Stephen Baxter - The Massacre of Mankind

And then I saw him before me.

Him – he looked human, despite the sleek hair that coated his nude body, and the webbing that stretched between the fingers of the hands that reached for me, and the bubbles of air that leaked from the flaps of skin at the side of his throat – were they gills? And, though the hair covered his groin, his chest, yet I knew, somehow, he was male. He descended before me, upright in the water, swimming with the merest flick of his hands, his webbed feet. Even then I thought I saw a glint of gold at his chest: a cross shape – a crucifix?

He took my face in his hands – cold fingers.

And he kissed me. I felt his lips on mine – cold again – and then air, thick, hot, poured into my mouth. It made me cough, and the liquid pulsed up out of me, into his own mouth; but somehow he kept those lips locked onto mine while I heaved and convulsed. Meanwhile I was aware of his strong hands pulling away the weed that bound me, frond by frond.

Suddenly I was free. He grabbed me under the armpits, flicked his feet once, and, with his lips still locked onto mine, we surged up into the light and the air, and I knew no more.

As I drifted upwards to consciousness, just as I had been lifted into the light from the murky flood, the world as it formed around me seemed normal, familiar: I was in a room with a door, windows. I woke in a bed, to the sound of rain on a roof. In the distance, thunder – not guns, not the detonations that accompanied a Martian advance, just a storm. But I clung to sleep, and the absence of responsibility.

When I woke again the light was brighter but softer. Still the rain hissed, but the thunder was gone, the storm passed over. I became aware now that I was in an unfamiliar nightgown, all frills and tucks and more ornamental than comfortable, and that the sheets in which I lay were rather musty.

I turned over, and saw a figure sitting by the window, looking out. ‘Verity?’

She turned, smiling. ‘You’re awake. You turned once or twice, and muttered. I didn’t want to disturb you. No, stay there.’ She came across, and I saw that she had one arm strapped against her body by a clumsily applied bandage. The first aid kit she had worn at her belt was open on a bedside table, amid dusty clutter: a clock that looked as if it hadn’t worked since the nineteenth century, ugly ornaments, faded photographs in a silver frame. She pressed a hand to my forehead, stuck a thermometer in my mouth, took my pulse, and listened to my chest with a lightweight stethoscope. Then she handed me a glass of water, which I drank gratefully. ‘Don’t worry, it’s fresh – I set buckets out in the rain.’

‘I should be nursing you .’ My throat was scratchy, my voice hoarse when I spoke, and there was a vague ache about my chest. ‘What’s that, a broken arm?’

‘I managed to crack a bone, but you were the one who was underwater. If not for the Cytherean who saved you—’

I remembered the incident in a flash now. ‘Yes. He – was it a he?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘A Cytherean?’

‘A man from Venus. That’s what the educated types are calling them. I heard as much from the BBC, on a crystal set.’

‘Almost an angelic figure, he seemed, in all that murk.’ Another shard of memory. ‘And he wore a crucifix, Verity!’

She smiled. ‘Yes. Seems to be something of a fad among them. I blame the Vicar at Abbotsdale. They are semi-aquatic creatures – well, that’s obvious. Ideally suited to serve as swimming-pool lifeguards, I should think.’ She touched her bad arm with her other hand, wincing. ‘Not so cute when it comes to fixing broken bones, however. After all our skeletal structures vary – it seems that the very fabrics of our bones differ.’

She was right about that. Studies on ’07 specimens had already shown that on Mars the humanoids have siliceous skeletons, perhaps because silicon is one of the most common elements in the rock and dust of that arid surface. By contrast the Cythereans’ bone structure has a reliance on strong forms of carbon – long molecules, which give the bones a kind of springiness. Not so optimised for walking upright in heavy gravity, but ideal if you’re flipping away through the water like a seal.

‘The Cythereans have their own medicinal remedies, which involve a lot of licking and chewing and packing in mud. But I wasn’t so confident that all that would work on my busted fin. So I resorted to more familiar techniques, a splint, a bandage. I had Charlie set the bone for me.’

‘Charlie?’

‘The fellow who saved you – the one with the crucifix. I have a feeling he’s spent more time with humans than some of the others.’

‘Why “Charlie”?’

She grinned. ‘No doubt he has a name among his own kind. I called him for Charles Daniels, who won all those swimming medals in the ’04 Olympics – do you remember? Perhaps not; the Games were in St Louis, and my sister and I travelled over with our father for a summer jaunt—’

‘You had that humanoid set your arm?’

‘It was rough handling, I admit. As if a bright orangutan did it – more strength than kindness. But he got the idea – they are more bright than the great apes, if less so than humans – and once it was set the pain eased and I was able to fix a splint and bandage.’

‘Good grief, Verity, it would have been bad enough if those buffoons from the inn had had to do it.’

‘Both of them are dead now,’ she said simply. ‘The explosion – the dynamite – do you remember? You’ve been out for more than twenty-four hours.’

I glanced at the grey skies visible through the window. ‘Long enough for a change in the weather.’ I did remember, but not clearly; the jigsaw was jumbled in my head and we would piece together the sequence of events, as I have set it down here, later. ‘People from Venus, though!’

She smiled. ‘Even given the fix we’re in – marvellous, isn’t it? Would you like to see them?’ She stood up. ‘It’s about time for a late lunch. We’ve fallen on our feet with this house. It was evidently abandoned when the Misbourne flood rose – we’re on a sort of island here, as you’ll see. There’s a fair stock of tinned meat and such in the pantries, and we’ve the rainwater to drink, so that’s safe. I stoked a fire in the living room so there’s hot water, and I rinsed out your clothes – they should be dry by now… Would you like me to help you to the bathroom? I have had to keep you clean already, of course. Don’t be shy! I am a nurse – well, sort of…’

I slept again, woke again.

Once fully awake, or so I thought, I fretted about time. After all, as Walter had warned me, the next opposition was due in the summer – the next wave of Martian cylinders might already be in space. Surely I needed to complete my mission before the landings. But I had no idea of the present date, let alone when the Martians might fall.

I got out of bed, a little groggily, and hunted for a calendar. No luck, but there was a diary, and I flicked through its pages, ignoring spidery elderly-lady notes about nieces’ birthdays and the anniversaries of various dead relatives, trying to think it through. How would Walter have worked it out? You had the opposition, the closest approach of the planets, in June, and the landings, if they happened at all, would be three weeks and a day before that … But when was the opposition, exactly? I thought it was June 10, but I wasn’t sure. And what was today, what was the date?… There was nothing in the room, no wireless set, that might let me find out.

I started to feel ill again, faint. I made my way back to my bed, determined to ask Verity for the date when I awoke again. But I forgot, I forgot.