The Martian War (23 page)

Lashing with static whips from their small walkers, taskmaster Martians drove the two young lovers away from the laboratory spire, leaving Huxley to shout after them, “Use your intellect and your imagination, Wells, and we will find a way out of this.”

Wells struggled as padded claws clamped around his arms, pulling him and Jane down the sloping ramp that led out of the scientific cathedral. “We’ll break free and rescue you, Professor!” His thin voice cracked with desperation.

“And I shall do my best to reciprocate. One of us is bound to succeed.”

As the mechanical walkers marched the two of them along, Wells discovered that it was useless to struggle. The machines were not much larger than a human, but their lashing whips made them far superior. The Martian taskmaster in the control seat of the walking contrivance showed no evil glee at its position; it merely forced the new human slaves to obey.

Wells and Jane matched the rapid pace set by the Martian walkers, circling down level after level. He looked at her, taking her hand and half-fearing that their captors would prevent this brief contact. “At least I’m with you, Jane. Together, you and I have a better chance than the average person to succeed at impossible things.”

She forced a laugh. “And if there was ever an impossible situation, H.G., this one qualifies.”

They finally reached their destination deep beneath the Martian surface, a network of artificially bored passages fused into glassy reddish-black smoothness and lit with artificial illumination crystals. Wells remembered the soothing blue-white phosphorescence in the tunnels of the Grand Lunar; here, though, the light was reddish and dim, as if the window of a lamp had been smeared with fresh blood.

From within the labyrinth, they heard the hissing of exhaust plumes and steam jets, the creak of heavy copper and iron gears ponderously turning, the clank of pistons, the rattle of chains
and pulleys. In the catacombs, the air was close and humid, smelling of dust, chemicals, and grease. Though the heat from the machinery made them truly warm for the first time since they had arrived on Mars, Wells still shivered.

All around them scuttled the thin Selenite drones, working underground and out of sight from the extravagant surface city. The miserable conditions reminded Wells of the conditions faced by spinners and weavers and textile workers, as well as workers in the infamous phosphorus matchstick factories in London. His voice held a dull anger. “This is slave labor, pure and simple. Mindless, wearying. It will crush our spirits and wear us down to nothing.”

“The Selenites have survived all this time. Perhaps they just need a Moses to free them from their bondage.”

Wells let out a bitter chuckle. “Of all the grand goals I had imagined in my life, being Moses was never one of them.”

Mechanical slave masters in grimy iron-ostrich walkers observed all the tunnel activity. They transmitted implacable instructions that crackled through the air, reinforced with blows from their static whips.

The dull Selenite drones worked, making strange squeaking sounds that were not responses or complaints, but utterances of weary, hopeless pain. The lunar slaves took no more notice of their new human comrades than they did of their tasks.

Food and water stations provided meager nourishment, and Wells and Jane replenished themselves for the first time in nearly a day. The water tasted flat, and the pasty food wafers were bitter, but sustenance was sustenance. “We must survive, Jane,” he said quietly. “We will need our strength.”

Martian slave masters loomed over the two humans in their
walking contrivances. Wells forced himself to stand straight and tall, showing bravery for Jane’s sake. The nearest Martian extended robotic arms and clamped a thin metal ring around his neck in a swift, confident movement. Wells had not seen it coming and reacted with surprise, grabbing at the collar. A sharp shock of pain discouraged him from further resistance. He noticed that the Selenite slaves also wore the silvery band. A second slave master fitted Jane’s slender neck with an identical circlet. In its streamlined simplicity, the torc might have been an ornamental piece of jewelry.

From a small device mounted in the walker machine, the silent Martian taskmaster issued a harsh communication. Jolting words came from the collar, burrowing into Wells’s mind.
These collars facilitate your reception of our commands.

“The Selenites are bred to follow the will of the Grand Lunar. For generations, they have been listless but cooperative slaves,” Jane observed. “The Martians seem to expect the same from us.”

“I shall be happy to disappoint them, but I don’t want you to be injured or punished. For now, let us do what we’re told— and observe. Remember what Professor Huxley said. We must use our intellect and imagination to discover our way out of this predicament.”

