episode THIRTY-TWO
Men from Mars.
Four
men emerged eerily from the fog, each at a damp street corner curb, the
gaslights above them inspiring gargantuan shadows that swirled and flickered in
the mist. Two of the men wore top hats, twirling canes, and one wore a staunch
derby hat set low over his silvery eyebrows, and the remaining man sported his
well-known deerstalker. They saluted each other, nodding.
“Professor
Moriarty.”
“Mr.
Holmes.”
“Good
Doctor Jekyll.”
“Jack.
May I call you Jack?”
“That
would be good. Everyone does, you know?”
The
man in the deerstalker stood fearlessly, his hands upon his hips, his heavy
cloak thrown back from his broad shoulders. The man on the opposing street
corner, the one in the derby hat, seemed to be producing something from his
great coat—perhaps a weapon? Most likely a weapon, but a close second guess
would be a silver flask. The two tall top-hat wearers, each extravagantly
dressed in evening attire, twirled their canes and stared at each other, as if
they meant to strike into a furious yet elegant duel.
The
fog billowed about them, nearly obscuring each man. Fog, and typical London
smoke, and steam, always the steam. Steam billowed up from the sewer grates,
where below in the great belly of the beast the steam engines whirled, the
living heart of the city.
Just
then something vast parted the fog and smoke and steam, a vast metallic sky
craft of some sort, flying much too low over the city, and much larger than the
steam zeppelins or balloon carriages. And the strange vehicle was quiet as it
passed slowly overhead it, seeming to suck away the enveloping fog, and the
four men, staring up, mouths agape, noticed that the craft was spinning,
rapidly. Stray bolts of electricity leapt from the craft, putting out lamps,
sparking against lightning rods.
“Good
heavens, Holmes what is that?” a fifth man sputtered, stepping out from behind
the man in the deerstalker. “Never seen anything like it, what?”
“No,
most certainly not,” said the tall man in the deerstalker. Although staring at
the craft, he cunningly watched the man on the opposing street corner with his
peripheral vision, and when the man in the derby hat lifted an elongated
device, the man in the deerstalker shoved the newcomer back. “Down, Watson!”
The
newcomer obeyed immediately, tumbling onto the cobbles of the wet street.
A
gout of steam coughed almost silently from the elongated device in the
derby-wearer’s gloved fist, and the whining buzz flash of a small metal disc
streaked close by the man in the deerstalker, who barely moved an inch. The man
with the device turned and hurried up the street, limping slightly.
“After
him, Watson!” the man in the deerstalker cried, dashing across the street in
full pursuit. The man lying in the puddles of the street pushed himself up.
“I
say, might either of you gentlemen direct me in the correct direction, what?”
One
of the men in the top hats pointed up a different street.
“Thank
you very much, what?” the damp man sniffled, his bushy white moustache
twitching beneath his large nose.
“My
colleague is misdirecting you,” the other top-hat man said, sniffing. “In fact
they went...that way.” He pointed in the proper direction where a police
whistle was now hooting in the night.
“I
say, rather unsporting of him, what?” the man with the white moustache sniffed,
heading off in the proper direction, holding a revolver pistol up near his
head, casting a hard glance at the first top-hat man. “Dr. Watson,” he said,
nodding to the other elegantly dressed man in the top hat.
“Dr.
Jekyll,” the top-hat man said, bowing slightly.
“That
leaves...us, does it not, Doctor?”
said the first top-hat man, his hands unfolding what appeared to be a very
bright, and very sharp razor blade.
“Yes,
it does, Doctor,” the second top-hat man replied, nodding, taking a quick hit from
a vial.
Just
then a bright flash of blue light illuminated the foggy sky, and the angry buzz
of electricity filled the night with a crackling sound that brought curious
faces to windows, ladies of the evening from their doorways, and the two
doctors paused in crossing the street toward each other. For just a moment, the
strange vehicle was apparent again, visible against the sky, stretching across many
buildings, vast and flat and spinning so fast it again seemed to vacuum the sky
clear of fog and smoke, but now touching down, almost gently, high above the
city, on some platform.
It
blasted out a belch of steam that frothed about the strange craft, and then the
fog enveloped in, obscuring the strange sight, pulling a thick curtain across
the sky.
Lightning
arced and sizzled, bolts of electric blue streaked up at the clouds and down at
the buildings, grounding with anything metal, sparking, dancing.
The
doctor with the razor blade smiled, and started across the street again, but
paused, and then stopped. He stared at the other doctor. It could not be the
same man. This man was taller, and heavier, and brutish in appearance. And this
new horrible man was leering a terrible grin. The effect was remarkable, producing
what appeared to be a living death’s head skull. And the whole monstrosity
tottered forward, like an ape. A drunken ape.
The
doctor with the razor turned away and dashed into the fog, and surprised
himself by screaming, which almost frightened him more than the creature in
pursuit just behind him. Up to this point, he was himself the scariest monster
he had ever known.
This
other man—this abominable creature who had replaced the doctor—surged forward
into swaying pursuit, loping swiftly, apelike, with too-long arms, and feet
even now splitting from his shoes. This metamorphosis was always painful, but
the worse it became, the more the creature seemed to enjoy the change, its
skull-like head grinning like a jack-o’-lantern.
