Christopher Priest - The Space Machine

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The air ducted through the tube was cool, and it reassured me to know that I was not intended to die here.

I took another deep breath, then a third, forcing myself to be calm.

At length I opened my eyes. Nothing inside the projectile had changed, as far as I could see. The scenes on the three displays were uniform: each showed the blue of the sky, but on the rearward one I could see a number of objects floating behind our craft I wondered for a while as to what these could be, but then identified them as the four heat-projectors which had been played on the ice inside the cannon. I presumed by the fact of their being discarded that they had no further function.

That the craft was turning slowly on its axis became apparent a few seconds later, when the sideways panel unexpectedly revealed the horizon of the land, swinging up and across the picture. Soon the entire display was filled with a high view of land, but we were at such an altitude that it was almost impossible to see details. We were passing over what looked like a dry, mountainous region, but a major war had obviously taken place at some time as the ground was pock-marked with huge craters. Later, the craft rolled further so that the sky returned to fill the display.

From the forward display I learned that the craft must now have levelled off, for the horizon could be seen here. I presumed that this meant we were now in level flight, although the axial spin continued, evidenced by the fact that the forward horizon was spinning confusingly. The men controlling the craft must have had some way of correcting this, for I heard a series of hissing noises and gradually the horizon steadied.

I had thought that once we were in flight there would be no more shocks in store, so I was very alarmed a few minutes later when there was a loud explosion and a brilliant green light flooded across all the panels I could see. The flash was momentary, but another followed seconds later. Having seen those green flashes in the hours before the invasion I thought at first we must, be under attack, but between each explosion the atmosphere inside the craft remained calm.

The frequency of these green explosions increased, until there was one almost every second, deafening me. Then they ceased for a while, and I saw that the projectile’s trajectory had been drastically lowered. For an instant I saw in the forward panel the image of a vast city on the ground before us, then there was another burst of green fire burning continually outside the craft, and all became obscured by the blaze. In the noise of the roaring, explosive light I felt the transparent fabric tightening around me … and my last impression was of an almost intolerable deceleration, followed by a tremendous crash.

The panels had gone black, the fabric tubes had relaxed, and all was silent. The floor was tilted sharply forward, and so I fell from the supporting folds and collapsed against the partition, hardly daring to believe that once more the projectile was on solid ground. Beside me, the four slaves also fell or stepped from their tubes, and we all crouched together, trembling a little after the shocks of the flight.

We were not left alone for long. From beyond the partition I heard the sound of voices, and in a moment one of the men appeared; he too looked shaken, but he was on his feet and carrying his whip.

To my anger and surprise he raised this devilish instrument, and shouted imprecations at us in his soprano voice. Naturally, I could not understand, but the effect on the slaves was immediate. One of the men-slaves clambered to his feet and shouted back, but he was struck with the whip and fell to the floor.

Again the man in charge shouted at us. He pointed first at the slave who had been whipped as we entered the projectile, then at the man he had just stunned, then at the third male slave, then at the girl and finally at me. He shouted once more, pointed at each of us in turn, then fell silent.

As if to reinforce his authority, the villainous voice of one of the monster-creatures came braying through the grille, echoing in the tiny metal compartment.

The slave who had been pointed at first was lying nervelessly on the floor, where he had fallen from his protective tube, and the girl and the other slave bent to help him to his feet. He was still conscious, but like the other man he appeared to have lost all use of his muscles. I went forward to help them with him, but they ignored me.

Now their attention was directed towards the protruding cubicle I had noticed earlier. The doors had remained closed throughout the flight, and I had assumed that the cubicle contained some equipment. That this was not so was instantly revealed when the girl pulled the doors open.

Because of the tilting of the craft the doors swung right open, and I was able to see what was inside. The entire space was no larger than that of a cupboard, with just enough room for a man to stand within it. Attached to the metal bulkhead were five clamps, like manacles, but made with a fiendish precision that lent to them a distinctly surgical air.

The male slave was pushed awkwardly to the entrance to this cubicle, his head lolling and his legs slack. However, some awareness must have been filtering through his befuddled mind, for as soon as he saw where he was about to be put he set up as much resistance as he could muster; he was, though, no match for the other two, and after about a minute’s struggle they managed to get him upright into the cubicle.

As soon as the relevant part of his body was in contact, the manacles closed of their own accord. His two arms were held first, then his legs, and finally his neck. A low moaning noise came from his mouth, and he moved his head desperately, trying to escape. The girl moved quickly to close the doors on him, and at once his feeble cries could scarcely be heard.

I looked in appalled silence at the others. They stared at the floor, avoiding everyone else’s gaze. I noticed that the man in charge still stood by the partition, his whip ready for further use.

Five anguished minutes passed, then with a shocking suddenness the doors of the cubicle fell open and the man collapsed across the floor.

I bent down to examine him, as he had fallen near my feet. He was certainly unconscious, probably dead. Where the manacles had held him were rows of punctures, about one-eighth of an inch in diameter. A trace of blood flowed from each one, on his limbs and his neck. There was not much blood oozing, for his body was as white as snow; it was as if every drop of blood had been sucked away.

Even as I was examining this unfortunate, the second stunned man was being dragged towards the cubicle. His resistance was less, for the electrical shock had been administered more recently, and within a few seconds his body had been manacled in place. The doors were closed.

One of the most shocking aspects of all this was the uncomplaining acceptance by the slaves of their lot. The two remaining slaves, the man and the girl, stood passively, waiting for the wretch in the cubicle to be bled dry. I could not believe that such barbarities would be tolerated, and yet so strong was the régime of the monster-creatures that even this atrocity was implemented by the city-Martians.

I looked away from the man with the whip, hoping he would lose interest in me. When, a few moments later, the man in the cubicle was released and fell inertly across the floor, I followed the lead of the other two and calmly moved his body out of the way to make access again to the cubicle.

The remaining male slave went of his own accord to the cubicle, the manacles closed around him, and I shut the doors quickly.