The Queen's Martian Rifles

By M.E. Brines

Does the secret to the origin of Mankind lie within the Great Pyramid of Mars?

In this alternate steampunk adventure, the technical genius, Nicola Tesla, invented an anti-gravity coil that made steam-powered spaceships possible in the last decades of the 19th century. By 1899 the British Empire not only covers much of Africa, North America, Asia and the Pacific but also includes a moon base and a protectorate with the French over the backward civilization native to the planet Mars. But that empire, and those of the other western colonial powers have powerful extraterrestrial enemies no one even suspects exist – enemies that have renewed an age-old secret war against Humanity using all the supernatural powers at their command.

The cast of characters is sprinkled with historical personalities such as Aleister Crowley, the famous occultist history remembers as “the wickedest man who ever lived,” and Viscount Sir James Bryce, British statesman, author, world traveler and mountaineer who claimed to have discovered Noah’s Ark on a mountain in eastern Turkey.

His granddaughter, Lady Rebecca Bryce, is a militant suffragette and unorthodox scholar of antiquities determined to search the Martian pyramids of Cydonia for evidence of her theories on the extraterrestrial origin of human civilization. An educated and intelligent woman in a world that relegates females to insipid garden parties, she yearns to “set the male dominated science of archeology on its head.” She doesn’t believe she needs a man to fulfill her. But will she discover on Mars what she really needs?

Recent college graduate David Mclaughlin wants to make a real difference in the world, not just “host tea parties for old ladies.” So he abandons his parents’ plans for him to become a clergyman and seeks adventure as an officer in the Queen’s Martian Rifle regiment. But snubbed and scorned by his “betters,” can David persevere and save the Earth from destruction?

We also meet little Din, David’s personal servant and a member of the Martian Untouchable caste. His clan has patiently suffered in slavery awaiting a promised savior. But after more than three millennia, has God forgotten them?

Can Aleister bring down Western Civilization? Who are the Ascended Masters? What really happened to Atlantis? The answers lie within The Queen’s Martian Rifles!

Independently reviewed at gnostalgia.wordpress.com "Excellent"
and
christianscifiandfantasyreview.blogspot.com Rated "Five out of Five"

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.E. Brines
• Release date: Nov 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465753069

M.E. Brines

M.E. Brines spent the Cold War assembling atomic artillery shells and preparing to unleash the Apocalypse (and has a medal to prove it.) But when peace broke out, he turned his fevered, paranoid imagination to other pursuits. He spends his spare time scribbling another steampunk romance occult adventure novel, which despite certain rumors absolutely DOES NOT involve time-traveling Nazi vampires! A former member of the British Society for Psychical Research, he is the author of three dozen books, e-books, chapbooks and pamphlets on esoteric subjects such as alien abduction, alien hybrids, astrology, the Bible, biblical prophecy, Christian discipleship, conspiracies, esoteric Nazism, the Falun Gong, Knights Templar, magick, and UFOs, his work has also appeared in Challenge magazine, Weird Tales, The Outer Darkness, Tales of the Talisman, and Empirical magazine.

Book preview

The Pyramid of Mars

February 17, 1899 - The Plain of Cydonia

Rough hands shook me awake. A voice whispered, Stand to, sor.

My bleary eyes could just make out the face of Colour Sergeant O’Brien in the dim light from the open tent flap. I threw back my blanket and sat up, groping for my boots.

In only a moment I was buckling my equipment belt around me; the revolver hung heavy from one hip, my sword from the other. On the way out I snatched up my pith helmet.

Outside in the darkness I could hear the bustle of the camp, as the rest of the company was busy throwing on clothes and taking up weapons. It was less than an hour to dawn. That was the usual time for a surprise attack; native tribesmen were predictable that way no matter where you were. Not that there were any hostile tribes likely anywhere near this desolate place; the desert stretched for untold miles in every direction. The closest civilization was an agricultural settlement fifty miles or so away along one of the smaller canals. There was no earthly reason anyone should be this far out into the wastes. Only the dead ruins of the ancients and the crazy dreams of an obsessed archeologist could drag anyone this far from civilization.

I headed out to the perimeter of the camp to check on our deployment. Colour Sergeant O’Brien and I had laid out exactly where everyone was to stand in defense of the camp: a thin khaki line around the perimeter. With less than a hundred men it was a very thin line, but chances of a serious attack were slim. The few nomadic tribes here were reluctant to tangle with modern firepower and our bolt-action magazine rifles were expected more to deter the harassment of the native diggers assembled for the excavation than to repel a serious attack. Since we arrived their only use had been to shoot a couple of wild dogs attracted by our garbage. If it hadn’t been for the British ambassador’s concern about Lady Bryce’s safety we would all have been safe and bored back in garrison.