“Hyde!”
this other fellow bellowed, swiftly gaining on the razor-wielding doctor, who
continued to scream, louder, and louder, and finally the pursuit and the
screams culminated in a shriek of terror and pain. The hideous laughter that
followed sent the curious back into their dark holes.
A
ring of lightning arced in the sky, slicing the fog, bolts of blue and white
electricity danced in the ether, illuminating the sky for miles around.
High
above the city, the strange saucer-shaped vehicle slowly stopped spinning. The
blue light extinguished, and the high buzzing sound of crackling electricity
finally ebbed away. There was a final shower of sparks, and then the foggy
London night returned to normalcy. Only the screams sounded their usual music,
punctuating the garish pockets of laughter and dancehall din.
A
circle formed on the belly of the saucer and a quiet slice of metal opened like
a surprised mouth, as metal sleeves slid almost silently away from the opening
circle, a rictus of neat scales withdrawing, slatting away, and a platform
descended on cables, steam erupting from this opening, lending the strange
saucer the appearance of a great face smoking, and in fact the gout of steam
burst around the descending platform and created a vast steam ring similar to
the rings cigar smokers enjoyed sending upward, but this ring expanded downward,
and spreading, expanding until it broke across the building tops, melding into
the fog.
Three
strange figures stood uncannily upon the descending platform, slim figures with
enormous heads, bald, with large, bulbous black eyes. The three beings seemed
naked, but without any distinguishing features, identical in height, weight,
and grey skin coloring. The platform reached the rooftop and the three beings
waddled purposefully toward a rooftop door, which opened, and a strange man
appeared, half-bowing as the three creatures approached.
The
man at the door seemed to be wearing a flat toupée made of feathers. His face
appeared melted, with only a vestigial nose lumping the surface of his very
pale skin. The three beings crossed the threshold of the door and the man
closed the door behind them. Then he expertly aided the three beings in
removing their heads.
The
man with the feathers and vestigial nose placed each head upon a table near the
door. The faces beneath what proved to be helmets appeared identical to the man
who met them. Soon they seemed identical quadruplets, though the three visitors
retained their grey skins, while the man who aided them was dressed in the
rough, common clothing of the proletariat.
“Is
all ready?”
“Yes
it is, Sir. The High Vale beast is transferred into a travel cage, and is near
the point of expiration,” the man in the rough clothing answered. “As you
ordered, Sir.”
“We
must hurry, for the Sisters’ Congress is near,” the first speaker said. “Our
craft will not function once the Story Moon is reached. We must glide from
there, and if we reach it too late our craft will implode.”
“Please
follow me, Sir. The others are waiting.”
The
quadruplets hurriedly descended several staircases.
“Please
confirm,” said the quadruplet in charge, as they descended. “We have a fix on
two subjects, and are converging to take both aberrations?”
“Yes
Sir. We have bands of Highwaymen converging in both locations.”
The
leader paused in the middle of a staircase.
The
quadruplet in rough clothing stopped and looked back. The two men behind the
leader nearly collided with his back, and looked nervously at each other.
“I
do not understand. Two are fixed, but in separate locations? They are not
together?”
“No
Sir. One subject departed what we now have pinpointed as the Dulance preserve,
and we will take him at the Sentinel. The other subject is fixed in the
Tombwood Tangles, and we may not enter there, but are circling about on our
fastest mounts to intercept him when he emerges from the forest—if he survives. Apparently, no one ever
has. We may have a fix on a third subject, but are not certain at this
point—but if so, it could prove our best capture yet.”
“Each
subject is alone?”
“Yes,
Sir. That is the case.”
“Mr.
Aajeel is involved in this. But he has erred, as both the subjects are very
rebellious, which is what has always made them so interesting to VS. Ah, Mr.
Kronoss, you bastard, we shall finally defeat you. And here, we are certain, our
presence is yet unknown on the Honey Moon?”
“There
has been...an altercation. Sir, there
were...Umbrellas—”
“—Businessmen, here! We must hurry. Kronoss must know our intentions.”
“Yes,
Sir, all is ready, as you commanded.”
“Then
why are we wasting time? Hurry, take us to your leader!”
The
two quadruplets in the rear smirked at each other, and then they were off, now
almost running down the stairs. When they reached the basement level they
paused before a large steel door set into a steel frame in the brick
foundation. The quadruplet twin in rough clothing pounded a complicated series
of knocks on the steel, and after a moment the door creaked toward them. Two
men stood just inside the steel frame, and the quadruplets became a sextuplet
of identical twins; however, these two twins wore the hooded-leather garb of
High Vale highwaymen.
They
entered and trotted through a dark tunnel, following one of the new twins who
bore a solitary lantern, while the remaining man stayed behind to bolt the
steel door. After several minutes of racing through the damp tunnel, splashing
through puddles of stale water, the man with the lantern hesitated, just a
moment, at two doors, set side by side a few feet removed from each other.
“What
is the problem?”
“We
switch these for security, and it just does not do to knock on the wrong door.”
The
leader coughed.
“Sorry,
Sir. We have all been scrambling. We moved the creature to a new location as
our original headquarters was...compromised...earlier this evening. But all is
in order. Sir.”
