Flaming Zeppelins (35 page)

And what of Beadle and John Feather and Passepartout, the big machine they called Steam?

Had they traveled by night?

Could they have sneaked into London?

Finally, that sort of talk and consideration died out and we began to talk about things that had nothing to do with our current situation. Twain talked of his losses, and how his humor had almost dried up. Verne talked of frustration with his publisher, how they did not want him to publish a very dark novel he was writing about Paris. Rikwalk talked of his family, his world, and how he missed it. He spoke so eloquently, when he finished, I missed his Mars as well.

And I spoke of fish.

I know. It's a simple thing. But I like fish. I think about them all the time. I was also hot, and at some point we made our way back to the village and watered me down with the pump, filled our water bottle, and managed to find a few tins of food. We carried these back to the grove, and waited there until nightfall. Talking. Eating. Dozing. Dreaming. Fearing.

And so the night came and we started out. Rikwalk knuckled alongside the cruiser, and we hovered over the countryside, not far from the road, ever on the lookout for the machines.

About the same time that night fell, a fog rose. It misted whitely across the land as if it were some kind of mystical dragon. It seemed to coil and writhe over the landscape. Soon, we found ourselves inside it, wrapped up by it, and once again, I thought of those insect specimens balled up in cotton, waiting for death.

I thought, Would it be so bad to return to the sea?

Out there I could live free.

I couldn't keep my hat, since it wouldn't last in the sea, or stay on my head for two shakes. But I would be amongst my own kind. Except for the fact that they would not be as smart and wouldn't have books, and the metalwork on my head, though resistant to rust in general, might be ruined by too much water and too much salt.

It was a hard thing to consider.

No fez.

No books.

But there would be fish.

My thoughts were exploded when Rikwalk whispered.

“There. See the light?”

And we did. It was high up and fanning about. The light from the head of one of the Martian killing machines.

There was a hill in front of us, and we went tight against it. I settled the cruiser down on the ground, and we stood inside it.

Rikwalk lay down on the ground and rolled on his side, let his back rest against the base of the hill. It was the only way he could not be conspicuous.

There were dead sheep lying about the hill, under the fog, as if it were their blanket. They had been hit by rays and were missing heads and limbs and had head-sized holes punched through them. The holes were clean and cauterized. The Martians, not distinguishing the sheep from humans, had destroyed them along with everything else in their path. The sheep were bloated and bug-infested, and they stunk to high heaven, and the fog held the stink down close to the earth.

The machine was on the other side of the hill and above us, slicing into the fog. We could see its light. Then we could see more lights. I kept my flipper close to the cruiser's controls, lest we should need to spurt away.

Of course, the cruiser, though reasonably fast, was nowhere near as swift as the stalking machines, but it was more maneuverable. I tried to keep that in mind as we waited and trembled. At least I was trembling. I don't know about the others.

One of the tentacled metal legs stepped over our hill, made us gasp for breath. The leg almost came down on top of us. And then the machine stepped again, bringing forward its other legs. It scuttled like an amputee spider. We stayed pressed against the hill. Soon, above it, there appeared three flying wedge-like crafts with big bright red lights in the front of them.

“My God,” Verne said. “They have new machines. They've got flying machines. They look to be two- or three-seater crafts for those big octopusses. Ocotopussies. Octopi. Whatever.”

I wrote and held it close to my companions so they could see it. Well, I don't know if they actually could see it there in that foggy darkness, but it made me feel good to write it.

LOOKS LIKE WE'RE FUCKED. WHO'S FOR GOING BACK TO THE SEA? SHOW OF HANDS. WHAT SAY WE FIND A TROPICAL ISLAND WITH SEXUALLY WILLING SEALS? NATIVE GIRLS FOR YOU GUYS. RIKWALK, I GUESS YOU GET TO FUCK A MONKEY.

“We're not dead yet,” Twain said, either in response to my note, or just because he thought it was appropriate.

I'm sure that could change at a moment's notice.

“Come on, they've passed us,” Twain said. “We should move forward.”

I don't know how we made it, since we saw numerous stalking machines that night. The flying wedges as well. But I suppose the fog, which was at first a nuisance, turned out to be our ally.

