The Martian Falcon (Lovecraft & Fort) (8 page)

CHAPTER 11
A Warning

A MESSAGE FROM MARS?

__________

FAMOUS INVENTOR RECEIVES

TRANSMISSION FROM THE RED PLANET

ANCIENT CIVILIZATION MORE ADVANCED THAN PREVIOUSLY THOUGHT

TELEVISION PICTURES SHOW

PLANETWIDE CATASTROPHE

Dr. Nikola Tesla, inventor of polyphase electric current and the AC motor, pioneer in high-frequency transmission, predecessor of Marconi with the wireless and inventor of the Tesla Force Beam, claimed yesterday to have detected an electrical transmission originating on Mars.

Using the ‘Teslascope’, a device he designed and constructed at his laboratory in Colorado Springs, Dr. Tesla was engaged upon an experiment in long-distance wireless transmission and reception, when his equipment detected the signal.

Initially, he thought that the signal might have been a natural non-terrestrial radio source such as that produced by the magnetosphere of the giant planet Jupiter; however, acting on the kind of hunch which is emblematic of his genius, Dr. Tesla ran the signal through his televisualizing equipment and was astonished to see moving images of scenes on a planet other than the Earth…

‘Hey, Howard, look at this,’ said Fort, pushing that day’s edition of the
Herald Tribune
across the counter.

They had gone for lunch at the drugstore on Atlantic Avenue. Lovecraft had decided to try Hans’s meatloaf, having been advanced a week’s pay by Fort, and reluctantly he put down his knife and fork to take the paper. He read the front-page report quickly, his nostrils twitching at the insistently delicious aroma drifting up from the two slabs of meatloaf, the mashed potatoes, greens and thick brown gravy, all of which lay as yet untouched on his plate.

As he read, he gradually forgot about his food.

‘A transmission from Mars?’ he said. ‘That’s astonishing! How can it be?’

‘Read on,’ said Fort, digging in to his cheeseburger.

Lovecraft read aloud: ‘“According to Dr. Tesla, the moving images recorded on his equipment show scenes of devastation covering the entire planet: cities in ruin, strange-looking people running in panic or lying dead upon the ground, and something vast, hazy and indistinct hovering in the sky. The scientist believes that the images show events on the planet Mars – events which occurred at least five million years ago. He added that there are more images, but they are too indistinct to reveal much information. He is working hard to process them through his highly-specialised equipment, hoping to increase their resolution.

‘“When asked how such images could have been transmitted to Earth, in view of the fact that nothing lives on the Red Planet now, Dr. Tesla replied that somewhere on Mars there must be some kind of mechanical apparatus which is still functioning.’”

Lovecraft put down the newspaper and glanced at Fort. The sight of his employer munching on the cheeseburger reminded him of his own lunch. He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. ‘The headline is quite right,’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘The ancient Martian civilisation must have been far more advanced than hitherto assumed.’

Fort nodded.

‘It’s astonishing,’ Lovecraft continued, ‘that the transmitting apparatus is still working after such an incredible span of time. It’s been sending out its strange message for millions of years!’

‘What makes you think that?’ asked Fort.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Fort crunched loudly on a dill pickle. ‘Why do you think it’s been transmitting constantly for the last five million years?’

‘How’s da meatloaf, Mr Lovecraft? Pretty good, huh?’ shouted Hans from the kitchen.

‘Excellent, thank you,’ Lovecraft replied.

‘Damn right it’s excellent,’ said Hans, cracking an egg onto the hotplate.

Lovecraft indicated the newspaper. ‘I’m not sure I understand your question. Isn’t it obvious that it’s been transmitting for all that time? I mean… Dr. Tesla has intercepted it.’

Fort smiled. ‘If it’s been transmitting ever since the heyday of the Martian civilisation, how come it wasn’t picked up by the X-M’s receivers during the expedition? You’d think they’d have mentioned it.’

Lovecraft chewed thoughtfully on a piece of meatloaf. ‘I see what you mean.’

Fort chuckled. ‘Glad the penny’s finally dropped, Howard. Now, what does that imply to you?’

It only took Lovecraft a moment to make the connection. ‘Good Lord!’ he cried. ‘The implication’s obvious, isn’t it? The transmitting apparatus must have been activated following the departure of the X-M on its return flight to Earth…’

‘Coincidence?’ prompted Fort.