He
lifted his lantern high and examined both doors, which were identical. He
placed an ear at one door, and listened. Then he moved over to the other door,
and did the same.
“What
is the problem? We are running out of time!”
“Please,
Sir. If I knock at the wrong door, something—wakes. I am certain this is the correct door, but they did not mark
it properly.”
“Knock
on the door. If the security measure emerges, I will deal with it,” he said.
“No
Sir! We will all be dead men,” the man with the lantern said, giving the leader
a strange, frightened glance.
He
straightened himself, and stepped back from the door. Instead of knocking on
the steel with his fist, he kicked the door, several times, creating a markedly
different rhythm than the one that opened the first door.
The
large door cracked, and then swung inward, silently, on oiled hinges. The man
with the lantern sighed, loudly, and entered the darkness, the others following
close on his heels. Once inside another twin closed and bolted the door. This
man, although very similar to all the others, was decidedly different. He had a
nose, an actual nose, and it was large and lumpy. He actually grinned about at
the other men.
“This
is so exciting,” he stage whispered, breaking into a huge smile.
“Please,
do not talk,” the leader snapped. “I said I wanted only our kind,” he said to the man with the lantern.
“We
had to make do, Sir, as many of our finest were...eliminated, just a few hours ago.”
“Damn
Kronoss! We are...making do, with idiots, at a time like this!”
“Come
on, they’re all waiting, right in here,” the man with the big nose said, still
smiling hugely. His leather highwayman hood was back, and his feathers stood
up, askew and unkempt, and the feathers were far too long, and too brightly
colored. He hefted his own lantern and led the way, waddling as he walked. He
had none of the svelte grace of the many twins, and he almost seemed—chubby.
Following,
the leader shook his head in disgust.
“He
is one of the High Vale highwaymen, one the system is spawning, but he is
complete with all our directives, Sir. He is another body. Sir.”
The
leader snorted, but then they emerged into the vast subterranean chamber where
bodies hung from hooks. Three troops of highwaymen were present, kneeling
quietly, separated into groups of twenty-five.
“This
is all that remains?” the leader muttered, glancing about at his men.
“We
have four troops on the ground, Sir, near the Sentinel, and another two mounted
troops heading to intercept the Pugilist.”
“Do
not call him that, it is absurd,” the leader snapped.
“Yes,
Sir. Sorry, Sir.”
“Men!”
the leader called, addressing the troops. “This is it. This is the moment! We
have the opportunity here and now, to bring down Kronoss, and possibly Aajeel.
When we take these two subjects, we will have the proof we require, and there
is some intimation that we have a third target, as well. We shall all do our
duty. We are the Keepers of the Code, and today we shall eliminate aberrations
from our pure heritage. We shall leave no anomaly untouched. And today, men,
many of us shall perish. Perhaps all of us shall perish. But that is our—DUTY.”
“Duty!”
the troops roared, as one.
The
chubby highwayman with the big nose nearly suppressed a giggle.
The
leader stared at him, hard.
“What
is it that you find so amusing?”
“They
said—dooty!” the chubby man
snickered, the lantern light on his face making his features obscene, and his
expressions utterly insane.
“And
your—duty? Do not you have duty?” the leader snapped, incredulous. Perhaps
these spawned highwaymen were more defective than even their looks.
“Sure,
I’ve got dooty, we’ve all got dooty—but it just sounds—hilarious, you understand, Your Highness, to be shouting it out
like that! Dooty!”
“Duty!”
the troops roared, as one.
“Dooty!”
the chubby man cried, hiccupping with laughter, tears leaking from his eyes.
“Duty!”
the troops roared, as one.
“STOP
THAT!” the leader roared, advancing on the chubby highwayman.
“I
thought you liked it!” the chubby highwayman said, standing his ground, wiping
at his eyes.
“Enough
of this, we must be off, get the troops loaded, we must meet that Sister’s
Congress, or all shall be for naught,” the leader snarled, waving his hands at
the troops.
Three
men kneeling at the heads of the three groups came to an amazing attention,
standing abruptly in the twinkle of an eye. As one the three men snapped an
order, and the troops came to the same abrupt standing posture, ramrod
straight.
“Get
them boarded, every man we can spare, even this halfwit,” the leader commanded,
glaring daggers and the smiling chubby man.
“Yes,
Sir!” and the commands issued, relayed and ricocheted and soon all the bodies
were quick-marching up two different sets of stairs, and piling into a
steam-powered lift that could hoist as many as twenty bodies. The leader and his
three subordinates rode the lift, the leader with his arms folded across his
chest.
“Please
tell me why we are employing such poor material?” the leader demanded of the
man who met them at the first steel door.
“They
do seem a trifle addled, this is true,” the subordinate said, “but they are
spawned knowing the land, its creatures, and they have a natural-born ability
to command the variety of mounts, and organically understand how to deal with
the varieties of peoples. As NPCs they are able to wander anywhere in the world
of High Vale, including onto private estates, such as Dulance Preserve. We
think these world-spawned are imprinted with the trope of highwaymen and
thieves, cutthroats and ruffians, with bawdy humor and a certain—humanity—but each does remain obedient,
and each does understand duty, and purpose. They do love to, what they call, wine and wench.”
