The Martian Falcon (Lovecraft & Fort) (13 page)

‘Why was the event filmed?’ asked Pete Medina suddenly. All eyes turned to him. ‘If that transmission was sent as a warning…’ He paused, considering the implications of his own question. ‘I can understand why the initial event was filmed: it was clearly the culmination of some great enterprise. And the catastrophe that followed – it stands to reason that the camera would have captured that as well. But the punishment of the guy in robes… why did they film that? Why did they think they needed to?’

They all thought about this. Martell glanced at Rusty. ‘Aldous,’ he said, ‘you’ve been pretty quiet so far. Any thoughts?’

Damn it! Well, it had to happen sooner or later, and at least she was being asked to speculate rather than show any prior knowledge. ‘Aldous Bradlee’ folded his arms and sat back in his chair, frowning pensively. ‘An opposing faction,’ he said. ‘A group who knew that what the guy in robes was planning was a bad idea. It looks like they couldn’t stop him – maybe he was too powerful, maybe Monica is right and he was the Martians’ supreme ruler. In any event, when the catastrophe occurred, they were prepared, and they jumped on him immediately. Maybe they thought that by killing him they could put a stop to what was happening…’

‘They were sure as hell wrong about that,’ said Deborah Pellin.

‘And then,’ Rusty continued, now talking more to herself than to anyone else, ‘while the catastrophe was occurring… knowing that they too would be dead soon… they set up the transmission equipment. But they didn’t set it to transmit immediately… no, they didn’t do that. Instead, they set it to transmit only in the event that Mars was visited in the future. Now… why did they do that…?’

The others looked at each other in silence. Then Medina said: ‘Maybe they didn’t want to advertise the fact that something terrible had happened. Warnings can sometimes be lures, you know? For God’s sake don’t come here! Oh, really? Why not? Let’s go there and find out!’

Larry Donahue nodded. ‘That’s possible, I guess. But that leaves us with another question, doesn’t it? What triggered the transmission? Was it the arrival of Rocketship X-M? Or was it the taking of the Falcon? Whatever they did to their leader, the Falcon had something to do with it.’

Rusty looked at Donahue.
Yeah
, she thought,
the Falcon had something to do with it
.

‘If that’s really the case,’ said Quinlan, ‘then we have another question and another problem: we don’t know where the Falcon is. It’s been stolen…’

‘The New York police think it was stolen by the mob,’ said Martell. ‘Most likely, Al Capone.’

‘Yeah,’ said Quinlan, ‘but is that true? Or was it stolen by someone else?’

‘What are you getting at, Monica?’ asked Martell.

Quinlan sighed. ‘I don’t know. It’s just that, well, the timing… it strikes me as too close to be coincidence. What if it wasn’t Capone or any other gangster? What if someone else knows something about the Martian Falcon… something we don’t?’

Martell sighed. ‘Unfortunately, that’s out of our hands. Let’s just hope that the New York police are half as good as they think they are…’ He paused. ‘And let’s hope that you’re wrong about whoever stole the Falcon.’

Brian Canning nodded. ‘I guess it’s time we turned to the main reason for this meeting: the X-M 2 expedition. Where does the transmission leave us? If it’s a warning, do we go ahead, or do we abort?’

‘I see no reason to abort,’ said Martell.

‘Why not?’ asked Canning.

‘Whatever happened on Mars happened five million years ago. It’s over. Finished. Whatever destroyed them is long gone: the fact that the X-M crew made it back alive is proof of that. There’s a hell of a lot of money tied up in the X-M program – a
hell
of a lot – and I can’t imagine that Washington will be too pleased if we tell them we’ve decided to scrap the whole thing because of a message that was recorded five million years ago. They’re just not going to go for it.’

‘You say that whatever destroyed Mars is finished,’ said Monica Quinlan. ‘But Troy… are you
sure
?’

Martell sighed. ‘Of course I’m not, but space travel is a dangerous business, we all know that. We have to weigh risk against investment…’

‘We?’ said Quinlan.

Martell paused. ‘They. The bean-counters in Washington who are holding our purse strings. They’re the ones we answer to, ultimately, and they have the final say. When you get right down to it, all we can do is make recommendations.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Quinlan glumly. ‘But I still don’t like it.’