But as he looked around himself in the shadowy catacombs, at the mechanical slave masters and the hordes of cowed Selenites, he doubted the two of them could find any simple solution.

All that day Wells and Jane performed mindless but difficult labor alongside the Selenites, maintaining the great machinery that ran the Martian civilization. The slave masters did not care that the two humans remained together, nor that they talked or
took comfort in each other’s presence, but their large yellow eyes watched them like a starving hawk, and their static whips crackled menacingly.

Slave masters marched through the smooth tunnels, using devices in their walkers to transmit bursts of complex instructions through the communication collars. Wells and Jane instantly comprehended and followed the commands, though they had no wish to assist the invaders. They fed fuel into generators, cleaned pumps and immense dynamos, built power conduits, and adjusted the water flow and distribution from the canals. The Selenites toiled without rest.

These captive Moon drones were a pale, weak underclass that bore the burden of labor for the superior thinking class. The Martians had atrophied so badly they required artificial machines simply to move about. These Selenites, if they ever realized their power, were truly in control of civilization here. But not so long as they obeyed every command of the overlords. If this kept on for centuries more, Wells suspected that the pampered Martians would be utterly dependent upon the Selenite workers, and the roles of master and slave would be permanently reversed.

Weak and weary after long hours of labor, Wells began to wonder if the Martian slave masters would ever feed them. From Jane’s paleness, the shadows under her eyes, he could see that she was forcing herself to keep going; he tried to pick up the slack in her tasks, but she would have none of it.

Suddenly heavy, hollow gongs began to ring. The insistent signal reverberated through the tunnels. The Selenites instantly paused in their labor as if hypnotized. They straightened, standing in ranks like toy soldiers.

“What is it, H.G.? What does it mean?”

“Let us hope it means no harm to either of us.”

Slave masters marched through the tunnel in their small walkers and led a shuffling column of Selenites upward. Wells had received no instruction through his communication collar, but he did not want to be left behind, always keeping his eyes open for a chance at escape. He and Jane hurried after the drones as the work crew approached an open red rock arena surrounded by white ceramic seats and ramps.

Hundreds of bloated, spidery Martians had gathered there, all of them dismounted from their walkers, eerily silent. Martian drivers thrashed the Selenites with unnecessary static whips, herding them into the arena. The outside air was dry, dusty, and cold. It carried a foul taint, a stink not of sweat or fear … but of anticipation exuded by the sinister Martians.

“This makes me uneasy,” Wells said to Jane.

Martian walkers culled out a group of fifty Selenites, who marched into the center of the open area like cattle. Feeling a shiver down his spine, Wells clutched Jane’s hand. “It’s like a spectacle in an ancient Roman gladiator arena,” she said.

Loud gongs rang again as the chosen Selenites stood waiting, staring motionlessly ahead. Then the tone changed.

A startling roar came from the previously silent Martians, a hungry howl of
“Ulla! Ulla!”
The Martians stampeded out of the stands and rushed onto the field. They moved like a pack, lumbering along with their soft bodies. They squirmed down the ramps from their seats and out into the open area, where they surrounded the defenseless drones.

All the Martians were armed, not with swords or guns, but with crystal-barreled instruments similar to hypodermic
needles. Ravenous predators, the Martians fell upon the lunar creatures, stabbing their hypodermics into the pale flesh. Their bulk held down the squealing Selenite victims as their apparatus drained the flowing vital liquor from the hapless creatures. Unable to escape, the drones squeaked and squirmed as the Martians swarmed over them, waving their tentacles.

Unable to tear away his gaze, Wells tried to understand how the Martians could ever have evolved such a method of acquiring sustenance. It could not be natural, but the Martian race had adapted themselves drastically to changing conditions— building walkers to maintain their mobility, erecting canals to distribute water long after their planet should have died, and now feeding upon the blood of their slaves.

Perhaps they had found the hypodermic ingestion of blood to be more efficient, or more enjoyable, than feeding in a more natural fashion. It was even possible, Wells supposed, that they had altered or bred their physical forms into these new shapes that depended upon the blood of their captives.