“And
you...allow this? This human behavior? From Keepers of the
Code?”
“No
Sir, definitely not, Sir.”
“Do
they even have the proper—anatomical...parts,
to...wench?”
“Indeed
they do, Sir. But this is just how High Vale interprets the Men from Mars.”
“Never...refer to...us—that way. Do you
understand?” The leader’s voice and tone dripped with menace.
The
lift bumped and groaned upward, slowly, grinding metal upon metal, at times
screeching in protest.
“I
have planned this mission for Millennia,” the leader muttered, shaking his
head, tightening his arms about his chest.
“Master Enseladus planned this mission,”
the subordinate said.
“I
am Enseladus!” the leader shouted, and then closed his eyes, and shook himself.
“I mean to say that I am Number One, answering only to Master Enseladus.”
“Yes,
Sir, I understand that, and I am a Number Two, answering only to you, and
Master Enseladus.”
“However,
Number Two, I am not a number one,
but the Number One, do you
understand?”
“I
understand, Sir.”
The
lift bumped and crashed at the top floor, and dust settled down on their heads.
“Stupid
technology,” the leader said, shaking dust out of his feathers.
“They
call this Steampunk, Sir,” Number Two said.
“I
know what they call it,” Number One said, shaking his head. “These stupid
humans, with their fantasy, and their science fiction, and their...Steampunk. It says everything about
them.”
“Please,
Sir, do not call them stupid humans,
as this is in violation of the Code,” Number Two stated, staring straight
forward.
Number
One grunted. Then snorted.
“I
cannot believe...it is for them...that
we fight, that we eternally go to war,” he muttered, and the other twins in the
lift glanced uneasily about at each other.
Number
One glared at Number Two.
“What
are you waiting for?” he snapped.
Number
Two slid the gate open and they marched out as one body, in lockstep, and the
lift emptied in a matter of seconds. Numbers One and Two and a small retinue of
twins stood at the edge of the tall building. Ramps stretched from building to
building, and highwaymen and soldiers garbed in black were already jogging
fearlessly across the great expanses, none looking downward at the five-story
abyss beneath them. A large box with metal bars sat upon a steam dolly, and the
chubby highwayman with the big nose knelt before the cage, reaching between the
bars.
“What
does he think he is doing?” Number One demanded.
“He
is the creature’s keeper. They seem to have some rapport. Other Men from—I mean
to say, Sir, that others of us have lost fingers and even hands to the
creature. Even trussed, it has killed several of us,” Number Two said. “Dasher
seems to have empathy for the creature, and it seems to have, if not empathy,
then at least, a rudimentary understanding of him.”
“Dasher?
You have given him—allowed him a name? As if he were a human?”
“No
Sir. They spawn with names, I understand these are called cookie-cutter names.”
“Cookie cutter?”
“That
is my understanding, Sir. Very similar names. Highwayman names.”
“I
want to see the creature,” Number One snapped, strolling toward the cage.
“Yes,
Sir. But do not draw too close.”
Number
One crouched near the bars of the cage and peered in. A monstrous creature lay
huddled within. It appeared to be a wolf, but of tremendous size, at least as
large as a small horse. Or at least it appeared to have once been a wolf, for
now it was mostly skinned, glistening muscle showing in the dim light of the
lantern. Fog seemed to cloak the creature. Number One shifted his perspective
and glimpsed that at least half of its skull was exposed.
“This
thing is alive?” Number One asked.
“Oh,
yes, Sir, these creatures are very resilient. We have had this one for nearly a
month, and still it will divulge nothing of its bonded human,” Number Two said,
with apparent admiration of the beast.
“A
month? And you could not persuade a beast to divulge any information about the
subject?”
“No
Sir.”
“He’s
a brave one, this one,” Dasher said, actually extending his hand inside the
cage, stroking the beast’s large paw. “Beautiful wolf, beautiful wolf. I had
one, you understand, when I was just a wee knobber.”
Number
One placed his hand upon one of the thick bars, leaning closer.
“I
would not—” Number Two began—
“You
will cease talking—” Number One began—
—as
the creature in the cage roared forward, snarling, his great jaws striking the
bars of the cage, causing the whole metal cage to lurch.
Number
One fell backward onto his butt, hands snapped away from the bars.
“You
should see your face,” Wolf the wolf said, licking the bar where Number One’s
fingers had been.
Number
One looked away from the terrifying monster inside the cage to examine his
finger, which was nearly severed and hung only from a strand of flesh, the bone
snapped in two.
Number
Two had leapt back as well, just as shocked as Number One. He had never allowed
himself to come this close to the creature.
“Kill
it!” Number One commanded, not looking away from his destroyed digit.
“Nay,
nay, it wasn’t his fault,” Dasher said, stroking the wolf’s foreleg. “You
shouldn’t have tempted him like that, what, are you the halfwit, or am I?”
“We
will not kill the creature,” Number Two said, his tone steely. “He must be
slain only in High Vale, and when he transports to be with his bonded human, we
can open a portal. And bring our whole party through to rendezvous directly,
uniting our whole army in one swell foop.”
“Did
you just say...swell foop?” Number One said, dreamily.
