Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

No, the sound that he was hearing was mechanical, or perhaps electrical. A dull, low-pitched throbbing, like a pump at work. But Holmes felt certain that it was not that.

“ You are Sherlock Holmes, ” remarked a voice inside his head, without the slightest warning.

And it was not like any human voice, since it was utterly dispassionate and devoid of inflection.

Holmes swung round in a full circle, but could not see who the speaker was. But perhaps the words were coming from this cavern all around him. So he steeled himself.

“And you are?” he enquired gravely.

“ I am Other, ” said the voice, and you could hear the capital letter.

Holmes absorbed that.

“Other than what?” he asked, since it appeared to be the most logical question.

“ Other than you. Other than human. Other than organism. Other than flesh. Other. ”

“You are a creature from the stars?”

There was the briefest pause while his new host turned that over.

“ From another galaxy. And I am part machine. ”

“You came down with the meteorite?”

“ My craft. It is buried in the soil. ”

“And you’ve been doing what precisely, these past fifty years?”

“ Observing. That is mostly all that I can do, since my field of influence is limited at the moment. But I can see most things on this world. And I have been watching you. ”

Holmes felt himself becoming anxious again, at that idea. The very notion that some alien presence had been looking at him like some germ under a microscope …?

“Only me?” he asked the being.

“ No. ”

“All of us, then. And what conclusions have you come to?”

“ What do you suppose? You have lived here long enough to know the plain truth, Sherlock Holmes. Humankind is beautiful and ugly, splendid and savage, generous and cruel, a living contradiction. I have been to many worlds, and not encountered this before. ”

“Which explains what you have done exactly how?”

“ I do not reach my conclusions quickly. No, not in your terms. My life is too prolonged for such haste to be necessary. But I’ve finally decided I must do something about this world. I have to teach your race that some actions are wrong. ”

“Like killing for no reason?” Holmes continued gently. His whole face would have tightened, then relaxed, if he’d had one. “For sport. Or for criminal profit. Or to prove yourself an adult.”

“ Yes. The bees are useful in that regard. Not overly intelligent, but they work well in unison. And they have accepted me as their new queen since their original ruler died. ”

Holmes felt the need to pace around a bit, but could not do so. He could only float there, trying to make sense of Other’s words.

“And what earthly good do you think this will achieve? A few hunters and poachers harmed? A Masai boy who knew no better?”

“ I am merely – how do you put it? – flexing my muscles, Mr Holmes. Testing the extent of my powers here, and finding out what I am capable of. I told you, I do not work quickly in your terms. But who knows? In the fullness of time, I might even be able to put a stop to wars. ”

And Sherlock Homes was still trying to take in the full enormity of these words when he returned to his own body. He lost his balance and his vision blurred. His knees were weakening, his body sliding downward. But he grabbed hold of the side of the truck, levering himself back up and then panting.

The dizziness passed and his eyesight steadied. Masterton and Jomo had both hurried over to the truck and were peering at him curiously.

“You were staring into empty space for a few seconds, but your lips were moving,” Jomo told him, looking anxious.

“So, then?” Masterton intruded. “Did you find anything out?”

Holmes rubbed at the side of his head, then waited until his breathing had steadied. But then he paused a few more seconds after that had been achieved, choosing his reply extremely carefully.

“I think that I can say, without a shadow of a doubt,” he muttered, “hunting season’s well and truly off.”

“Not dead, you say?” asked Holmes.

Inspector Willem van Heuten eyed the great detective sadly.

“Perhaps it would be better that they were. They have no mind left. A philosopher might say that they have been robbed of their souls.”

“All men?”

“Indeed.”

“All married men?”

“Except for one of them.”

“And all in positions of some prominence?”

“Two parliamentary politicians. Three local councillors. Two journalists of note. And – I am afraid to say – my own superintendent of police, my direct superior.”

“Might I see him?” Holmes asked.

“Of course.”

They got into van Heuten’s car and kept on driving till they reached a fairly nondescript outer suburb of Amsterdam. There, they went along the calm, quiet streets until a hulking building came in sight. It was so grey it seemed to partially absorb the sunlight, and was perfectly rectangular and featureless, save that it was dotted all over with tiny square windows. As they drew up to the place, Holmes could see that each window was covered with a metal grille.

Security was strict. They were made to pass through a metal detector, and were patted down by uniformed guards, one of whom then led them to Superintendent Hoek’s cell.

“This is a maximum security psychiatric hospital,” Holmes pointed out. Which was stating the obvious, and he was painfully aware of that. “Has your old boss become … dangerous in any manner?”

“Not yet, to my knowledge. But the rest who have been so afflicted have certainly gone that way.”

This was a most peculiar case. Sherlock Holmes had so far been able to make neither head nor tail of it. Which was why he’d asked to be brought here. There was no substitute for first-hand knowledge.

Except that – when they arrived at the man’s cell – it turned out that they were not his only visitors. A woman was already in the room whom he presumed was Pieter Hoek’s good wife. She was a woman in her late fifties, lined around the face but still very attractive, with long blonde hair and a slender, supple figure. She was crouched in front of her poor husband, who was on the edge of a narrow metal bed, sitting bolt upright.

Van Heuten made to intervene, but the detective held him back. Let’s simply watch a while , he told the inspector with his eyes.

“Pieter. Pieter?” the woman was murmuring. “Please, come back to me.”

Her hands went gently to his face. Her narrow fingertips brushed down along his slack cheeks with the delicacy of butterflies. That got no response at all, not so much as the briefest glance in her direction, and her pale eyes consequently brimmed with glittering tears.

Pieter Hoek had to be the same age as his partner at the very least. He was a large man with broad shoulders and massive hands, and looked more like an ageing boxer than any publicly employed official. His face might have been florid once, but was now entirely motionless and pale. And here was something curious that Holmes took note of straight away … he wore his facial hair in a remarkably old-fashioned style. He had a huge, drooping moustache – no beard. And long, luxuriant sideburns, called ‘muttonchops’ on the far side of the Atlantic.

The man made not the slightest move, however much his poor wife tried to coax him. His hands were rested on his knees, and not so much as a finger twitched. His body was as rigid as a mannequin’s, and his face utterly devoid of expression. His eyes – which were blue but very dark – were staring off into the far distance, except there was no distance in this tiny cell he was incarcerated in. So he was staring off at nothing.