Of course, if it hadn’t been for Lady Bryce, the ancient ruins would still be lost beneath the desert sands, too. She’d done her homework carefully and seemed to know just where to look. Yesterday the diggers had struck a passage at the base of the pyramid hidden beneath the drifting sands. It was wide enough for two wagons to pass each other and plunged deeply into the ancient monument. It had taken most of the rest of the day to clear out the drifted sand and uncover the immense double doors inside. Today she’d planned to penetrate the burial chambers that were expected to lie just beyond the next set of doors.

I passed between the canvas tents, laid out in neat rows, returning the salute of a pair of privates scrambling to reach their assigned places. Overhead the dual moons shone down, the larger of the two rapidly nearing the horizon, soon to be lost in the glow of the rising sun. Nearby a group of diggers, awakened by our activity, gathered to greet the dawn with their weird ritual prayers.

Reaching the end of the tents at the edge of the rocky outcropping selected as our camping site, I eyed the scattered soldiers kneeling to check their weapons and equipment. In the distance I could hear O’Brien dressing down somebody for his appearance.

You there, I said to the nearest soldier. Let me see your weapon.

He handed it over and I inspected it, checking to see that the bore was clear and the magazine was full. Slamming the bolt home I tossed it back to him.

Looks good, I said and he nodded with a grin. Then I checked my own weapons, more for the look of it than any real need. I knew the revolver was loaded, but it was important the men who could see me knew I held myself to the same standards I held them to. My sword slid easily in its scabbard.

Just as the sun began to tint the eastern horizon Colour Sergeant O’Brien arrived and saluted. All present, sor.

I returned his salute, As I expected. Not much chance of any desertions in this hellhole.

No, sor.

We stood in silence waiting for full light before we dismissed the men to breakfast. There was a hint of wood smoke on the breeze from where some of the diggers had kindled a fire to begin their own.

I turned to the sergeant, What would you think of sending out a patrol later? Not so much to actually search for any barbs but more just to give the men something to do? I could take a dozen and scout out a few miles, be back by lunchtime?

He was silent a moment before replying, Dunno about that, sor. Findin’ yer way about in these deserts is harder’n it looks, what with a compass not workin’ an’ all. It’s pretty easy to get lost. Maybe better let me take ‘em.

The sound of kettledrums began from the far side of a dune a thousand yards away. My head snapped around searching for the source of the unexpected noise. In the distance a single voice sang out a phrase in a local dialect.

A chorus a thousand strong answered him.

Colour Sergeant O’Brien squinted in the dim light trying to make out the source of the sound. Sounds jes loik a mob o’ bloody Zulus. What’re they sayin’, sor?

I strained to translate the words as the chanting continued. Sounds like… kill the blasphemers… take the woman alive.

He looked at me in confusion, What kind o’ song is that?

In the distance a mass of figures many times the size of my own command swarmed into sight over the top of a dune, gradually spreading out in a crescent-shaped formation as the drumming and chanting continued.

That’s not a song, it’s a battle plan, I replied.

What the…. He stared at the rapidly filling horizon, pointing at a huge figure herding the native warriors into our direction. Most Europeans towered over the locals a hand’s-breadth or more, but this figure was more than twice the height of those around him. I half expected to hear him bellow, Fee, Fi, Foe, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishmun.

Trumpeter, sound assembly, I called out, then turned to the sergeant. Take two men and go to Lady Bryce’s tent. I want you to take her back to the pyramid. She’ll be safer back inside those underground passages.

But sor….

I know, I know, she won’t go. That’s why you’re taking the two men with you. Force her to go. Tie her up and carry her if you have to. Do whatever it takes, just get her into that pyramid!

He looked out at the horde of natives massing in the distance. What about you?

I’m going to give them a couple of volleys and see if that’ll satisfy their bloodlust.

He shook his head. That wouldn’t stop Zulus and these barbs is crazier’n them.

Don’t worry, if that doesn’t work we’ll fall back to the pyramid ourselves. After we bloody their noses they’ll probably be content to head back into the desert where they belong. Now, get going!

Yes, sor. He threw me a last salute with a look of concern, then turned and started for the lady’s tent, shouting at a pair of soldiers who happened to be running by, You two - come wif’ me! Yeah, you. Cum’on now, hurry yerselves along. This ain’t no picnic.

By now the rest of the company had formed up in front of me in four ranks with another sergeant shouting, Fall in! He spun on his heels and threw me a snappy salute, like a guardsman on parade. I smiled when I compared it to the one he’d slovenly waved in my general direction not so long ago when I’d first arrived here.