Well before daylight we arrived on the outskirts of London, no worse for wear, except in the department of exhaustion, due primarily to fear. Rikwalk showed no signs of exhaustion, and unlike us, who had been riding, he had been under his own power.

But he did show sadness. The look on his face, illuminated by burning London buildings, was enough to make me cry. Which, strangely enough, is an ability I've acquired. Maybe it has something to do with the way Doctor Momo wired my brain. But there have been many changes in me since the old days, which, frankly, are harder and harder for me to remember. I do remember quite well my preoccupation with fish. That hasn't changed much.

I still think about seal nookie as well.

I think that's healthy. Don't you?

We glided into London, staying close to the ruins of the city — for much of it now appeared to be ruins. Now and then we would see a human dart out from behind a wrecked building, cross our path with a wild glance, then disappear like a roach into a building across the way.

“Mankind is on the run,” Mr. Twain said.

The sun rose and bathed us in morning light. Under other circumstances I would have found it beautiful, but for now I wanted back the night. I even welcomed the fog we had lost just outside of London. Now all our natural cover was gone.

Just as we turned a corner, trying to make our way down an alley, we saw one of the machines scampering along after us, flaming sunlight at its back.

Rikwalk said, “Go. I'll handle this. Give me the weapon, Mr. Verne.”

Mr. Verne, without really thinking, handed him the rifle he had taken out of Steam. It was practically swallowed by Rikwalk's hand.

Rikwalk, sticking the rifle crosswise in his teeth, grabbed the wall of one of the buildings with his strong hands, climbed up hand over hand and foot over foot like…Well, he climbed like an ape. Rays blasted around him and bricks shattered and rained down on us.

We glided behind the building, down the alley. I didn't want to leave Rikwalk, but he had been so demanding, without thinking, I had done as he asked.

Above us, we heard the snap of the rifle, and then another snap. I looked back, and the machine had turned the corner and started toward us. But now, the glass that made up the windshield of the machine was shattered. I could see one of the creatures slumped over the gears, the other laboring to maintain his seat, green ichor spraying out of his head as if it were powered by a pump and firehose.

The machine dodged left, caught itself on one of its spidery legs, wobbled, wheeled, fell on its back with a smash.

I looked up. On the roof of the building was Rikwalk. He had the rifle in one of his hands, probably having fired it with his little finger; in his hands the rifle looked like a large toothpick.

“Hey,” Rikwalk said, “I hit him. I don't know how, but I hit him.”

“Come on down,” Mr. Twain called.

I geared the cruiser over there, and Mr. Twain and Mr. Verne leaped out and climbed on top of the machine. Behind the cracked glass lay the dead Martians. Again I was reminded of squid or octopusses…octopi… octopussies. Whatever. Nobody in our group could figure that multiple octopus thing out.

Anyway, the asswipes were dead.

Rikwalk climbed down, gave the rifle back to Mr. Verne.

“You are some shot,” Verne said.

“I hate to admit this,” Rikwalk said, “but the first time the weapon went off, total accident. Second time I just pointed. I can't believe I hit them. Both shots. Beginner's luck. Twice. It's the first piece of luck I've had since I scored with my wife before she was my wife. That's not for common knowledge by the way. We wouldn't want the kids to know that.”

“We'll never speak a word, monsieur,” Mr. Verne said.

“Here's the door,” Mr. Twain said.

I eased the cruiser up and on top of the machine and glided over to where Mr. Twain was pointing. The machine lay on its side, and beneath it, where the legs were connected, was a sealed round doorway.

Mr. Verne climbed up there as well. He said, “Yes. It appears to be screwed on.”

“There must be some way to unscrew it. If we could get inside, figure out the gears.”

“Damn, Samuel, that could be a very good plan.”

Rikwalk said, “Let's see.”

With the tips of his fingers and his thumb, Rikwalk was able to turn the screw. The door came out like a plug.

Mr. Twain and Mr. Verne climbed inside. I could see them through the glass. The machine was wide enough they could stand up inside. They dragged the Martians out, tossed them on the ground.

