Stephen Baxter - The Massacre of Mankind

Not that any of this was to save us from the Martians.

The Frisian coast of north Germany, between the Elbe estuary and the Dutch border, is hardly a coast at all. It is as if the land disintegrates into islands and sand bars and shallows, offering a dubious navigability that changes with the conditions of the tide and the weather. That Sunday morning, somewhere out on the ocean beyond, Eric Eden was already busily shovelling coal, and it was from this coast that I, with hundreds of troops and many other passengers, was to be taken across the North Sea.

We were transferred off the main rail line from Bremen to the line that runs along the coast, which was used to disperse us among the fishing villages and small harbours that line the coast. Travelling companions, briefly acquainted, said briefer goodbyes. Once I was off the train myself I breathed in air laden with salt and a reek of seaweed, but at least it was fresh after the train.

Then, somewhat bewildered, I was led with Gray and a dozen others to the groyne of a minuscule harbour, where the crew of a small fishing smack made ready to take us. The morning was already bright, the sky empty and clear, the sun lifting over the horizon. I looked up and down the coast; lights twinkled, not yet doused from the night. It was going to be a fine spring day once a thin mist burned off.

And out to sea, out beyond the sand bars that glistened like the backs of sleeping whales in the lapping water, I could see a veritable fleet of small craft. There were lighters, tugs, fishing smacks, steamers, and pleasure boats; and further out I could see larger vessels, like grey shapes in the light mist: colliers, freighters, ferries, tankers. Flags fluttered, no doubt celebrating many nations, but all too remote for me to make out.

At last our crew, who spoke only a rough, heavily accented German that I could not make out, gestured to us to come aboard the smack. Ben Gray tried to offer me a hand aboard; I disdained him, and in the end it was I who helped him. I was, however, the only woman aboard.

The smack stank of its regular cargo of fish even more than had the harbour. The crew wore sweaters, heavy leather coats, and shapeless hats; to a man they had thick beards. Clutching packs and bags and rolled-up blankets, with our overcoats and greatcoats tucked close around us, we passengers sat on equipment boxes, upturned baskets, even on the greasy, damp deck. We fitted in wherever we could; if we got in the way the snarls of the crew told us about it quick enough. One young private found himself sitting on a peculiar piece of wood, large, shaped, stained, and he made to throw it out of the boat. More snarls from the skipper put him right. There was a small cabin, fitted out with a couple of bunks and a tiny galley, I saw, and a couple of fellows crowded in there to leave room on the deck. I heard a crackle of static; the cabin was fitted with radio gear, of a robust military-looking type.

Once we were aboard, we cast off from the harbour and gingerly made our way out through the sand banks, propelled by oars and, after a time, with sail.

‘It’s going to be like navigating a maze,’ I said to Gray. ‘Indeed. And a maze whose plan can change with every shift of the tide, every storm. Takes an expert to know it, and not to ground the boat – at least, not to ground without meaning to… Don’t be offended by the Captain having a go at you about that bit of wood, Collins, by the way. That , you see, is a sort of detachable keel. The boat is all but flat-bottomed here as we slide over the sand banks; when we get out deeper we’ll fix the keel – how I don’t know, perhaps it’s driven through a slot in the floor – and then we’ll ride steady.’

‘Yes, sir. What was it he called me, sir?’

‘Best not to know, lad. Best not to know.’

Now I began to see more small boats like our own heading out to meet the impromptu fleet that waited to collect us, craft crowded with passengers squeezed in and silhouetted in the morning light, emerging all along the coast. ‘Reminds me of the First War,’ I murmured. ‘The evacuation from Essex.’

‘Yes, we’ve all been briefed on that,’ Gray said. ‘At least this is planned.’

‘How reassuring,’ I said. ‘And is there a reason why I’m in a small boat, instead of a berth on a passenger liner sailing out of Hamburg?’

He laughed. ‘There is a logic, actually. It’s a sort of extrapolation from what we’re learning in England. The Martians treat humans as a farmer might treat ants. When a nest gets big enough he’ll kick it, stamp it, flood it, poison it. But even so an individual ant, scuttling off, might get away with it. Do you see?’

I did and I remembered Walter’s similar parallels of humans with ants and their colonies.

‘Well, on land we’ve learned how to move about the country without alarming the Martians too much. They watch on a big scale, not the small.’

‘And so at sea as on land.’

‘That’s it. A thousand little fishing smacks might come and go without attracting the attention of the Martians, even if one of ’em had Churchill himself on board, whereas if the Lusitania sailed from Hamburg with just you on board, Collins—’

The private grinned. ‘With a few society beauties. Might be worth it, sir!’

An older man grunted. ‘Careful what you wish for, laddie. But speaking of being spotted by the Martians—’ He peered up into a morning sky of blue perfection. ‘I haven’t seen a flyingmachine yet. But you couldn’t give them a better day for spotting us if they sent one up. I mean, the North Sea’s not known for its glorious sunshine, is it, Lieutenant? Typical!’ His accent was northern, I thought, perhaps Liverpudlian. The man had stripes on his uniform arm, and a burn scar on his cheek, not unlike Walter’s injuries, though lesser. Now I considered him more closely I was unsure of his age – younger than at first glance, perhaps in his thirties.

Gray said, ‘I don’t know you, Sergeant.’

‘Lane, sir. RE.’

‘You’ve seen action but not agin the Martians, I’m guessing.’

‘Russian front, sir.’

I admit I stared at the man after that frank admission, and so did others in the fishing boat. This Sergeant Lane, the blunt scarred reality of him, was like a rumour congealed into fact. So British troops really were, even now, serving alongside the Germans in the depths of the Siberian war.

Lane said now, ‘Plenty of spotting out there , sir, by Zepps and planes, though the Russkies do their best to shoot ’em down. But a spotter on a Zepp can’t see through cloud and mist.’

‘But that’s where the Martians are different, Lane. They can see through cloud layers, through mist, even in the pitch dark. I say “see”; it might not be seeing as we know it with our baby blues. The boffins have no clear idea how this is done, but there are guesses. You shine in the dark, you know, Lane: the body heat you give off is a kind of radiation, like light, invisible to our eyes, but there to be measured. Perhaps the Martians can track that. And a Marconi wireless transmission will pass through mist as if it ain’t there. Anyhow, if we do move out in the mist or in the pitch black, we’re not discommoding the Martians at all – only ourselves. So we may as well move in bright summer daylight, like this, when – if they can see us – at least we can see them .’

Lane grunted. ‘Goes against human nature, sir.’

‘Yes, Sergeant, it does. But these Martian lads aren’t human, are they?’

We inched our way out through the sand banks, and then to open sea, where at last the crew were able to fit their removable keel. After that the bilge swam with water that leaked through the keel’s attaching seam, and the men complained of wet feet and backsides.