It wasn’t my wrath at Mr. Wells alone that set my destination. I knew◦– I believed◦– that I had once travelled to the moon. I could reach, surely, for our nearest planet?
A moment of hyperawareness. My itching nose. The crisp sheets.
Then, up! This time, I was flying in daylight. The ship underneath me was a white toy on a blue sea, and when I climbed◦– and I did so confidently◦– the stars came out. Towards the great white face of the moon and past it. Its dark side was the first thing that really frightened me: craters the size of countries, with shadows so dark that I hallucinated things that squirmed and sparkled.
I marshalled all I remembered from Christopher’s small book and located the Red Planet. A red dot like a hot star. I set my course towards it and leaped.
And Wells was wrong! He was wrong entirely. I didn’t even need to get close enough to see the surface of the planet before I knew he was mistaken. The red of Mars wasn’t caused by a weed, or any kind of plant. Instead, it was◦– as far as I could tell◦– a property of dust. A hot and howling crimson mist, caused by ceaseless sandstorms. Like the haunted landscapes in the largest rubies: demon-chasms, their walls collapsing in, but never filling them, as debris is always boiling up out of them.
I sought a quieter spot: the long canals of Mars. I swooped down and hid in their cool, geometric shelter.
And there were others there with me.
They were near to my shape, seeming to be seated in a ring, but on no visible ledges or stones. I thought them inhabitants of Mars, at first. They were not tripod machines, nor had they oily tentacles◦– they were beautiful! Then I saw, trailing behind them, the silver thread that could take each of them home (so much more flimsy than it felt when embedded in one’s own guts). Then I knew them to be thoughtforms, visitors like myself, gathered here. Possibly they lived too far apart on Earth to meet through ordinary means, or perhaps they wanted secrecy. I drew close and, under the howling of the storms, I heard them speak faintly to one another.
They had come to Mars to plan war.
last raid of the campaign, guys
need to synchronise
hell yes
mcneill sets up a bombardment
doing it already
ellis, you send in your divisions to draw the initial attack
why mine
because we all had heavier losses than you last time
yeah, because I’m not an idiot
I had thought war would sound grander.
we agreed it already, ellis
your divisions soak up the hits
ellis you agreed
ellis?
bathroom break
The form that had just spoken melted into translucence
every time
has he got some kind of medical condition
we’ll miss our window
Which of these tired youngsters was the general? Perhaps they were all civil servants. I moved closer. The translucent one became more substantial again.
I’m back but my visuals are weird, anyone else?
ours are fine
your machine’s pathetic, ellis
I can see right down the valley to the encampment
well I’ve got some crappy space theme or a desert maybe
so have I, now
it’s really cheap-ass
One of the men of war turned and noticed me.
someone else just checked in
did you invite him?
god no
it’s a closed group, isn’t it? who invited him?
he’s the one messing up the visuals
this is supposed to be a private room
they’re never secure
jesus get the mods to lock him out
and throw up some earthworks while we’re waiting
A wall of Martian rock reared up in front of my feet. But it had no substance, and I stepped through it.
jesus
The men of war threw their weapons at me. Bombs flew, bullets whizzed through me. When their objects failed to touch me, they sent other, uncanny attacks. They blasted out their knowledge of past atrocities and it crumbled my bones. Like a disorientating cloud, I was surrounded by their indifference to suffering. I stumbled back.
But I also instinctively sent a scathing retaliation: flying barbs, then acid drops falling from the Martian clouds. I saw them flinch.
“I mean you no harm!” I called. Could men of war understand such a sentiment? The sound of my voice sent them into new confusion.
where’s he coming in from
tell the mods to block his account
can’t see who his provider is
this is a nightmare
we could change channel?
why should we have to go anywhere?
tell the mods to push him on
call off the raid?
we’ll miss our window!
we’ve missed it, we’re screwed
The men turned to steam. Their walls and bombs and clouds faded with them.
And my silver cord pulled me back, because someone was shaking my physical body, hard.
Whipped back through thousands of miles of space. It felt like the air was sucked out of my lungs, but I had none.
I opened my eyes and saw a crinkled face, bending down into my own. A hairy hand on my chest, shaking me.
“Oh, thank the Lord, I thought you’d died.” Christopher sat with a thump on the bed next to my feet. “Did you take a sleeping draught?”
I found my mouth and tongue where I’d left them. “Sorry. I sleep deeply, these days.” Should I tell him where I’d been? I couldn’t stand him dismissing me again. “Where are we, please?”
“Fifty miles out of Liverpool into the Irish Sea. Heading for the Atlantic.” His frown had lifted. He’d become more accustomed to exile than to England. We were both going to strange lands, but he was also heading home.
Later that night, as I approached Mars for the second time, I wasn’t alone.
“Christopher!”
He flew next to me, wearing a vivid blue necktie I’d never seen in the flesh.
I was delighted◦– vindicated! I wondered how I’d brought him along. But his substance was different from mine, and different from the warmongers on Mars: crisper, brighter. Had he been here before?
“Oh, I’m not Christopher.” He said it with absolute assurance, in his usual nasal voice. It was as eerie as if he’d said: “I’m dead, of course.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a mod, actually.”
“A what?”
“A guide. Keeping the channels secure.”
He made a little dip in the air and took my hand to tow me along. His hand felt warm.
“I don’t…”
“I’m just steering you away from where you’re not supposed to be.” He smiled away my uncertainty. “Come on, I know this place better than you.”
“Why do you look like my friend?”
“I don’t look any way in particular. You’re making me look like this.”
Of course! The explanation I’d given Christopher, years ago◦– that my mind was interpreting what I could see. “Because you’re the last person I saw? Or because I think of you as my guide?” I’d always been a passive traveller. It was Christopher who booked the tickets and read aloud from the Baedeker.