, the Martian oozed away from its craft and toward the shadowy interior of the abandoned iron-works.

Holmes pulled the crop from his pocket and broke from cover, running at full clip. Though the Martian had a aural organ on the back of its head it was apparently not very sensitive in Earth’s thicker atmosphere, for Holmes’ pounding footfalls seemed not to register on it. Holmes threw the crop, striking the creature with great force. The Martian whirled rapidly, saw Holmes and raised the black rod.

A trio of quick shots blasted from out the interior of the iron-works building, striking the Martian in the back and passing through its eyes. It quivered, then collapsed to the ground like a slab of meat hitting the butcher’s table. The black rod clattered away, but Holmes picked it up along with his crop.

“Holmes, are you all right?” Watson demanded as he came running as fast as his leg would allow, still holding the smoking revolver in his hand.

“Quite. Not demons or hobgoblins, nor avenging ghosts from a spiritual realm, just creatures of another flesh, as mortal as man, and just as prone to error,” Holmes said as he calmly surveyed the remains of the invader. “I applaud your marksmanship, as well as your timing.”

“So, now we somehow use that infernal machine to gain entrance to their sanctum?” Watson asked.

“Not ‘we,’ Watson, but ‘I,’” Holmes replied.

“But, Holmes…”

“Aside from he purely physical consideration that the walker held only a single occupant,  someone needs to notify the authorities and you are better suited for it than am I,” Holmes explained. “Were it simply a matter of marshalling the forces of New Scotland Yard, guiding the likes of Lestrade or Gregson, my own influence would suffice, but the Empire is at war, and they will listen more closely to the advice of a veteran of Afghanistan than they will a consulting detective who should be keeping bees in the Sussex Downs.”

Reluctantly, Watson nodded. “How will I know what you find, what to do?”

“I will attempt to signal you,” Holmes said. “Watch for it.”

“You can count on me. But, Holmes…”

“What is it, Watson?” Holmes asked as he started for the now-vacant walker.

“Once you signal and I contact the military, telling them where to strike, it will not be long before hellfire rains down – naval guns, artillery, perhaps even aerial bombardment from the new airships developed by that Welshman, Willows,” Watson said.

“Your point, Watson?”

“How will we know you’ve made it to safety?”

Holmes smiled thinly. “You won’t.”

“But…” Watson started to protest.

“Give me a leg up, Watson,” Holmes interrupted.

Once atop, Holmes paused, peering through the open hatchway at the interior.

“Will you even be able to control it, Holmes?”

“Oh, I think so; it is controlled by the thoughts of the operator.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“By observing the motions of the machine,” Holmes explained. “Its movements were much too smooth and organic for it to be a mere mechanism responding to the pulling of levers, the ratcheting of gears. It responded to stimuli as would a living creature, which, obviously, it is not. I expect there is some way for the operator to interact with the…yes, I see a helmet of sorts. Well, we shall see in a moment if I am right, or whether I have for once deduced myself into a corner, again.” Holmes grinned. “Wish me luck.”

Watson started to give voice to him emotions, but Holmes had already vanished within, the hatchway closing after him. For long moments nothing happened. Then the machine quivered, jerked upward, dropped swiftly, then stood absolutely still with its tripod legs fully extended.

It took a shaky step, then another, slightly less hesitant than the first. In moments, Watson watched with great trepidation and extreme misgivings as the pirated tripod almost gracefully vanished in the direction of the Docks.

After dragging the body of the Martian out of sight, Watson settled down to await Holmes’ signal, should he find anything.

The helmet had obviously never been intended for a human skull, but the varying sizes of the Martians called for some degree of tolerance on the parts of the Martian artificers. When Sherlock Holmes tentatively placed the helmet on his head, the helmet itself moved to conform, so that what had initially seemed much too big now fit quite snugly.

Searing pain shot through Holmes’ mind and it took every bit of his considerable will-power not to rip the device from his head. The pain was accompanied by blinding flashes of light in odd patterns and a wild cacophony  of guttural sounds. But as Holmes imposed his own will upon his thoughts and actions, the lights and sounds began to subside, and all the instrumentality within the cabin came to life.

Holmes realised that when he had shuddered at the initial mental assault, the machine had shuddered as well. He thought of a movement, and the craft moved, rising upward a bit. Holmes thought of standing, and the machine responded to his will.

When he tried to move forward, however, the step was an awkward one, and he had to fight a sensation of falling. So, it went both ways, he thought, this symbiotic relationship between craft and operator – the machine responded to his will, but he could also sense such things as the craft’s balance and inclination as if it were his own.

The second step was more successful than the first, but was still shaky. Homes smiled as he realised the obvious – the gait of a three-legged creature was necessarily different than that of a biped, but it was no more difficult to emulate than any other form of motion, much as an actor would learn to limp or to imitate a quadruped. And if Sherlock Holmes was anything, it was a consummate actor.

More graceful with each three-footed step, Holmes headed toward the East India Docks, and the curtain-call of a lifetime.

Although the forward windows seemed almost opaque from the exterior, they were perfectly transparent from within. The cityscape of London was revealed through them with a clarity that was startling; obviously these were more than just windows and were somehow able to compensate for the congenitally weak eyes of the Martians.