Mr. Verne said, “I'm going to try and gear it up. See what happens.”

“They had two at the controls,” Mr. Twain said. “Maybe it takes two.”

“Maybe so. We can try it. Ned. Will you come inside?”

I climbed off of the cruiser and collapsed it. With Rikwalk's help (he shoved my ass with the palm of his hand), I wormed my way inside. He screwed the lid back onto the machine behind me.

Mr. Twain and Mr. Verne climbed into the strange chairs, which were designed for larger bodies, and lying sideways, they began to work the controls.

The spider legs thrashed, sending Rikwalk scuttling for cover. After a few trials, Mr. Verne was able to get one of the machine's legs bent and underneath itself, and with another push of a gear, the leg lifted the machine.

It immediately crashed on its side.

This event continued in repetition for a few moments, crashing hard enough that the already shattered glass shattered even more. Finally, a large chunk of it fell out.

I was being thrown around like some kind of ball, from side to side. My fez got knocked off, but I scrambled around until I recovered it.

I finally got hold of a grip bar on the side of the craft with my teeth, and held to it like I had hold of a whale.

Right then, I could have eaten a whale.

When I'm scared, I get hungry.

Frankly, I pretty much stay hungry.

After what seemed a little past forever, the machine stood. It wobbled at first, but in short time Mr. Twain and Mr. Verne had it. They stalked about the alley for a time, making the machine do different things. They slammed against the alley walls a bit, but before long they were operating it in a pretty smooth manner.

“It's actually simple,” Mr. Twain said. “You just move these pegs the way you want it to go, and once you get it up, well, you point it in the direction you like with this gear, and it walks. You don't really need to work the legs individually then, unless you want them to do something specific. Like lift them tentacles higher, reach out and grab. That kind of business.”

“That bit is worked with this,” Mr. Verne said, touching another lever that moved side to side.

“It's kind of fun,” Mr. Twain said.

Through the glass we could see Rikwalk. He grinned. “I think I should not stay too close to you. At a glance, you can pass as a Martian machine. I can not. Though, I might add, neither of you look like Martians.”

We could hear Rikwalk well through the gaps in the glass. Mr. Twain called out, “Not looking like a Martian is a good thing in my book.”

“Right now, it is better if you do look like one,” Rikwalk said.

“Now,” Mr. Verne said, “we find Herbert.”

I wrote:

AND AFTER THAT, COULD WE FIND SOME FISH?

“Quite possible,” Mr. Verne said. “And if not fish, food of some kind.”

YIPPIE!!!!

Ned's journal ends.

1
A farm animal raised for meat and milk on Rikwalk's Mars.

“We'll hide in plain sight,” Twain said.

“How's that?” Verne said.

“Like in Poe's story, ‘The Purloined Letter.' They couldn't find the letter because it was not actually hidden. It was in plain sight. We can not only walk amongst the invaders, we will not be recognized.”

“I think one good look at us and they'll know we're not Martians.”

“Okay. It's not perfect, but it is a plan. I suggest that our next plan is to find out how the ray device on this works, how to aim it.”

“And since you'll be doing that,” Rikwalk said, “I'll climb on top of a building here.”

Ned wrote:

AM I SAFE IN HERE FROM THE RAY?

“I should hope so,” Twain said.

“Proceed toward the tower clock,” Verne said to Rikwalk through the hole in the glass. “Herbert has a home and laboratory near there.”

“I'm a little more conspicuous than you two,” Rikwalk said.

“Oh, right you are,” Verne said.

“I suggest you go directly to the tower if you can,” Rikwalk said, “and I'll work my way there by whatever path I can find. It's a bit hard for an ape my size to stay out of sight.”

After Rikwalk went up a wall, disappeared atop a building, Twain and Verne went about trying to find the device to work the ray. It didn't take long. They managed to blast down the side of the building Rikwalk had just vacated.

“I really didn't mean to do that,” Verne said.

“I gathered,” Twain said.

They worked with it a bit more, and soon they could aim it well enough, if not expertly. But they discovered they had the walking part down pretty well. They maneuvered the machine out of the alley and around the corner and out into the city proper.