‘Unlikely, I’d have to say. It must have been the presence of the rocketship which activated the apparatus.’

‘Could well be,’ replied Fort. ‘On the other hand, it could be that the removal of the Falcon was what caused the activation. Either way, we’re left with the same question.’

‘Which is?’

‘Why? Why did the arrival of travellers from another planet – and/or the taking of the artefact we know as the Martian Falcon – trigger the transmission of that message?’

Lovecraft scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes. He was about to pop it into his mouth when he stopped suddenly. ‘A warning,’ he said. ‘Given the contents of the transmission – the devastation, the people fleeing and dying – there can be no other reason. But the question remains: what
caused
the catastrophe, a catastrophe that seems to have wiped out an entire civilisation?’

‘Maybe it had something to do with the thing in the sky. “Something vast, hazy and indistinct”,’ Fort quoted. ‘Sounds weird enough for one of your stories, Howard!’

‘Indeed,’ said Lovecraft, who, it was true, had begun to consider the fictional possibilities for such an intriguing event. ‘But if it
is
a warning…’

‘Then we could be in a whole heap of trouble,’ said Fort. ‘And by “we”, I mean the entire human race.’

Lovecraft put down his fork. Suddenly, he had lost his appetite.

‘You’re not going to finish that?’ said Fort.

Lovecraft shook his head, so Fort grabbed the plate and slid it in front of him. ‘Great meatloaf, Hans!’ he called.

‘Damn straight,’ replied Hans over his shoulder.

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Lovecraft.

‘I think we should take a trip out to Colorado and see Dr. Tesla. I want to get a good look at that transmission, see exactly what it contains, and what he thinks about it. I mean, what he
really
thinks – not what he’s told the press. I also want to see if he’s managed to increase the resolution on the images.’

‘I’ve never been to Colorado before,’ said Lovecraft.

‘Well, grab your spurs, Howard, ’cause we’re heading out west.’

‘
Scheisse!
’ yelled Hans suddenly from the serving hatch leading to the kitchen.

Everyone at the counter jumped and looked at him.

‘What’s up, Hans?’ asked Fort.

The kobold pointed at the street door.

Two zombies had just walked in.

‘God damn it, not again,’ muttered Fort.

‘You know, Charlie,’ said Hans, shaking his large blue head, ‘I’m startin’ to worry about the company you keep.’

‘What makes you think they’ve come for me?’ asked Fort in a weary, sardonic tone.

‘Fort,’ said one of the zombies. ‘Come with us.’

Hans shrugged. ‘That.’

‘Back to the Algonquin, boys?’ said Fort.

‘Not this time,’ the zombie replied.

‘I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking where?’

‘Not much.’

Lovecraft leaned towards Fort. ‘Shall I come too?’

‘Hell yeah.’

*

The limo which was parked at the kerb outside was a lot bigger than the one Fort had ridden in the previous day; in fact, this one was more like a bus than a car. Although it still looked like a Studebaker, an average-sized automobile could have fit under its hood with room to spare.

‘Good grief!’ whispered Lovecraft into Fort’s ear as they approached. ‘Look at the size of that thing!’

‘It’s Capone’s personal limo,’ Fort replied. ‘He had it built specially. It’s the only car he’ll fit into.’

One of the zombies opened the rear passenger door, which was twice the size of a normal car door, and motioned them inside.

Fort and Lovecraft climbed in and sat side by side on the rear-facing bench seat. Capone sat opposite. They regarded him in silence, Fort with weary resignation, Lovecraft with undisguised terror. The two zombies sat on either side of their boss.

‘Who’s your pal?’ asked the Diesel-powered Gangster, gesturing with a huge metallic paw.

‘This is Howard Lovecraft,’ Fort replied. ‘A new associate.’

Lovecraft nodded vigorously without saying anything.

‘Looks like he belongs in a library,’ said Capone.

I do
, Lovecraft thought miserably.

Capone turned his attention to the zombie in the driving seat. ‘Tony, drive – and don’t stop for nothin’ or nobody.’

