What follows is a prologue to the novel and plot which ensues. The style is SteamPunk. A mixing of space travel and such with Victorian Era technology.
MARTIAN FEVER
Tears welled in little brown eyes.
The shivering child fought back, furious at such weakness in his character; silently watching his mother endure dying—a frail woman swallowed in the gulp of a feather down mattress.
Outside her window Allegheny winter snapped and snarled. Inside, young Charlie idled, trembling in his nightshirt.
Mother sat propped in her handsome four poster hand-carved bed. That noble face and nightgown soaked through with sweat of Martian fever. (Her claim.)
Newspaper headlines screamed contagion on a nightstand. Father had shaken his head, yet held his tongue's rebuttal.
A nine year old boy’s cold hand on his mother's hot forearm: his tender touch, as mother stared down at those precious, perfect little fingers.
"You're nails are dirty," she rasped.
Tearful eyes widened, face reddened to the color of splotches on mother's neck.
"No matter," she hastened to add, quietly closed her eyes. Mother shuddered, then died with a long, long exhalation which seemed to rattle into forever.
One Week Later
"Nine years old and expelled?" Father held the telephone against his chest and spoke aloud to himself, turned back to the mouthpiece, "How is this possible?"
Outside his haberdashery window Joseph Russell resembled one of his smartly suited manikins framed by gold leaf lettering: Quality Men's Clothing : Proprietor Russell & Son, Ltd.
"I understand and I repeat Principal Truett: his mother's death struck him quite the blow. Both of us are quite staggered by her passing. Charlie was light of life in her eyes. We'd lost two children previous, you understand and she doted on him and--"
A shop door chime signaled arrival and Joseph Lytel Russell waved his arm, motioning for a salesman to service the visitor. He turned back to the ivory and brass telephone in his manicured hands.
"Perhaps I could interest you gratis in three hand-tailored suits from our finest--what's that? Oh--sorry. I didn't mean to suggest—right, very well. I'll collect him immediately but---how's that? No-no, I'll hire a private tutor if I must. His mother intended great things for Charles and I'll have no less than first rate education for him one way or other."
A shop assistant hovered behind him—hand extended, holding the day’s post.
"More Martian nonsense, I suppose! Why the boy's mother subscribed to these rags is beyond understanding!"
Sheepishly, the clerk smirked. "My spouse has been carried away ever since the rockets returned, Sir. The whole world is in a tizzy according to her. Colonists fought a war with those Martian cannibals and returned infected. I can understand the fear part, at least. How many have died so far, sixteen million?"
Russell squinted over bifocals at his employee then, flicked his eyes at the packet of new letters and back to the man.
"This pandemic has frightened my son out of his wits! He's been getting students at his school all charged up with panic. That phone-call was the Principal informing me I need to collect the boy--he's been expelled--can you believe that? Scribbling chalk warnings which shriek: MARTIAN INVASION!"
"Sorry sir. I'll take over and mind things here if you must go."
"See that you do, and don't gossip with your Mrs. about this expulsion or I'll have your ticket punched, you understand?"
Nine Years Later
Outside the little meeting hall a hand-painted banner proclaimed, "Proof Positive: Imminent Martian Invasion!" Tuesday nights the VFW met in the same hall. Wednesday: Lion's club. Friday: Women's Auxiliary. Tonight was different. The people in the foyer had a wild-eyed look to them.
The eighteen year old in the smartly tailored suit huddled with greeters at the entrance and exchanged words. He stood out as the jewel among pebbles, well-spoken, handsome and sincere.
The night's speaker, Jonas Wendell, sat on a raised platform going over his notes. He glanced up and recognized such fine clothes on a young man he recognized. His eyes brightened at the night's prospects. "Come on back, Master Russell--glad you could make it."
Two hours later, an array of charts, graphs, note cards and broken chalk littered the floor at Wendell's feet. He concluded his lecture with questions from his audience. Forty-one persons responded to handbills and newspaper adverts, but only twenty or so remained for the entire two hour presentation.
Wendell had no use for the curiosity seeking looky-loo, only the earnest and utterly committed true believers. He hoped he’d found at least one—a wealthy one with the will to move and shake things up.