‘I’m not too thrilled about it myself, Monica,’ muttered Martell. ‘I’d like some more time – time to properly evaluate what we’re dealing with here. But the optimum launch window to Mars won’t stay open for much longer, and I can tell you for a fact that Washington won’t stand for what they’ll see as an unnecessary delay.’ He turned to Rusty. ‘All right. Aldous, I think it’s time for an update on the ninth rock book. Why don’t you bring us up to speed on what you’ve learned so far?’

Rusty gave a slight start, and felt her heart sink.
An update?
she thought.
Oh shit
…

CHAPTER 19
The Sky Beast

The Bel Geddes lurched and heaved again, the deck jumping like a tossed pancake as the sky beast’s tendrils wrapped themselves around the aircraft’s wings. The distant squeal and groan of crushed metal echoed through the craft in counterpoint to the tuneless opera of the passengers’ screams. Crockery, furniture and the band’s instruments flew through the air, smashing against bulkheads and deck as the pilot throttled up the aircraft’s engines to maximum, their desperate drone competing with the cacophony inside. From unseen points above and below, a metallic, staccato chittering began: the machine gun batteries mounted on the Bel Geddes’s dorsal and ventral surfaces. The great airliner wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

‘It’s trying to pull us in!’ yelled Fort, pointing through the archway leading to the observation lounge and the panoramic windows. ‘If we can’t break free, it’ll make a meal of us!’

‘I don’t think so!’ Lovecraft shouted back. ‘Look at it, Charles! Look at its colour!’

At first, Fort wondered what the hell Lovecraft was talking about. Then he peered more closely at the blue and pink striations that had begun to ripple across the creature’s vast circular canopy. ‘My God, Howard, you’re right!’

‘You’ll note the species, as well,’ Lovecraft continued. ‘
Peregrinans placidus
…’

He was right about that, too, Fort realised.
Peregrinans placidus
… gentle walker. The sky beast shouldn’t have been a threat: this particular species was perhaps the most docile of all the atmospheric Medusozoa; there were no known instances of a
Peregrinans placidus
ever having attacked an aircraft.

‘I read about these in the
National Geographic
,’ said Lovecraft as he ducked to avoid a flying double bass. ‘Those colours, that pattern…’

‘I know,’ said Fort. ‘They’re a mating display. The damned thing doesn’t want to eat us… it wants to screw us!’

‘Well,’ said Lovecraft, ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite
that
way, but…’

The rate of fire from the defensive batteries increased. Lovecraft and Fort watched as a score of streamers of hot metal hurtled towards the sky beast. They didn’t seem to be doing much good. The aircraft lurched again as yet more tendrils flew from the creature’s underside and wrapped themselves around its wings.

Fort looked up at the ceiling. ‘Damn it, Howard, even if it doesn’t want to eat us, if those tendrils damage the engines or the control surfaces…’

‘We’re still done for,’ agreed Lovecraft. ‘The question is, what are we going to do?’

At that moment, the air was shredded by the sound of breaking glass – but this was no falling wineglass or decanter. The sound was distant, but it filled the dining room and made the passengers scream even louder and cover their ears. It was as if every piece of glass in the world were shattering at once.

Fort cringed beneath the sound. ‘Jesus Christ!’

‘It must be the solarium windows,’ said Lovecraft.

‘Right again, Howard. Come on!’

Half running, half staggering, they ran from the dining room into the port pontoon and aft along the central corridor, past doors leading to the shop, the bar and the infirmary (Fort quickly looked into the infirmary, but saw that it was empty).

The corridor opened into a large vestibule at the rear of the pontoon. The solarium lay beyond at the very rear of the giant airliner’s centre section. The vast room was three decks high; its gently sloping ceiling, which met the deck at a shallow angle at the rear of the fuselage, was composed of enormous, rectangular panes of glass – at least, it
had
been until a minute ago. Now the glass lay in a million shards on the deck and the solarium was open to the atmosphere. People who had been sunning themselves or playing deck games were now fleeing madly into the vestibules in the port and starboard pontoons in a desperate attempt to get away from the semi-translucent tendrils that were whipping back and forth, seeking a firm grip on the airliner’s hind.

Near the rear of the solarium, a small girl, perhaps nine years old, crouched next to one of the glassless window panels. Her eyes were shut tight and she was covering her ears with her hands, paralyzed with terror.