As the car’s twenty-litre engine gave a thunderous growl and the enormous vehicle pulled swiftly away from the kerb, Capone said: ‘Got to keep movin’ now. Too dangerous at the Algonquin. The smart move would be to get out of New York altogether – head back to Chicago… but I ain’t never run from nothin’ in my life, and I ain’t gonna start now.’

‘You’re talking about Sanguine’s boys,’ said Fort.

‘You catch on quick, Charlie. Yeah, Sanguine’s boys. Someone staked him, and now the shit’s flying hot. We’re goin’ to the mattresses on this one. Things are gonna get ugly.’

Fort was about to ask Capone if he was responsible, thought better of it, and instead said: ‘Do you have any idea who might have done it?’

‘You think it was me, Charlie?’ asked Capone, leaning forward in his seat. The pistons powering his artificial body hissed ominously.

‘That wouldn’t make sense, Mr Capone,’ Fort replied quickly. ‘I mean, why bring me in if you intended to take care of the Sanguine problem yourself?’

Lovecraft nodded again. Capone glanced at him, and he stopped.

‘Yeah, well, you’re right. I didn’t order the hit.’

‘Do you know who did?’ Fort repeated.

Capone shook his head. ‘But word on the street is that the Brooklyn vampires are lookin’ for Rusty Links. Seems she’s gone missing.’

‘Sanguine’s squeeze?’ said Fort. ‘You think she might have had something to do with it?’

‘How the fuck do I know?’ Capone growled. ‘You know she’s a shifter, right?’

‘I’d heard rumours.’

‘Yeah, well, they’re true, and word is Sanguine’s boys think she’s working for me…’

‘But she isn’t.’

‘Hell no! I don’t like shifters: can’t trust ’em. But you’re right, Links might have had something to do with it. In any case, she’s gone, and there could be two reasons for that: either she’s running scared ’cause she knows who did it, or she’s skipped ’cause
she’s
the one who did it – and neither option looks too good for me.’

‘I understand,’ said Fort. ‘And believe me, I sympathise. Looks like you’ve exchanged one problem for another.’

‘That’s what I wanna talk to you about.’

Oh Christ, here it comes
, thought Fort.

‘The terms of our agreement have just changed, Charlie,’ said Capone. ‘You’ve got to get the vampires off my back – prove to them that I had nothing to do with offing their boss.’

‘How the hell am I supposed to do that?’ said Fort, his voice rising in incredulity.

Capone leaned forward again. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, I don’t think I heard you.’

This time, Fort leaned forward as well. ‘I
said
, how the hell am I supposed to do that?’ The order was so outrageous, so impossible, so downright suicidal, that he no longer cared about offending the mob boss.

Capone gave him a long look, and then his fat, cruel face twisted into a smirk. ‘You got balls, Charlie,’ he chuckled. ‘You’ll think of a way. No one wants a war: it’s bad for business. But a war is what’s comin’ unless this mess gets sorted out. And the fact is there’s no way out for you. Word is already out that you’re workin’ for me. The cops know you went to the Algonquin with my boys yesterday. And if the cops know, you can bet your ass the vampires do too. You’re in the shit as deep as I am, Charlie boy; now it’s up to you to get us both out.’

‘Hey, boss,’ said the zombie who was driving.

Capone glanced at him. ‘What?’

‘We got company.’ The zombie jerked a glistening thumb (minus nail) over his shoulder.

Capone twisted in his seat to look through the limo’s rear window. Fort and Lovecraft stood up to get a better view.

The car immediately behind was large and sleek, its windows tinted almost completely black. With a screech of tyres it swerved suddenly, revealing an identical car behind. The second car swerved in the opposite direction, and both accelerated until they were flanking Capone’s limo.

‘Oh, crap,’ said Fort. ‘Vampires.’

CHAPTER 12
Death Has No Speed Limit

Without waiting to be told, Tony the driver gunned the car’s massive engine, and Lovecraft and Fort simultaneously grabbed the leather handgrips on each side of the cabin as the vehicle surged forward.

‘Oh good grief!’ cried Lovecraft.

‘Hang on to your hat, librarian,’ said Capone, his face contorted in a mirthless grin. ‘Tony’ll get us out of this.’

‘Right, boss,’ Tony gurgled, spinning the steering wheel suddenly.