“Did
I? Excuse me, Sir. I meant to say...um, fell swoop, that we can unite our army
in a fell swoop, like a hawk?”
“Men
from Mars,” Wolf the wolf said. “And you think that the humans are stupid. Your
kind will never equal them, and this is why you shall always fail. You have no
guts, no heart, no grit.”
“The
words of Mr. Aajeel, I presume,” Number One said, still not looking away from
his destroyed finger, which surged with blood.
“These
are my words,” Wolf the wolf said, lying back, favoring his exposed skull. “But
the Lady Maulgraul sends her greetings, before you die.”
“You
cannot understand,” Number One said, “but it is my kind that protects the
humans. Their only hope is in us.”
Wolf
the wolf snorted. “What you offer them is a perpetual prison, and nothing more.”
“We
offer them the world, civilization, the universe, everything. We offer them
life, ongoing, eternal. We—we are all they have.”
“Data
is data,” Wolf the wolf muttered, and then closed his eyes.
Number
One stood and tucked his damaged hand beneath his right arm.
“Get
the creature loaded, the Sisters’ Congress approaches,” Number One ordered,
because even now the moon was approaching, filling the foggy sky with a
silver-green light. The Honey Moon quaked, almost gently, as her smaller sister
neared.
The
chubby man stood and pulled a lever on the dolly, and steam hissed beneath the
cage, and the entire metal box lifted up and floated, inches above the rooftop.
“Let’s
get you home, Wolf,” the chubby man, Dasher, said, almost kindly. And he pushed
lightly on the handles of the dolly and the cage floated neatly on a cushion of
steam. Without hesitation, he strolled out onto the narrow ramp and headed
across the gap.
“You
could accidentally drop me over the side,” Wolf the wolf murmured.
“Aye,
I could do that,” Dasher said, tempted to whistle a tune, but wisely refrained.
“But you do want to be getting back to your master, now don’t you? Won’t it be
good to see the Pugilist again, after all this time?”
“Yes,
it will, and it will be a pleasure to offer him my last breath, even though in
dying, I betray my master,” Wolf the wolf murmured.
Only
minutes later, in the saucer, Number One stood before the viewing screen.
“When
will we lose all technology?” he queried.
“As
soon as we cross the Story Moon,” Number Two said. “That is when our spin
should carry us through, as long as we go for the long glide, and aim toward
the Sentinel, which is tall enough to be viewed from the Story Moon.
Outside,
electricity crackled, a firestorm of generating power as the saucer began its
spin. Inside the gyroscope, Number One felt no movement, even as the great
saucer lifted up from the platform on the rooftops.
“I
am surprised that Mr. Kronoss did not interfere in our departure,” Number One
stated, as the saucer soared into the sky, moving faster. Here on this
Steampunk moon, the saucer was just a contraption, hardly superior to one of
the zeppelins they could now see surging through the skies like sky whales, up
above the fog.
“We
expect some contingency interference on High Vale.”
Number
One considered as the smaller, slightly green moon hove into view. “What we
ought to do, is scrap the whole plan, and instead crash this saucer into the
Looking Glass. To the best of my knowledge, it has never been attempted.
Perhaps this would be the best plan, to depart from our original plan, and
instead try something new, daring. Something they would never expect.”
“We
will not depart this plan,” Number Two said. “We have our targets, and we may
never gain such an opportunity again, with two out in the open, alone,
unprotected.”
Number
One glared at Number Two, but he nodded. Of course, of course. It would never
do for any of them to start acting like humans—that certain unpredictability
that made the biologicals seem so insane, it was no attribute he would wish
disseminated throughout the ranks. It was best to collect two targets, possibly
three, and they might begin plans for a direct assault on the Looking Glass. He
would broach the subject with Master Enseladus, although lately, he felt that
the old man was slipping. The Original
seemed to be chasing his own tail.
“Pick
up the speed,” Number Two commanded from the bridge. “Full speed. Everyone
strap yourselves in, there could be a certain jarring effect when we lose
power.”
The
crew members strapped themselves into their seats. Many of them wore their
alien helmets, believing the theatrical safety equipment would somehow protect
them, in the event of a crash. But their craft had crashed many times, in other
worlds, and there was generally nothing left but for the smoking crater.
“Full
speed,” a crewmember confirmed, his voice sounding mechanical through the
helmet.
The
greenish moon now was vast, a small portion of it bloating their screen. If
they were to crash into it, they could survive for several days, as there was
both atmosphere and water, but it was a vast wasteland, with no way to break
into the indestructible vault that was the Story Moon, wherein they knew was
the fortified Looking Glass, and many of their plotting enemies.
It
was possible, during the Sisters’ Congress, to step off the Story Moon, and be
captured and pulled by the Honey Moon, and thus travel from the smaller Story
Moon, and thus voyage beyond to the Honey Moon, but you had to have some means
of landing, or you would fall to your death in the Steampunk streets below, in
Olde London Town. But that’s why they made the foldable steam wings readily
available, as they became active as soon as you entered the Honey Moon
atmosphere. There was a good half hour of opportunity while the Sisters passed,
where you might pass from one world to the next. From High Vale to Steampunk
London, or vice versa, but the two worlds rarely desired congress, beyond the
passage of moons.