Somewhere to their left, Lovecraft and Fort heard a woman shouting: ‘Madeleine! Madeleine!’ They watched as the woman emerged from the tide of fleeing passengers, saw the girl and screamed: ‘
Madeleine!
’

‘Oh good grief!’ cried Lovecraft. ‘The child… she’s…’

The deck lurched again, bouncing the girl up and out of the window. The woman screamed again and fell to her knees.

Fort sprinted towards the windows, glancing up at the tendrils which had now fastened themselves firmly around the steel frames. Lovecraft followed, not wanting to, for he fully expected to see the poor child falling away from the aircraft, cartwheeling through the sky towards a terrible end.

Instead, he saw her lying flat upon the ten feet of fuselage that separated the lower edge of the solarium window from the trailing edge. She was clinging to a small sensor mast which sprouted from the metal skin of the aircraft. It was about the size of a handheld flashlight, one of many such instruments that relayed information on atmospheric conditions, temperature and wind speed. Lovecraft looked at the terror-stricken expression on her face as her tiny fingers tried to maintain their grip on the sensor mast. The aircraft lurched again, bouncing the child up and down.

‘
Mommeeeee!
’ she screamed.

‘My God, Charles,’ said Lovecraft. ‘What are we to
do
?’

‘I’ll tell you what
you’re
going to do, Howard,’ Fort replied, shrugging off his jacket and letting it fall to the deck. ‘You’re going to grab my ankles.’

‘What?’

Fort staggered to the very edge of the deck, grabbing the window frame for support. He took off his spectacles and shoved them into his trouser pocket as the screaming air outside tried to rip his hair from his head.

‘Ready Howard?’ he shouted.

‘One moment,’ said Lovecraft, who had realised what Fort was about to do. He took off his own necktie, tied one end to the window frame and the other around his left ankle; then he crouched down and took Fort’s ankles in the strongest grip his shattered nerves would allow. ‘I’m ready, Charles.’

Fort crouched also, placed his hands on the outer skin of the aircraft and gradually lowered himself until he was lying flat. He reached out in front of him, with the air screaming in his ears and the staccato
clack
of the machine guns hammering in the background. He stretched as far as he could, reaching with outstretched arms towards the girl… but she was still a couple of feet beyond his reach.

‘Damn it!’ he cried. ‘Howard, I’m going to edge forward.’

‘All right, Charles, I’ve still got you!’ Lovecraft shouted, his reply all but lost in the howl of wind and rattle of machine gun fire. He hoped that the aircraft’s weapons were having some effect on the amorous sky beast, otherwise he and Fort were wasting their time.

Fort raised himself onto his elbows and edged forward. ‘It’s all right, kid!’ he shouted. ‘I’m coming for you… nearly there!’

‘
I want my mommeeeee!
’ the girl cried.

As he continued to inch forward, Fort felt something damp seeping through his shirtsleeves: the outer skin of the aircraft was slick with something. Water? Condensation? No… more like an oily residue of some kind. He wasn’t sure, and he gave it no more thought – he had other things on his mind right now…

Feeling his back and shoulder muscles burning with the exertion, he reached out and grabbed the girl’s wrist, just as her fingers gave out and released their grip on the sensor mast.

‘Got you!’ he cried. ‘Howard!’

Lovecraft gripped Fort’s ankles ever tighter and began to pull him back. Two male passengers rushed forward and lent a hand. In another few seconds, Fort and the girl were back inside.

Her mother staggered across the deck and gathered her up in her arms. ‘Thank you!’ she cried. ‘Oh thank you, thank you!’

‘Well done, sir!’ said one of the passengers who had helped haul Fort back in, clapping him on the back as he slowly got to his feet.

Fort rubbed his right shoulder with his left hand. ‘I’m going to feel this tomorrow, mark my words.’

At that moment, the deck ceased its heaving and the stutter of machine gun fire became sporadic and then stopped altogether. The only sounds were the drone of the engines and the whistle of the wind outside. ‘I think they’ve done it,’ said Fort. ‘They’ve fought off the beast!’

A ragged cheer went up from the passengers.

‘Thank God,’ said the woman, who was still clutching her child to her breast. ‘Oh, thank God.’

‘Good job, Howard,’ said Fort.

Lovecraft looked down at Fort’s arms. ‘Charles,’ he said, ‘what’s that on your shirt? And what on earth is that
smell
?’

*

Captain Parker was standing at the forward windows of the flight deck, scanning the sky with binoculars when the purser entered, followed by Fort and Lovecraft.

