Day 20 – Sunday

From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 07:30 GMT:

‘You’re sure now, sir?” Sergeant Howard regarded Maxim’s flying machine and its long catapult track with scepticism.

“I’m not,” I said, “but if there’s a chance that it’ll work, I need to be here. I trust you and Lieutenant Mann have deployed per my orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Carry on then, Sergeant -Major Howard,” I saluted and shook his hand. “And take care of yourself.”

“You too, sir. And don’t worry about Mr. Farmer, sir. We’ll keep an eye out for him.”

“Very good, Sergeant. Don’t be tardy.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sir.” Howard smiled.

From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 07:52 GMT:

I sat strapped into the bow of the Maxim’s flying craft.  Persephone sat behind me her hands gripping the tiller. Occasionally, she would make an adjustment to the throttle lever, causing the giant steam engine driving a four-bladed airscrew to thunder and shake the machine.

I carried a bag of dart-like grenades in my lap that I were to drop on the enemy when we passed over. The machine shook around us, its engine at full power, restrained on the catapult track by the locking mechanisms. “Ready to go?” Persephone leaned over and yelled in my ear.

I leaned back and nodded at her.

I felt the clamps holding us back disengage. We surged ahead, picking up speed as went, racing dizzyingly towards the end of the track that curved up into space. The wind whistled past my ears. I saw the end of the track come up and we fell.

From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 08:02 GMT:

We were flying! Somehow, we fell and staggered into the sky, lurching from one air current to the other. We started to rise. We were just as good as the Martians: we could fly too! As we rose above the roofless houses, I could make out the green star drifting above Horsell.

From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 08:20 GMT:

“Carver! Wake up!” I felt a hand shaking my shoulders. Slowly, I opened my eyes. I hurt in several places. Farmer knelt over me. Half his face was a mass of burnt red flesh, swollen, and cracked. Nonetheless, he smiled grotesquely when he saw me open my eyes. “I saw you crash.”

“Persephone?” I sat up.

“Still unconscious.” Farmer wheezed. “I’ve hidden her behind your craft’s wings. Amazing machine, really.” For a brief second, he was his old self, but only. “Your friends have managed to damage the tower, but it’s still standing.”

“We must destroy it.”

I looked around. Much of the pit looked like a scene out of Dante’s Inferno, consumed by smoke and fire. The wreckage of the Martian tripod lay toppled with smoke rising from its cracked carapace. Alarmingly, I saw a single unmoving grey tentacle dangling from the opening.

“Don’t worry,” Farmer laughed unevenly, looking at the tentacle. “He’s quite dead.” He helped me up and patted a canvas bag that hung over his side. “I took some of the explosives that the old man was working on in his lab.  I needed your grenades, but here’s his gun.”

I took Maxim’s revolver, a big Webley from Farmer. It was still loaded. “You could’ve injured him seriously when you attacked him.”

“I had to do it, old man.” Farmer shrugged. “Fortunes of war and all that.”

I looked back where Persephone lay, safe for now. “Let’s go.”

From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 08:42 GMT:

Farmer and I carefully moved along through crater, picking our way by the shattered remains of a low, spider-like machine with five metallic legs and two claw-like appendages in its front. I smiled. It looked like it had taken a direct hit from the 12-pounder. The thing was dead.

The tower, leaning broadly, stood in front of us, beside the open cylinder which was about the size of an apartment block. Suddenly our own gunfire which had been in the background, stopped. “Sounds like they’re about to storm the crater,” I said, looking at Farmer.

“The more the merrier!” Farmer laughed uproariously. We passed by the open maw of the cylinder. It looked like the mouth of an ancient monster. Yet, from inside, I could hear a small girl crying.

“Farmer!” I said, “Do you hear that?” The child’s sobbing echoed out of the dark.

“The child’s dead already,” said Farmer.

“She’s still alive!”

Farmer laughed. “You go save the bloody child, for all it matters. I’ll tend to the tower.” “Here, you’ll need these, old man.” He passed me two grenades. Then taking out a metal cylinder, he pushed a button on its lid. “I have this.”