Charles Russell articulated knowingly and eagerly such precise questions, unlike the others! His face shone like an angel’s, wide-eyed intelligence and consummate breeding displayed so charismatically. Now the hall had fallen silent and Jonas Wendell rose to answer and reel in his fine fish!
"I've clearly demonstrated my thesis this evening. God's witness testifies to the truth of my claims. This chart and chronology matches that of Scripture. There is not the variance of a shadow's turning. Worldwide pandemic was plague foretold as the sign for the Great Tribulation. It is harbinger of Armageddon. How little time remains! Shall every one of us keep this message to ourselves and perish in blood guilt before our Lord? No! But, who is this night willing to donate time, service or money to the spread of so great an evangelical endeavor? The Martians are coming. The Martians are coming!”
Wendell's gesture encompassed the remaining audience, yet his eyes never left the serious and handsome face of that young man in the front row.
Charles Russell clenched his jaw and stood, reminding Wendell of a prizefighter stepping confidently into the ring to do great battle.
"I pledge to undertake the entire cost of this venture as full partner and underwriter." Charles smiled. Wendell beamed.
AN ILLUSION IS NOT A LIE
Back in Russell's hotel room, Jonas Wendell took the measure of his new partner. The young partner had already taken measure of Wendell.
"No, I don't quite agree at all with your arguments, Brother Wendell. I must state this up front and emphatically."
Jonas Wendell felt a gnawing pang in the pit of his stomach.
"Brother Wendell, your wonderful charts are an illusion, but they are not a lie. A great gimmick, indeed!"
The older man played his role to the hilt and had taken to confident posing in front of the large fireplace until his backside had burned, then moved to another pose beside the hotel window with the best view of the city imaginable outside.
"Do I hear a confession of something in what you're saying, young man?"
Russell stood with both hands in his pockets staring down at the reflection in his highly buffed Italian handmade leather shoes.
"Mother knew the invasion from Mars is the sign of Armageddon of God's scriptures! Martian fever took her from this earth and away from me. I can imagine this was spoken by the Lord through her to me for good reason. Listening to the voices of strangers, my beloved mother's warning has lately been driven from my head and my heart, I do confess. I had lost my faith and my zeal. Until tonight, I lapsed as a back-slider into abject apostasy. Your chart and your words have served to renew my zeal.”
Wendell moved to the canopied bed and sat himself on its edge, picking at lint on his gabardine pants.
"May I ask exactly what caused your skepticism when such convincing evidence abounds?”
Russell strolled over to the window and cast his eyes evenly at the evening cityscape. Off in the distance a building had caught fire. He wondered how much warning for escape those poor souls may have had.
“Let us recall William Miller! He convinced thousands, did he not? Devout souls waited for 1843 with the same certainty you now possess. Well sir, scoffers and ridiculers remember too! All those true believers stood like fools and madmen staring at The Great Disappointment. Many had faith destroyed! Others went back to their mainstream churches chastened and broken. Still others—like you, grew more determined, stiff-necked and reckless—inching the predictions ever outward wrong and wrong again.”
Wendell was staring at the back of Russell as he spoke. He rubbed his eyes and tried another angle.
"In your letter, Charles—may I call you that? Yes, in your letter you said the important thing is not the particulars, but whatever can be used the Lord shall use to snap men’s minds toward his coming!”
Russell turned, pursed his lips and looked down into the grey cloudy gaze of Jonas Wendell's tired eyes.
"Mister Wendell, we can none of us know with certainty the day or the hour. We may not rightly reckon the year. Isn’t it peculiar so many of us set our strength to violating this stricture? Readiness of heart and vigilance are our task at hand. That and that alone—and yet . . . your chart is convincing!”
“Master Russell, you said yourself my chart boosted your zeal of faith! What is needed is financing!”
"I've come recently into my majority in my father's business. All funds necessary will be andalready are in place for this work. I had hesitated neither fully believing nor knowing how to make full use of it."
Wendell heard everything he needed to hear. He instantly relaxed and sighed aloud stretching flat on Russell's Chantilly lace bedspread. "What did you mean, 'an illusion but not a lie'?”
Russell frowned at the sprawled elder in his slapdash attire so free with boorish manners.