“Uncloak
fore portal,” Number Two commanded, and the moon was visible, directly through
the glass portal shield, providing the Men from Mars a breathtaking view of the
moon just now passing beneath them.
From
the roof of Big Ben tower, far up above the clock face, a small woman watched
the vast saucer pass from the Honey Moon into the lesser atmosphere of the
Story Moon. She spoke into the steam box mounted on the roof of Big Ben,
expressly for this purpose.
“They
are passing, I repeat, they are passing,” she said, and then quickly strapped
on her helmet and her folding wings. She leapt off the roof and her breath
caught in her lungs for just a moment as the physics of the moment determined
her fate, and then she was falling upward, toward the Story Moon. It was like
the dreams she had as a child, when she flew above the ground, and then
suddenly was caught up and soared without control into the skies, an
inverse-vertigo, spiraling her about. This was just like those dreams, but this
was not her first passage through the Sisters’ Congress. She had made this trip
many times, and now she soared like a rocket toward the green moon.
There
would only be a few moments when passing from one moon to the other, that there
would be an absence of atmospheres, and she must hold her breath for a good
thirty seconds as she plummeted toward the green moon. But the greater gravity
of the blue moon would slow her progress as she entered the thin atmosphere of the
green moon, and she would only unfold her wings when she was close to the
surface of the Story Moon. She would need to land close to the lesser Great
Crater, where there was a guarded passage into the Looking Glass.
Aboard
the saucer the crew braced for loss of power, as they now streaked across the
atmospheres, heading from blue into green, and when it came, a sudden
extinguishing of all lights and forward power, the ship shuddered, and jolted,
and heads whipped upon necks, and those wearing their alien grey heads were
supported more than those who displayed machismo and showed their feathers. The
saucer bucked, and then broke through, and there was a loud, rolling burst of
sound, like an explosion, and a ring of steam blasted from about the saucer and
drifted back into the Honey Moon atmosphere, and the saucer smoothed down into
a freefall glide.
“Begin
the slowing procedure, and all crew brace for deceleration—first jerk, now,”
Number Two commanded, speaking loudly, as his stomach pushed up into his ribcage.
Many would vomit in the next few moments, buffeted by the winds of High Vale,
because now they were leaving behind the Story Moon, and folk on the ground
looking up would witness a ball of light, shimmering silver, and then gold, and
then as the saucer entered the thicker atmosphere there would emerge a
remainder, a trail of light and smoke and shimmering sparks that glided in the
sky like fireworks, shimmering through all the spectrum of the rainbow,
creating a nighttime swatch of color that would hang in the sky for hours. It
was beautiful, and enchanting.
It
was a show never seen before in High Vale, as this was the first mass incursion
by the Men from Mars. Oh, they had been here now, for some time, but it was
always accomplished the way the girl now leaving the Honey Moon did it, with
folding wings.
The
Men from Mars could not portal in, as did Mr. Aajeel, or Mr. Kronoss, because
these two gentlemen were allowed in, by the Gatekeeper of this world, the Lady
Maulgraul, but only at her whim. The Men from Mars had not deciphered a means
around her genius hacks, other than by entering the way others would, via the
Honey Moon passage, or as a guest, which entailed passing through the Belly of
the Beast. This world of High Vale was protected in so many ways that VS could
not even locate its storage sectors, whereas the rules of the world-moon Steampunk
Olde London were lax in comparison.
When
the saucer decelerated it suddenly jerked, and again the crew were rocked,
their heads snapping forward, it was like being slammed with a wall of water,
first hitting them from the back, and then reversing to slam them in the face.
They strained forward against their harnesses and then suddenly slammed
backward, as the saucer buffeted in the winds of High Vale.
“Time
slip!” Number Two shouted, closing his eyes, and ducking his head. The crew
knew the drill and completed his same preparations, and then the world flashed
white, and they entered High Vale hours earlier. Folk watching from the ground
saw the shooting star wink out in a simple splash of light (a pebble tossed
into a lake), but inside the saucer, the crew were rocked to the core, first
turning upside-down, then outside-in, and ultimately they returned to their
original position, but in a different buffer of time, and the saucer spun crazily
and ceased all forward motion, and slowly descended toward the forest below.
“We
have the Sentinel in sight, so we are right on target,” Number Two said,
dripping with sweat, feeling exhausted and spent.
It
was now the morning prior to the night they entered High Vale, and so now the
possibility seemed excellent that they would capture both Jack and Stacey. So,
too at this very moment, agents of Kronoss—businessmen—were moving in on the
headquarters of Enseladus, and if there was some way to convey a message back
to the Honey Moon, they could counteract the attack, but they had not figured a
way to accomplish this. Not yet. In the next Grand Scroll, they could keep this
in mind.
Because
all of this would happen again. Perhaps not exactly like this. But in some key
points, it would happen again, and had happened before. It had all happened
thousands of times.
That
was a primary mission of the Men from Mars, to keep advancing, in their
techniques, in their knowledge, and in their wisdom, while maintaining mankind
at its pinnacle of advancement (let them attain that, and no more). Like the
creature said, keep them in a prison, because a prison was better than the
ultimate alternative: death, annihilation. Mankind had already wiped itself
out, in biological terms. And all choose hell when confronted with
annihilation.