As Holmes neared the docks other machines came into view, some passing quite near him, though none appeared to take any notice of him. They had their errands, and they would assume he had his; Holmes did what he was best at when in disguise – he blended in. It was a tactic that had served him well, from the mean streets of Soho and Whitechapel to the dangerous warrens of Cairo and Mecca. Counterfeit mendicants, lascars, cultists and Mohammedans – why not Martians?

The Outer Basin of the Docks was filled with some of the larger fighting-machines as well as curving structures of unknown purpose and walkways that could accommodate several of the smaller tripods. Here, too, Holmes was not given a second glance.

As Holmes passed the entrance for the Export Basin, the smaller of the two main docking areas, he saw that it had been converted to a receiving-sending area for the flying-machines. Many of the merchant ships and existing structures had been cannibalised for materials and structures, but many more had been demolished to make room for the Martians’ goals.

It was in the larger docking area, the Import Basin, that Holmes’ suspicions were confirmed. Floating on the surface of the water, cleared by the wanton destruction of the merchant fleet, was an outlandish structure that rivaled the most exuberant architectural expressions of the Oriental and Meso-American civilisations. While the building, which was large enough to contain several of Wren’s mightiest creations, possessed doorways and pillars and buttresses and spires and most other component of human architecture, its like had never before been seen on this terrestrial sphere, nor could any human mind have ever conceived it.

The structure was Mars manifested on Earth.

The actions and attitudes of the Martians, both the dozens in their machines and the hundreds that nakedly swarmed it, told Holmes that this was no manufacturing are, no warehouse for the materials of war – to the Martians it was a temple containing something that demanded loyalty, adoration and abject fetishism.

By emulating those around him, Holmes was able to carry out a remarkably thorough examination of the complex. He saw more than enough to prove that it was integral to the command and control of the Martians, not just in London or England, but in all the areas of the world where the invaders had established a foothold.

A military strike against this unsuspected facility hidden in he heart of London would deal the Martians  grievous blow.

Separating himself from the throng, Holmes made his way to a shadowy isolated area from where he could see the factory where he had departed from Watson.  By thought, he activated the lamps mounted at the fore of the machine to send code, much as one would a heliograph, and since Watson had served in the Second Afghanistan Campaign, however briefly, Holmes knew his long-time friend would be adept at this form of communication.

He kept the message terse and concise, for he knew that at any moment…

The machine suddenly lurched back, ensnared by black metallic whipcords that wrapped themselves tight. Holmes tried to break free, but it was no use. He attempted to use the machine’s single weapon, but it was hacked off by a slicing blow from one of the larger war-machines.

The overhead hatch flew open, questing tentacles snaked around Holmes, and he was yanked from the interior of the machine to be dropped in a heap upon the wooden platform.

“Ullaloom…Ullaloom…!
”

The weird cry so peculiar to the Martians boomed and echoed around Holmes until he thought his ears would split. Bruised and bleeding, Sherlock Holmes stood and gazed at the enemy ranged around them. A thin smile played about his lips as he surveyed them. Let them get a look at the mere human who had managed to penetrate their complex, a good look before they killed him. Let them see their better.

Holmes was surprised, and rather pleased, when his captors did not murder him as they had so many others in their attempted conquest of Earth. Martians very much like the ones he had seen at Horsell Common, large and powerful and with nimble tentacles, surged forward and took change of him. Even had it been possible to struggle against their strength, he would not tried to escape; he was much too curious to see where they would take him.

He was not at all surprised when their path took them toward the entrance of the alien structure filling the East India Dock’s Import Basin, for its existence was obviously connected with their own. As they entered, Holmes noted a thinness and dryness to the air that was not at all common to the London environment, and there was a sharp metallic smell that was unknown to him, as if the air within the structure were mixed with components not found on this Earth.

Just as the building replicated the architecture of another world, so did the air within mimic their homeworld, whatever planet among the heavens that might be – although Holmes did not contest the idea this invasion originated on Mars, he was not entirely convinced that Mars was not simply just another world occupied by these creatures. Admittedly his knowledge of astronomy was not equal to his mastery of chemistry and biology (until recently, even knowledge of Copernicus’ discoveries seemed superfluous) he had learned enough from Sir William Christie and other astronomers to doubt the ability of arid Mars to birth such a varied civilisation.

The interior was infested with shadows, and vast formless things seemed to lurk in the gloom, staying just out of sight. The colours were sombre, trending toward maroon and blacks, midnight blues and browns. Shafts of light filtered down from high windows, but the illumination was perverse, as if the windows opened not upon shattered London but upon a world lit by another sun.

Crystalline structures rose everywhere, glinting with shadows and light. Many of them flickered as shapes seemed to move within, and these were objects of adoration by the Martians that swarmed like bees within a hive.

Holmes was brought into a chamber with dark curving walls, fraught with flickering crystals, and a high dais upon which was a queerly shaped throne; upon the throne was a being garbed in shrouds. The Martians threw Holmes forward, intending to send him sprawling, but Holmes countered with a move learned from a
baritsu
master during his time in Japan, and he landed on his feet, tall and defiant.

“Sherlock Holmes, I might have guessed,” the figure upon the throne said. “I hoped you numbered among the dead.”

“I might say the same about you, Colonel Moran,” Holmes replied. If he was at all surprised by the encounter, his tone gave no evidence. “I was very disappointed when your neck avoided the noose it so richly deserved for the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair, and, of course, your attempted murder of me.”