"A magician can make things appear and disappear and that is merely illusion. For the audience, it is their own inattention makes the magic work: looking at the wrong thing at the right time or the right thing at the wrong time. Your chart makes them look directly at reality—a coming Martian hocus pocus.”
Wendell suddenly sat up straight and collected himself. He had presumed upon this serious young fellow’s hospitality! No time to relax—it was nigh time to seal the deal.
"What course would you propose, Brother Russell?"
"I need to form some kind of corporation to control every aspect of publishing and distribution."
"You mean another tract Society?"
"I mean a full scale publishing empire for books, magazines, tracts—whatever—even Bibles!"
Jonas Wendell stood and straightened his sloppy necktie, flashing his chipped yellow teeth.
"Sounds like the beginning of something outstanding!"
"No, Brother Wendell, not the beginning—the end: Martian Invasion is nigh and with it comes the end. I shall make the sacred secret headline news in all the newspapers of this dying world!”
Outside a fire truck raced with the clanging and the clatter of horse hooves upon stone streets.
The elder man gripped Russell’s arm and stood close enough to smell lavender water on a silk pocket handkerchief. He observed the wide dark pupils and squared jawline of the remarkably assured young man destined for adulation and greater wealth. “1874 is only four years away! So many wretched souls could be lost if only we had the time to explain my chart to them as I’ve done this evening for you.”
Russell gingerly removed Wendell’s hand. “Truth belongs to none of us as property. I’ve seen dozens of such charts. Dispensational charts, chronology charts, and a most fascinating Great Pyramid chart purporting to exactly match Scripture for dates preserved in stone measurements! If we are to work together, Jonas—may I call you Jonas? Yes, well your chart must be combined with all others.”
The clattering fire wagon receded into the distance as logs in the bedroom fireplace settled, crackled and tossed sparks with a sputter or two.
Wendell pulled at a watch chain fob and reeled his timepiece out of its pocket. He unclasped the dull silver cover and squinted at the hands.
Charles Russell watched the silhouetted figure of the man fumbling over the cheap watch.
“Brother Jonas? Let me assure you: the time is now!”
SIX YEARS LATER
“Nelson Barbour and John Henry Paton have turned you inside out, son.” Joseph Russell shouted at his son’s left ear as the horse and buggy rocked and wobbled along the road. “Why else would you go against the very thing you’ve been mocking for so long? Setting a dead certain date is just asking for trouble—you know that. Look at all the failed dates behind us. What makes this new date any different?”
Russell grinned as he wrote in a small tablet and strained against the dust from the road as the brown mare kicked against it in a clopping gait. “The dead are about to be resurrected, Father! This will make news around the world. If I’m the one who nails the prediction ahead of time—they shall all turn to me for more information because I’m the one who alerted the folks in advance. Yes, dead certain, indeed!”
“You’ve paid for this public address. You’ve paid for St. George’s Hall and we’ve liquidated all business interests for what—to be made a laughing stock? Two years from today when dead people do NOT rise from their graves as predicted all this money and notoriety will brand us both as crackpots and scoundrels! Don’t you know we already have a reputation as . . . suckers with free money to be had?”
TWO YEARS LATER
“Yes, Father—the invisible, spiritual return of our Lord DID happen! The resurrection was off a bit, I confess. I was over anxious to see mother again. Surely, no sin in eagerness for that! And please, don’t start in about my marriage to Maria Ackley. She’s on board at the very best timing possible. Have you seen her handwriting? Her editing is perfection and her Spenserian script is gorgeous!”
“Son, wealthy young men do not wax poetic about dead people rising and attractive young ladies’ penmanship! I know you feel called to this work—but really, you keep changing what you say is proof of this and that, depending on who you are currently listening to! We pay travel expenses, hotel bills, rent lecture halls, meal tickets, and on and on. When does this all end?”
“Father, I’ve organized and advertised a great upcoming Christian revival. I scheduled in advance two conferences with all the leading ministers of every denomination. I shall clearly present my views to these servants of the Lord and then you’ll see! When the Great Pyramid chart is unveiled they’ll leap to their feet and get behind this work 100%. First warning: the Martian influenza. Next, we suffer the invasion by Mars. True Christians who call upon the invisible returned Lord will be raptured away from our dying world as the rest—who don’t listen to me—will be enslaved in the Great Tribulation and meet their doom at Armageddon! So, to answer your question: just a little while longer; that is all.”