There was an ugly crunch of metal against metal as the limousine shunted the car in front out of its way. Lovecraft and Fort looked through the side window in time to see the car spinning off the road and into a storefront, where it disappeared in a messy, multicoloured cloud of exploding fruit and vegetables.

‘Mr Capone,’ said Lovecraft. ‘I wonder if you might drop us off and forge ahead without us. I assure you we’ll be wishing you the very best of luck.’

‘Hey Charlie,’ said Capone. ‘I like this guy: he’s got a sense of humour like yours!’

Fort glanced at Lovecraft and saw in his eyes that he wasn’t joking; and that, he realised, was funny. He started laughing and held onto the handgrip with all his might as Tony barged another car off the road. The zombies sitting on either side of Capone looked straight ahead, their dead faces completely expressionless, like two bored passengers on a bus.

The sleek, black vampire cars drew level with the limousine once again. Their rear passenger windows rolled down and the muzzles of a distressing number of Tommy guns poked out.

‘God damn it!’ said Fort. ‘Is this car armoured?’

‘Of course it is, Charlie,’ Capone replied nonchalantly, as the deafening stutter of machine gun fire erupted from the vampires’ cars, accompanied by the metallic clatter of shells striking the polished flanks of the limousine. ‘But they’re gonna get tired of that pretty soon, I’d say… and then they’ll try something else.’

‘And what might that be?’ asked Lovecraft, hanging onto his own handgrip as the car swerved this way and that, braking and accelerating in quick succession as Tony tried to shake their pursuers.

‘Probably try to run us off the road and use their strength to rip open the doors…’

Lovecraft ratcheted up the look of horror on his face by several notches. ‘And then?’

‘They’ll probably rip your heads off and beat me to death with them.’

‘Charles,’ said Lovecraft.

‘Yes, Howard?’

‘I resign.’

Tony swerved once again, this time taking the car onto the onramp leading to the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. As they reached the elevated section, Lovecraft caught a glimpse of New York Harbor, with Governors Island sprawling in the near distance and the Statue of Liberty beyond. He realised that he would have given pretty much anything to be at either of those places at that moment.

Tony gunned the engine again, and the limousine surged forward. Fort guessed their speed to be around eighty miles an hour. He glanced over his shoulder at the road ahead and prayed that Tony wouldn’t need to shunt anymore cars out of the way. If he did, the weight of the limousine would easily push them through the crash barriers and onto the road below. Fortunately, the traffic was fairly light, and Tony settled for swerving around the cars ahead instead of ploughing straight through them. Fort guessed that their driver did this in order to maintain their speed, rather than through any concern for the other road users.

Capone was right in his assumption about the vampires’ next move. While the rain of bullets continued from one car, the other dropped back a few feet and began to swerve into the limousine’s rear end. The car jerked and shuddered with each metallic clank, and Tony fought the steering wheel in an effort to keep on a straight course. Fort had been worried about other cars being shunted off the elevated section of the Expressway; but now he realised that the vampires were trying to do precisely that to the limousine. He guessed that they were about fifty feet up. If the limo went over the side, he didn’t give much for their chances of surviving the fall.

‘Okay,’ said Capone suddenly. ‘I’ve had just about enough of this shit.’

With a hiss of pistons he leaned forward, reached under his seat and brought out what looked like a Thompson submachine gun – although the distinctive drum magazine was twice the normal size.

‘I don’t think that’s going to be much good against a bunch of vampires, Mr Capone,’ observed Fort, as another shunt from the car behind nearly threw him to the floor.

‘Correction, Charlie boy,’ replied Capone as he cocked the weapon with a loud click. ‘Your normal Chicago typewriter carries .45 ACP cartridges, which have about as much effect on a nightwalker as bad language; but
this
baby has rock crystal shells full of holy water – and
that’s
a different story!’

‘Chicago typewriter?’ said Lovecraft.

‘It’s a nickname for a Tommy gun, Howard,’ Fort replied.

‘Oh… I rather like that.’

‘Glad you approve, librarian,’ said Capone as he reached up and pressed a button set flush with the ceiling of the passenger cabin. A large panel in the ceiling slid forward, and Capone stood up so that his head and upper torso were poking through the opening.

The pistons mounted where a human’s hips would be hissed and flexed as the Diesel-powered Gangster pivoted around and brought the modified Tommy gun to bear on the vampire car which was still in its flanking position at the limousine’s side.