‘Captain,’ said the purser, ‘I’m sorry about this – I know it’s highly irregular – but you may want to hear what these gentlemen have to say.’

Parker turned from the windows and cast an unsympathetic glance at all three of them. ‘You’re right,’ he snapped. ‘It
is
irregular. We’re a little busy up here, Wentworth.’

Lovecraft gazed around the flight deck with undisguised wonder, taking in the huge banks of instruments lining the bulkheads and gawping at the countless gauges, switches and levers, and the members of the flight crew who were moving hurriedly between them, checking the aircraft’s systems and making numerous adjustments.

Fort stepped forward. ‘A
Peregrinans placidus
tried to mate with us, Captain,’ he said. ‘That’s never happened before, as far as I know. Want me to tell you why?’

Captain Parker hesitated. ‘You mean you know?’

‘I sure do. Sniff my arms.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard me,’ Fort replied, raising a forearm and waving it back and forth beneath Parker’s nose.

The captain grimaced. ‘My God, what a stink!’

‘You know what this is, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do! It’s a secretion, a mating pheromone produced by a female
Peregrinans placidus
. But how come it’s all over your shirt?’

Fort told him about rescuing the girl, and concluded: ‘This stuff was on the liner’s outer skin. It must be all over the fuselage. It’s what put that male in the mood for a little hanky panky.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ protested Parker. ‘How the hell could it get onto the fuselage?’

‘I was hoping you might have some ideas,’ said Fort.

With obvious reluctance, Parker leaned forward and sniffed again. ‘It seems to be somewhat diluted. Still stinks to high heaven, mind you, but…’

‘Diluted?’ said Fort.

Parker nodded. ‘When secreted from a live
Peregrinans placidus
, this pheromone is much more pungent. Undiluted, it would have cleared the flight deck, believe me – none of us could have stood it for more than a few seconds.’

‘So it’s diluted… what with?’

‘How should I know? Water, presumably.’

‘Water,’ echoed Fort. He glanced around the flight deck. ‘How much damage have we taken, Captain?’

‘A fair bit, but nothing catastrophic, since we’re still in the air.’ Parker indicated the main scanner, a large circular display at the centre of the main instrument panel just below the forward windows. ‘The beast has returned to the upper atmosphere – I guess he figured we weren’t worth the trouble thanks to our gun batteries. As for us, we can make it to Denver, although the ship won’t be making the return flight to New York as scheduled. She’ll need to go to the workshop for repairs to some of the control surfaces, and she’ll need to be checked for interior and exterior structural integrity…’

‘She’ll need a good bath as well,’ Lovecraft added. ‘They’ll need to wash that unholy stench off her skin. Any trace of it could attract another sky beast.’

Fort glanced at him. ‘What did you say?’

Lovecraft gave him an uncertain look. ‘I… said she’ll need a good bath…’

Fort clicked his fingers. ‘A bath – that must be it! That must be how the pheromone got onto the outer skin.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ demanded Captain Parker.

‘The pheromone must have been added to the cleaning solution when the ship was washed during pre-flight maintenance…’

Parker looked at him incredulously. ‘Are you saying that someone did this deliberately? That the ship was…
sabotaged?
’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Captain,’ Fort replied.

‘
Why
, for God’s sake?’

Fort hesitated, and then replied: ‘I have no idea, but it’s the most plausible explanation, don’t you think? How else could the pheromone have been diluted and deposited on the skin of the ship?’ He paused and added: ‘Anyway, I think we’ve taken up more than enough of your time. We’ll head back down to the passenger decks. There’s a lot of clearing up to do, and I noticed that some of the passengers are lending a hand. I think we will, too. Thank you, Captain Parker. Come along, Howard.’

Fort seized Lovecraft by the elbow and half-dragged him from the flight deck.

*

Fort said nothing until they had descended the staircase leading down from the flight deck. When he was sure they were out of earshot of any of the crew or passengers, he said: ‘Damn it! Me and my big mouth!’

‘What do you mean, Charles?’ said Lovecraft.

‘I shouldn’t have mentioned sabotage.’

‘Why not?’

‘Listen, Howard. I think I know why the pheromone was sprayed onto this aircraft. It’s because someone wants us dead – you and me. They knew we’d be on this flight. They wanted to make it look like an accident – a sky beast attack on our plane – and they weren’t too concerned about taking out four hundred other people in the process.’