Stephen Baxter - The Massacre of Mankind

‘So is survival.’ And he returned to the party.

The next morning I called early at the blood bank pub, the White Hart – open for business in the legal hours, a sign claimed, but no beer!

Verity Bliss was there, opening up and giving the step a perfunctory sweep. She wore a kind of coverall, sturdy and practical in drab green, perhaps a farm worker’s garment. Her hair was cut even shorter than mine.

She eyed me frankly. I introduced myself, offered a hand which was shaken.

She said, ‘Your ex-husband told me you were here – warned me you might be coming to see me.’ She smiled, but it was a wary expression. ‘He said I needed to drag you from your bed if you didn’t volunteer.’

‘I thought it was expected. What one does in this village.’

She looked at me openly. I immediately sensed there was a communication between us, under the surface. ‘Look – no matter what our blessed Vigilance Committee says, whether you donate or not is up to you.’

‘Why don’t you show me this blood bank?’

She thought that over, and nodded.

The pub’s cellar was reached by a trapdoor and shallow wooden steps; Verity turned on an oil lamp which gave flickering light. With walls of flint, and I guessed that the use of those glistening nodules here was a sign of age and not affectation, the place was indeed cool, even in midsummer. Much of the space was given over to racks that looked as if they might have once held wine bottles. Now they held flasks, slim, tall – each about the size of a wine bottle, in fact, but without the neck – and fashioned of a silvery metal.

I plucked one from the shelf and hefted it. ‘Heavier than it looks.’

‘Aluminium. Each holds more than a pint of blood.’

I glanced around. ‘There must be hundreds here.’

‘There’s more in other stores. Army issue, for battlefield use, left behind like the soldiers when the Cordon came down. They are derived from Martian technology; they are like Dewar flasks of an advanced kind – based on systems they used to store humanoid blood in their space cylinders.’ She took the flask from me and turned it, showing a scribbled date, identity of donor, blood type. ‘We’re careful how we store it, and use it.’

I looked at her in the dim light. ‘My brother said all this blood is needed in case of traumatic accidents. Happens a lot around here, does it?’

She said frankly, ‘What do you think?’

‘And how often must people donate, to build up such a store from such a small community? Once a month? More frequently?’

‘Depends on the age of the donor, their health—’

‘What happened to Mr Cattermole?’

‘Who? Oh, the postmaster. Don’t know him very well. What about him?’

‘He didn’t show up for dinner last night. His place was set; he sent no message. Next time – is this how it works? – there won’t be a place set for him at all.’

We were eye to eye. She hesitated, then said at last, ‘You’re seeing it quicker than most.’

‘The Martians must feed,’ I said gently.

‘Yes.’

‘How does it work?’

‘They come among us and they – pluck – as you may pluck a strawberry as you cross a field, and pop it in your mouth. You can run and hide, but—’

‘You can’t outrun a fighting-machine.’

‘That’s it.’

‘And the blood?’

‘It was Frank’s idea, actually. That’s what they’re after, in the end. If we see them come, if we leave a stack of the donations in their way, it can distract them. Not always—’

‘I imagine they prefer the fresh stuff. They did bring living humanoids in their cylinders, to top up their stored supply.’

‘Yes,’ she said. She looked away, as if ashamed. ‘We’ve worked out a kind of mode of living, you see – there’s a certain rationality to it, for a live human can produce a pint of blood a month forever, if you keep her alive, and I sense the Martians understand that – it’s not communication, exactly—’

‘You’re cooperating with them.’ I had snapped; I was moved to touch her arm. ‘I didn’t mean to be harsh. You do what you must to survive.’

‘Yes. And the blood store has saved lives.’

‘But this place,’ I said. ‘The village. Mildred Tritton spoke to me last night of fox-hunting! As if—’

‘I know.’

‘They’re too damn comfortable. Even Frank, perhaps – compromised,at least.’

She faced me squarely. ‘Will you give the blood?’

I thought about it, thought about what coursed in my veins. Perhaps one donation would be enough to complete my mission, if the Martians took my blood as part of this grisly propitiation.

But I found I was not ready. I found I was not ready to commit that dread act, not yet.

And I was deeply reluctant to participate, even dishonestly, in Frank’s scheme of submission to the Martian lords. My head was in a spin. I was reminded of France, in a way – of the compromise of occupation, of men who betrayed their own brothers to save themselves, of women I knew who had gone with German soldiers for the sake of a handful of military rations. This, though, a blood sacrifice – a literal one – so that one could go on living at the feet of the Martians – and Frank was complicit in it. Well, he was a doctor, not a soldier; he had to heal those before him. But – fox hunting! Somehow I did not feel I could confide in him, about my deeper mission, any of it.

I looked at Verity. ‘We just met. But I feel as if I can trust you more than my own ex-husband.’

She shrugged. ‘Frank’s a good man. But that’s families for you.’

‘Have you heard of a man called Albert Cook?’

She pulled a face. ‘Everyone’s heard of him.’

‘Do you know how I could find him?’

‘No.’

‘Very well. Are there franc-tireurs ?’

She stared back at me.

‘I mean, those who resist—’

‘I know what it means,’ she snapped. ‘Yes.’

‘I need to find them, I think.’

She was immediately suspicious. She had survived in this place two years; she had a right to suspicion. ‘Why do you need to find franc-tireurs ?’

‘I have a mission.’

And I told Verity Bliss a partial truth. I told her of my cover mission, the wretched drawings by Walter, the scheme to make a meaningful contact with the Martians, one lot of sapient beings talking to another – Walter’s wistful project so cynically subverted by Eden and those who commanded him. I told nothing of the deeper truth, though I suspected I would be asking this woman to risk a great deal for me, and guilt stabbed even as I told these lies of omission.

‘Will you help me?’

She hesitated a long time before answering. Then she said, ‘There is a man called Marriott. I’ll see what I can do.’

She set up a meeting with ‘Marriott’ by the end of the day. ‘How did you manage that?’

‘Would you believe carrier pigeons? The Martians aren’t aware of them. ’

I wasn’t sure I did believe it. This was a countryside full of secrets.

We set off the next day. I had no idea if we would return to Abbotsdale or not. I took the practical clothes I had travelled here in, complete with military-issue boots, and my rucksack with some essentials, and Walter’s leather satchel tucked under my jacket. Verity took a small bag with a few essentials, and a kind of belt containing basic medical gear, for use on campaign. I felt guilty not to tell Ted Lane I was going, but this was my mission, not his.

As for not telling Frank – I was ambivalent. Put it like that. I did not entirely disrespect his position here, but it would not have been mine. We were divorced, you will remember all; we had differences of character profound enough for that.