No matter what the answer, he found it monstrous.

The other Selenites, those not called into the arena, stood motionless, incapable of resistance.

Though it made him want to vomit, Wells could not tear his eyes from the frenzy of tentacles and thrusting needles that drew out thick, greenish blood and injected it into themselves. He clenched his teeth together in outrage.

“This is horrible, horrible!” Jane cried. “We have to find some way to stop them.”

Wells took deep breaths to keep the dizzying black spots from his vision. He clenched his fists and bunched his muscles, thinking furiously. If the Martians launched their invasion of Earth, they would conquer mankind with little difficulty. The Selenite drones no longer resisted, but humans would fight. It would be a bloody war between Mars and Earth … but given their amazingly sophisticated technology, how could the Martians lose?

Scenes like this feeding frenzy would be played out all across England and America, Europe, Africa, Asia—human beings rounded up and herded into similar slaughter arenas. They would struggle, they would run, but they would all die in the end.

Unless Wells and his companions could stop the invasion.

Rabid with glee, the Martians kept hooting their raucous “
Ulla! Ulla!”
as they stabbed their hypodermics again and again. Although the Selenites had all fallen to the red dust by now, the Martians continued feeding, sucking every last drop of life fluid from their victims. Soon the dead Selenites were little more than trampled husks, leathery lumps that had been living beings … creatures who once served a benevolent and enlightened Grand Lunar. Now they were no more than garbage, the remnants of a feast for hideous Martian master minds.

Finally the gongs rang again to release the Selenites from the horrific feeding ritual. The drones marched back into the dark and oppressive tunnels, where they were forced to continue their infinite labors.

Sickened and fearful, Wells led Jane toward the dubious safety of the catacombs. He expected to see panic in her lovely brown eyes, but instead they flashed at him, and he saw the strength and determination that had endeared her to him throughout their long adventure. “We have to do more than just protect Earth, H.G. If it is in our power, if it is humanly
possible, we’ve got to save the Selenites too. We have to rescue them from this horror.”

Wells took her arm and nodded, just as determined as she. “And I want to see the Martians not just defeated, but utterly destroyed.”

FROM THE JOURNAL OF DR. MOREAU

Though the Martian had told us of its race and its world, still I did not feel we understood it. This alien being was more exotic than anything either Marco Polo or Jonathan Swift ever described. Its words and images were comprehensible to us, but the deep thoughts within that immense brain remained a cipher.

I sensed the Martian was keeping secrets from us, but Lowell was so overjoyed by the marvels revealed in the crystal egg that he failed to consider all the information he did
not
know.

Attempting to become friendly with our interplanetary guest, he proposed an expedition out into the desert. Though I didn’t understand what Lowell had in mind, I had no objections, so long as the logistical details could be solved. He looked at me with his bright eyes. “We will take my new motorcar.”

* * *

Most travel in Arizona Territory is done on horseback or in carriages. The dirt roads are rutted wagon tracks; even Flagstaff’s Main Street, crossed by the railroad tracks, has no paving stones or gutters.

While we’d been in Boston visiting his family, Lowell had grown enamored with Karl Benz’s new vehicles. Rattlewheeled models with capricious engines had recently been shipped over from Europe. Lowell became determined that he must be the first to own one of the four-wheeled motorcars, as a mark of his superiority.

On the day the motorcar reached Flagstaff via the Santa Fe rail, a crowd of curious spectators gathered to see the contraption. They watched as Lowell assembled the components according to instructions, added the oil and gasoline, and, after several abortive tries, succeeded in starting the popping, fluttering engine. Wearing an immensely pleased smile, sitting straight and tall, Lowell drove the rattletrap vehicle out of town and up the steep road to Mars Hill.

Thus far, Lowell had had little opportunity to use the motorcar on expeditions. Being intent on our conversations with the Martian, he had not yet taken the mayor of Flagstaff for a ride, or the saucer-eyed Methodist minister, or
the railway executive who had stopped on his way through town. Today, though, he proposed to take the
Martian
for a ride out into the dry Arizona desert.