‘Hey, dumb fucks!’ he shouted at the top of his artificial lungs. ‘Get a load of this!’

He began firing through the open windows of the vampires’ car. Fort and Lovecraft could hear the resulting screams even above the roar of the limousine’s engine and the stutter of competing gunfire. The car behind ceased its attempts to shunt the limo off the road. Fort guessed that the drive had been taken by surprise at this new turn of events.

The arms holding the machine guns, black-sleeved and gloved, began to jerk violently, so that the bullets flew in all directions. One uncontrolled volley struck the rear end of a large delivery truck in front of the limo. Several bullets hit the tyres, which exploded with loud rubbery bangs.

The truck began to swerve back and forth across the road as the driver fought to control the wheel. It took just a few moments for him to lose the battle with his vehicle’s high centre of gravity. The truck threw itself over like a child having a tantrum, spilling its contents across the road and sliding along the asphalt in a shower of sparks.

‘Oh shit,’ said Tony as he tried to avoid the wreck, but the driver of the second vampire car had seen his opportunity and accelerated sharply, ploughing into the rear of the limo and shunting it forward just as the zombie driver spun his steering wheel to the left. The huge vehicle slewed across the road, its oversized tyres screeching in protest.

‘Hold onto your hats, boys,’ said Capone as he ducked down and dropped onto the rear seat, crushing one of his zombies to a stinking pulp as he did so. ‘Oh… sorry, Pauly.’

‘Dat’s okay, boss,’ the zombie gurgled, just before his head fell off and rolled messily onto the floor.

With a sickening crunch, the limousine hit the upended delivery truck side-on. Fort, Lovecraft and the other zombie were thrown violently to one side of the cabin by the impact, and then to the floor. Fort’s head collided with that of the crushed zombie.

‘Oh shit,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Pauly.’

‘Dat’s okay.’

Still brandishing his modified Thompson, Capone flexed one piston-driven leg and kicked the rear passenger door clean off its hinges. It skittered across the scarred asphalt towards the two vampire cars, which had come to a halt behind the limo.

The cars were Duesenbergs, their styling aggressive and elegant, and entirely in keeping with the nature of their occupants. Their black paintwork glinted in the sunlight, as did the highly-polished chrome of their radiator grilles and headlamps. Their heavily-tinted windshields were like the black sunglasses of implacable assassins.

Capone climbed from the limousine and stood before them with his steel legs planted firmly apart upon the road, ignoring the honks and squealing tyres of the oncoming traffic that swerved to avoid the wreck. ‘All right, you nightwalkin’ cocksuckers!’ he shouted. ‘You wanna dance? Then let’s dance!’

The doors of the Duesenbergs opened, and eight vampires emerged. They were dressed entirely in black, right down to their shirts and ties, and each wore a black leather mask which completely covered his head. Their eyes were hidden behind goggles as heavily tinted as the windows of their cars. From inside the limo, Fort could see that a couple of them were standing awkwardly, half bent over. They must have been the ones who were hit by Capone’s shells: the holy water must have seeped through the fabric of their suits, eating into their skin like acid.

‘Buncha deadbeats!’ shouted Capone. ‘Think you can take me, huh? Then let’s go!’

‘What do you think our chances are of emerging from this altercation alive?’ asked Lovecraft.

Fort glanced at him. ‘Not great, Howard. Not great.’ He hesitated, then added: ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s my aunts I feel sorry for,’ Lovecraft replied. ‘My death will hit them very hard.’ There was sadness and resignation in his voice, but no fear. Fort gave him a longer look but said nothing.

They returned their attention to the scene outside the limo. Capone had trained his weapon on the vampires, who had in turn brought their Thompsons to bear on him. Fort noted that they were aiming high: when the shooting started, they would go for headshots, since it would be futile to fire at Capone’s massive, armoured body.

As far as Fort knew, Capone’s head was as vulnerable to injury as his body once had been. He didn’t give much for the Diesel-Powered Gangster’s chances against the vampires: bullets filled with holy water was a good idea on paper, but in practice all it seemed to have done was piss them off even more.

And when they were done with Capone…

Fort glanced again at Lovecraft. ‘It’s been nice knowing you, Howard,’ he said.