The
saucer came down like a pancake slapping a grill. Trees beneath exploded in
shrapnel and bushes flattened. But overall, it was quite a nice landing.
Momentarily, everyone aboard lost consciousness, for just a few seconds, as the
cells of their reality flexibly adapted to this new world. And then they came
alive, feeling as if it was for the first time, their bodies awoke to the
thrill of High Vale. Even though they could not breathe it yet, they sensed the
air all about them. They could see the colors through the shield. They could
feel the energy of the place. Oh, if they could somehow harness this energy, it
would be like containing a nuclear explosion in a thimble.
Yes,
that would be good, good indeed.
They
manually kicked out the saucer portals—the doors were created specifically for
this purpose, landing here, in a world where there was no harnessed power, but
all power was loose and adrift in the ether.
They
piled out in orderly fashion, the troops in lockstep, saluting Number One with
a crisp, knife-edge hand, up and down, very neat, very disciplined. Even the
homegrown High Vale spawn, they were behaving optimally, except that Number One
noticed they were inhaling great lungfuls of the High Vale air, and many were
smiling. He would have to address that, after. To tell the truth, he expected
most of them to die in the next few hours.
But
if they could catch Jack, who even now was climbing the Sentinel—and they could
see the great tree, just there, perhaps two miles away—and if they could catch
Stacey, oh but how things could turn on a dime. Reality would change. For the
first time he would have evidence against both Kronoss and Aajeel, and the
Shaannii would judge in the favor of Master Enseladus, and who knows, perhaps
then the true Enseladus could be known, not that pretender geezer fearful of
entering new worlds. Yes, I am the true Enseladus, Number One thought, his
chest swelling.
Highwaymen
came from out of the woods, gathering in their hundreds. These were the
homegrown, High Vale spawn. Good, dutiful men, with their leather heads
covering their feathers.
Number
One noticed the chubby imbecile, Dancer, or whatever they called him. The
halfwit with the—nose. The oaf was
busily bringing the big cage through the kicked-out portals on a dolly with
wheels. Steam technology did not work here, the proof was in the monstrosity of
the crashed saucer, which now looked like a beached metal whale. The craft had
broken in the middle, and the top half had collapsed partially inward. But by
all tallies, all their force had survived the pancaking. Even the nosey
highwaymen with the creature in its box.
He
still had his wounded hand tucked beneath his arm. He felt there was no reason
to treat the wound, as he did not expect to live beyond this day. No, not
really, he knew what was what. He had been through several such encounters, in
other places, at other times, in other realities.
“Sire!”
one of the highwayman called, this one wearing a somewhat flamboyant green
hooded cloak—at least he looked extravagantly dressed compared to his fellows. “We
have news of the fugitive!”
Number
One glared at the man, but refrained from chastising him. This man had paid him
no respect, other than hailing him with the bizarre title of kingship.
“Have
you captured him?”
“No
Sire, he is gone.”
Number
One glared at the man, who cockily arched an eyebrow in answer. These homegrown
spawn actually had eyebrows, and noses, all of them! How bizarre they looked,
almost like people. There mouths, although small for humans, still looked
within the general range of normalcy.
“Explain
yourself, what do you mean he is gone?”
The
cocky fellow, who pulled back his hood to reveal quite a plumage of yellow
feathers—it almost looked like human hair, blond human hair! Laughed, nodding
his head. The highwaymen about him seemed to be looking up to this homegrown High
Vale highwaymen, like he was some sort of leader among the locals.
“Well,
Sire, you see, we had observers watching from the outside, even while we had
our good men climbing the stairs, and you see Sire, we saw this monk dressed in
black, and he threw the fugitive over the side, from quite high up, along with
what appeared to be a little girl!”
“And
what happened to them?”
“Well,
Sire, you see, exactly what you’d expect, they fell, all the way down.
Supposedly the trunk of the Sentinel goes on forever, without bottom.”
“Do
we have a fix, any longer, do we have a fix on Jack?” Number One spat at Number
Two.
“No.
Sir, I was about to tell you. The young subject is gone, from this world. It
could mean he is dead, or it could mean he is no longer in this world,” Number
Two spoke, not meeting the other man’s eyes. He spoke with military precision. “However,
we do still have a fix on the older subject, the Pugilist.”
“Please
do not refer to him by that absurd name,” Number One barked. “And it is
impossible to move a subject from one reality to another. It just does not
happen.”
“Sir,
it is how they were ever here, in High Vale,” Number Two corrected.
“Just
drop it. But we need to move on the other one.”
“I
believe, Sir, that it is time to reach the older subject, via the bonded
creature,” Number Two said, indicating the cage, which Dasher was wheeling
close at just that moment.
Something
came hurtling just above their heads, something flashing and dark, but which
emitted a trail of fireflies visible in full daylight.
Numbers
One and Two both ducked their heads, and then gaped at the creature that landed
upon the bars of the cage. It was a small, man-like thing, but more like an
animal, like a flying squirrel, only larger. It clung to the bars of the cage
and peered inside.