I looked at Farmer. In a short time, he had changed irrevocably. Not just physically, but morally, spiritually. One way or another, we had all changed. For the better or worse, I didn’t know. We waved at each other. He went on his way; I went on mine.

I would not see him again.

Pistol drawn, I advanced into the open maw of the cylinder. “Hello?”  I called out.

As I probed deeper, my eyes gradually became aware to the dim reddish light around me. This must be what daylight looks like on Mars. At the same time, I became aware of an overwhelming stench.

The cavern around me stank of rotting flesh. I repressed a shiver. God only knew what that meant. “Hello.”  I called. “Hullo?” A small voice answered back. I stepped further in, pistol in hand. In the red gloom I could see a small blonde-haired girl in a ragged dress.

“Are you taking me home?” asked the girl. She was strapped down on something like the wrecked machine outside. A transparent tube ran from the machine’s innards to her arm. Every once in a while, the girl would groan and a pulse of red liquid would run from her into the machine.

They were milking her blood! “I most certainly am.” I stuck the Webley into my belt. I tried to grab the tube only be blocked by a metallic arm with a claw at the end of it, which darted in front of me. “I don’t think he’ll let you,” she said nodding to something behind me.

From the personal journal of Hiram Maxim:

Gripping Persephone’s shotgun, I advanced warily down the slope into the Martian pit, flanked by Sergeant Howard and his men, bayonets fixed. With the composition of the smoke below us uncertain, we thought it best to don our gas masks.

Howard ordered us forward with his hand. The rubberized fabric of the mask with its glass eye holes was claustrophobic, but as I detected no odour, I deduced that the masks worked. The band of smoke cleared, and I joined Howard and the others in removing the masks.

“We saw your machine land around here,” explained Howard as our skirmish line moved through a forest of ruined alien machinery. Soon, we came up the tangle of wings and tail surfaces that used to be my flying machine. I was elated to see Persephone standing beside them unharmed.

We embraced. “Grandfather,” she said, “when I came to behind the wing, Roger was gone.”

“The Commander clearly hid you there to protect you, while he moved on to the tower,” I surmised, quickly looking around us. “To where we must presently go.”

“Right,” said Howard. “Forward!”

From the personal journal of Hiram Maxim:

We came across the open mouth of the cylinder when two explosions rang out from inside.  A half-minute later, a figure carrying a small child staggard out.

“Roger!’ Persephone ran forward and embraced him, exchanging a quick kiss.

I followed, flanked by Howard and the men.

Carver gave the sobbing child to Persephone. “Take care of her, she’s been through a lot.”

I looked at the girl my granddaughter’s arms and then the cylinder. My curiosity surged. “Was she there? The Martians?’

“I could tell you more Maxim, but there’s no time. Farmer was here.”

“Farmer?”

“He went to the tower to destroy it. He’s quite mad. He has some of your explosives.”

I felt dread. “I knew he took it!  A cylinder: small metal cylinder – did he have it with him?”

“Yes,” Carver nodded. “He did.”

My dread deepened. “Did he press a button on it?”

“Yes,” said Carver.

“We have to get out of here now.”

“What about the tower?” asked Howard, looking suddenly confused.

“Commander, Sergeant,” I’m afraid to say that tower is the least of our worries. If Mr. Farmer does what he intends, our concerns will be rendered academic…”

From the personal journal of Hiram Maxim:

As we charged up the slope, I was all too aware that Mr. Carver who had gallantly donated his mask to the little girl was the only one of us not wearing a mask. I prayed that my advice about staying the centre of the break would be enough.

I felt my boots dig into the sandy slope.

As we crested the rise, I checked over my shoulder through the smoke through the eyeholes in my mask. Mr. Carver was still there, his feet digging into the loose soil, but he seemed to be struggling.

@NUWSS outposts in regular contact now. #Thanks to @SirJohnTheEngineer and his #Wireless marvel. He says thank @GMarconiWireless

Thank you @GMarconiWireless

Getting harder to move through #London #RedWeed is everywhere #Thames is now beginning to break banks in places. What will become of #London?

The Martians still have a large encampment near Hampstead. It’s like a great city, and at night, the sky is bright with their lights.