ONE YEAR LATER
“Charles, I’ve held my tongue through so much of this . . . “ Maria lit the gas jets along the walls as daylight faded, just as she did each evening. Her husband, Charles Russell sat still by his favorite window staring out at nothing in particular.
“1878 was an awful comeuppance. All the pastors and leaders rejected your message and did so twice. They called you names and ridiculed when the rapture did not take place. Need I mention the invasion by Mars? Was that perhaps invisible as well?”
The twenty-seven year old husband stiffened and clenched his jaw tightly. He slowly turned in his chair and said nothing.
“I’m here as your helpmeet. Let me please be a help. Listen to reason. Wasn’t I the one who talked you into staying home in your white robe instead of joining the others on the bridge? How would that have looked on the front page? Wasn’t I right in advising you to break with that awful Barbour fellow? You rightly blamed his totally inept calculations and he blamed you! What now, Charles? Yet more and more wrong predictions? Is this the purpose of our union? Can’t we . . . can’t we . . . simply have a conventional Christian marriage?” Her face flushed as her bosom heaved slightly.
Russell flinched, swallowed hard and stood suddenly. “Our agreement, our union and our purpose were agreed before our marriage. This isn’t conventional, Maria. In the Lord’s own due time he shall reveal his confidential matters to his servants. I know I am selected for a pure and noble work.” Maria demurely crossed the distance and stood beside her husband and took his hand. “Let me help.” Russell looked down at his wife’s smooth, lovely hand incuriously. “Your nails are dirty.”
THE TWAIN
Maria tapped lightly on the bedroom door. It was 3:15 a.m. She held a dressing gown clutched close to her form. Presently, the heavy oak door creaked open and her husband stood gaping at her.
“What is it—is there a fire?”
“No. May I come in? I am after all your spouse and this bedroom rightfully is mine too.”
His amazement flashed and vanished, but he walked two steps backward and he held the door open.
In the next ten minutes three things happened. A weird tale had been offered and rejected. A shouting argument had erupted and servants had awakened and summoned police.
By daybreak a matter of monumental importance had been settled. By 3:15 p.m. a meeting had been called and local supporters adjourned a private meeting at the Russell residence.
William Conley, president of the Watch Tower Bible and Tract Society stood before the adjourned gathering. He held up his hand and the room grew silent.
“We all will pray on this matter, certainly. I for one know Pastor Russell to be a man of absolute integrity and beyond any reproach. If he tells us and assures us he has been contacted by the Martians secretly, I simply have to believe him! Just think what this means! A disaffected, deposed Martian leader is plotting with his human enemies for revenge. He will pass along to us, through Brother Russell, the exact timing of coming invasion, where and when! We in turn will warn our fellow man far in advance, linking to prophecy of Scripture! Ours is a blessing and cause for rejoicing!”
Maria indiscreetly entered the room and the men, unaccustomed to invasion by a female during conference, glared at her and backed up to make room.
“Gentlemen, Brothers—I received this wonderful message while I was kneeling before my bed last night, awakened by the vision of an angelic being of great glory. This personage pointed to the King James Bible on my bed stand. With one glowing finger the pages opened a passage of scripture to my eyes! As my husband has explained to you—it has been vouched safe to us—The Twain: Charles and myself, Faithful and discreet slave spoken of in our Bible, appointed over all to serve meat in due season. This “meat” is the confidential and direct message of Martian leader Loo-K uZ. Pastor Russell’s Tower Watch magazine is the mouthpiece of Loo-K uZ. No other denomination has what we have and no other ministry can reveal what we shall now reveal. I’m excited. I’m sure you are too. Thank you.”
Maria, without glancing at her husband, turned and departed the room as every eye swiveled first toward the woman and then her husband. The pastor’s expression was inscrutable. On the one hand, if one were given to skepticism, one might describe the face of a man blackmailed into submission. But, to a true believer, the pastor’s face could well be a man stunned by special selection to be the mouthpiece of the greatest prophetic message in human history. Only time would tell.
< SNIP>
End of preview