“Hello,
you must be Wolf the wolf,” the creature upon the bars spoke, very clearly. And
it seemed to drip light down upon the creature’s head. The little creature
shook the bars of the cage and emitted an ear-piercing shriek, and as he did
so, little bursts of light erupted in all directions from his body, like tiny
fireworks.
And
then something large came thundering into their midst, knocking twins right and
left, barreling a path with lowered great horns, straight through the ranks of
the Men from Mars—it looked like a giant, charging ram—until it reached Numbers
One and Two and knocked them both end over end. The creature seized the cage
with mighty hands—or paws—and literally ripped the front side of the cage away
from the box.
Many
of the Men from Mars began moving toward the two newcomers, producing weapons,
sharp black metallic rods, until something new came thundering into their
midst.
This
thing was huge, with obscene pink goat legs, but it walked like a twelve-foot
man upon hooves the size of entire people, and this thing had six arms, and
this thing was angry, indeed.
“I
am Crood!” the monstrosity roared, simultaneously seizing up six Men from Mars.
“I
love it when he says that,” panted the big ram-dog, as it gently drew Wolf the
wolf from the shattered cage, gathering up the dying animal in his big arms.
Although Wolf the wolf had wasted away for nearly a month, the dying wolf was
still quite a load for Joshua to lift.
“Get
me clear of the Men from Mars,” Wolf the wolf murmured near Joshua’s ear.
Michael perched on the animal’s chest, and steadily fed the animal light,
soothing great eggs of brightness into the wolf’s wounded skull.
Joshua
charged across a troop of the strange men and while many of them attempted to
strike him with their spikes, most dove out of his rampaging path. And most of
the men present were fixated on Crood, who stormed amidst them, trampling and
kicking and stomping and seizing up handfuls of the men, flinging them into the
sky, or dashing them upon the ground.
Joshua
came charging back as he had headed into too many of the attackers, and he
circled around to place Wolf the wolf upon the ground, close to the crooden warrior’s hooves.
Michael
leapt from the wolf to Joshua’s shoulder, and he conjured an egg of light,
which he hurled into the face of an attacking highwayman—the egg burst in
fragments of sparks, and several of the men went down, hands over faces. Joshua
braced against the crooden warrior’s
leg, and nipped at anyone straying too close.
And
then men began to fall, arrows jutting from their legs, in quick succession,
one, two, three, four, and soon ten men were on the ground.
Michael,
perched between Joshua’s horns, was looking back, shading his bulging meerkat
eyes with his little hand, and then he seemed to be looking right at Jack—was
it a trick of light? Or was that Jack, waving his bow, smiling. Michael made a
little dip of his body, saluting Jack, who waved in return. Was it real? Or
just a vision?
Whatever
it was, the vision or ghost was certainly handy doling out the arrows.
And
then the Men from Mars were fleeing, and Michael looked down to Wolf the wolf,
and the dying animal met his eyes, and it almost appeared that he smiled.
Michael smiled in return, and began to form an egg of life-giving energy, but
suddenly Wolf the wolf was gone, vanished from the world. Michael witnessed compressed
grasses spring up from where his body had been, only a moment before.
“Wolf
the wolf is gone,” Michael said, sadly, but yet exhilarated.
“Where
did he go? Did he just die? Does that happen here, you vanish when you die?”
Joshua queried, sniffing the ground where the animal had been.
“I
think he went to Stacey,” Michael said, instinctively understanding the mystery
of what had just passed. “He’s with Stacey, now.”
“Crood
have good time,” the giant bellowed, throwing two handfuls of Men from Mars at
the retreating figures.
“Yes,
we are all having a good time,” Joshua said, but he was weak, with many holes
pierced in his side, and Crood, too, was bleeding profusely from many wounds.
Only Michael seemed whole, untouched, and unbloodied.
“Let’s
move away from here, before any of them come back,” Michael chittered, riding
between Joshua’s horns, and Crood nodded, leading the way.
They
did not notice the strange little man—rather chubby, and with a large
nose—following along behind them. Whenever Michael or Crood glanced back, the
little man melted into the foliage of the path.
“We
can’t go back to the Manor, because they will follow us there,” Michael
chittered.
“Yes,
I was thinking that, as well,” Joshua replied, wearily, stumbling along until
Crood picked him up easily in his arms, petting his fur.
“I
thought I saw Jack,” Michael murmured.
“I
wondered who was putting out all those arrows,” Joshua said, dreamily, lulled
by the crooden warrior’s plodding
hooves.
“You
better put us down,” Michael chittered. He was investigating Joshua’s wounds,
and they did not look good, not good at all. Many of the wounds were quite
deep, and the big ram-dog had lost a lot of blood.
The
crooden warrior gently placed Joshua
upon the grasses, and he stroked Joshua’s fur, and Michael realized the giant
was weeping.
“Poor
doggie, poor, poor doggie,” the giant groaned, tears leaking from his eyes.
And
Michael set to work, not knowing if there was any hope left to be had. He
buckled up his courage and began feeding light to the ram-dog. But it didn’t
look good.
Nearby,
the odd chubby highwayman watched, and tears filled his eyes.
© Copyright 2016 Douglas Christian Larsen. Vestigial Surreality. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
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