The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [13]
Lucy, he thought. And, my love.
He had half an hour to save her.
FIVE
The Martian Probe
Once in about every fifteen years a startling visitant makes his appearance upon our midnight skies, a great red star that rises at sunset through the haze about the eastern horizon, and then, mounting higher with the deepening night, blazes forth against the dark background of space with a splendour that outshines Sirius and rivals the giant Jupiter himself. Startling for its size, the stranger looks the more fateful for being a fiery red. Small wonder that by many folk it is taken for a portent.
– Percival Lowell, Mars
Picture, for a moment, the great city from above. On one side of the river rise ancient stone buildings, their chimneys puffing out smoke into the night air. Interspersed between them are newer, taller edifices, magnificent constructions in metal and glass, returning the glare of gas and lights from their smooth surfaces. Here is the Strand, the wide avenue overflowing with ladies in their fineries and beggars with their bowls, with hansom cabs and baruch-landaus. The stench of abandoned rubbish mingles here with the latest perfumes. Here is Charing Cross Station, looking from above like a great diving helmet, its faceplate open to the world, its wide mouth spewing out metal slugs who chug merrily away across the wide bridge and over the river.
Here are the Houses of Parliament, cast in the strange, scaly material so beloved of the Queen and her line. They glow in the darkness, an eerie green that casts flickering shadows over the water. Here, too, is the palace, that magnificent, impenetrable dome, surrounded by the famous Royal Gardens with their many acres of marshes and ponds.
At a distance, instantly recognisable, is the Babbage Tower, rising into the dark skies like an ancient obelisk, strange devices marring its smooth surface like the marks of an alien alphabet. A light flickers constantly at its apex, warning away the airships that fly, day and night, above the city. Rise higher and you can see them, flying in a great dark cloud over the cityscape like an unkindness of ravens, like a siege of herons. Night and day the airships fly, the eyes and ears (so it is said) of the Lizard Kings, landing and taking off from the distant Great Western Aerodrome that lies beyond Chiswick and Hounslow.
Pull away, return to the great avenue of the Strand and to the train station that belches constant smoke and steam at its extremity. One train, one metal slug, departs from its gaping mouth and snakes away, departing this side of the river, going south and west. Past grimy industrial Clapham it runs, and onwards, through the genteel surroundings of Putney, where wealthy residents dine in well-lit riverside establishments, past the guarded, hushed mansions of Kew, until it arrives at last in that sea of greenery and country charm that is the Queen's summer abode, the calm and prosperous town of Richmond-upon-Thames.
A lone figure spews out of the metal slug. Orphan, running out of the station and onto the High Street, past rows of quaint, orderly shops dispensing gilttooled, Morocco-bound books, fresh flies (by Royal licence! screams the sign), fishing-rods and boat trips, delicate delicatessens and chemists and florists. Turning, he runs, breathing heavily up Hill Street, past the White Hart and the Spread Eagle and the Lizard and Crown, arriving, at last, out of breath, eyes stinging with sweat, at the open gates of the Royal Park.
Harsh lights illuminated the wide open space now crammed with people. There was an air of festivity to the event and the smells of roasting peanuts and mulled wine wafted in the air, coming from the many stands that littered the outskirts of the crowd. Many people wore large, round, commemorative red hats – for Mars – or lizard-green – for Her Majesty. Many waved flags.
Orphan pushed his way through the crowds, feeling desperation overcome him. Ahead of him he could see the outline of the majestic black