At-TEN-shun!

Their boots stamped a muffled thump in the drifting red sand.

TURN-A-bout!

A thousand yards away the advancing nomads stopped their singing. Instead they began to clash their weapons against their shields accompanied by a weird moaning sound, like a thousand damned souls headed for perdition.

First and third ranks, Right Face! At the double! For-ward, MARCH! They trotted out into an extended line on the left flank. I halted them and then turned everyone to face the enemy. My men were now in two ranks.

Up on the dune the enemy gave one great shout and started forward at a charge.

"Front rank, kneel!

"Volley fire! Present!

FIRE!

BLAAAAM!

The fifty or so men kneeling in the front fired as one man. A group in the center of the enemy formation went down but their comrades leaped over them and continued charging.

Reload!

"Second rank, Present!

FIRE!

BLAAAAM!

Reload!

The first rank had already worked the bolts on their rifles, ejecting the spent cartridges, then slamming a new one into the firing chamber. Like Sergeant O’Brien had predicted, the firing had no apparent effect on the enemy’s morale or the speed of their advance.

Independent fire; fire at will!

BLAAAAM!

My men fired one volley in unison, and then continued to fire as fast as each man could work the bolt on his rifle. Meanwhile, urged on by a group of sinister, black-robed priests, more natives poured over the top of the dune, faster than my men could shoot the ones that were already charging down upon us. Where were they all coming from? From what I’d heard, the nomadic tribesmen of the dry sea bottoms were rarely found in groups of more than a few dozen. They hadn’t massed for an attack in these numbers in more than a hundred years. Why here and why now? I wished mightily for a Maxim gun: one of the big tripod mounted, belt-fed, water-cooled jobs that spit bullets by the hundreds. But for all the good it did I might as well wish for some artillery and a regiment of Guards cavalry, too, while I was at it. The way it looked today I wasn’t likely to get anything but more tribesmen.

The enemy continued to close the range and our firing began to slack off as each man exhausted his magazine and began to fire singly, reloading individual rounds from their ammunition pouches after each shot.

Company will fix bayonets! I shouted. Fix… bayonets!

The firing ceased a moment while they snapped the foot-long bayonets over the muzzles of their Lee-Medford rifles. I turned and glanced behind. The pentagonal pyramid stretched skyward a half-mile-high like the slopes of an impossibly steep mountain. The unknown civilization that built it hadn’t stacked up stone blocks like the ancient Egyptians, creating an artificial mountain on an otherwise featureless plain by the Nile. Instead they’d taken an existing mountain and planed off the sides creating an artificially smooth five-sided feature, then hollowed out the interior leaving a structure with the volume of a thousand Great Pyramids, or so Lady Bryce had calculated. And I had no reason to doubt her calculations.

My only question now was whether we could make it to the shelter of those passages before the natives caught up to us.

Fall back! I cried, waving a pistol in one hand and my sword in the other. The trumpeter sounded a long call and then turned and ran as the rankers fired one last volley before turning away, reloading on the move.

The fleet-footed natives began to catch us on the far side of the tents, rushing at us with their short stabbing spears. I shot one and ran a second through with my sword.

Fall back! Fall back!

The men continued to run. A few stopped and turned to fire into our pursuers. They were overwhelmed and slaughtered; each clubbed and stabbed by a dozen tribesmen.

The long line of fast moving barbarians began to overlap the ends of our formation, curling in on both flanks as my men were overtaken and massacred. With the pyramid entrance only yards away it was clear we would never make it.

Those of us remaining turned and fought. The men fired their one chambered round and then fought on with bayonets. My trumpeter, a freckle-faced teenaged kid, drew his straight bladed short-sword and tried to fight three barbs at once. He took two of them with him.

A fuzzy-haired native with a wicker shield leaped at me brandishing a knobby club. I shot him, parrying a thrust by another’s stabbing spear with my sword. The second one beat my sword aside with his spear and leaped at me trying to grapple at close range. I clubbed him alongside the head with my revolver and then backpedaled out of the way of a thrust from yet another tribesman.

And they just kept coming. It was like watching a khaki-colored sandcastle try to stand against the incoming tide. The tribesmen threw us back and each wave that crashed against us left fewer and fewer khaki figures standing.

The firing mostly died off. That was a bad sign. Only my British regulars used firearms. The natives had some sort of religious bias and preferred cold steel.

I shot another native and fell back, retreating to where the base of the pyramid emerged from the red desert sands. Blocking and slashing at my attackers I used my pistol to shoot my way clear as I edged along the base to where the long khaki line had been reduced to a small knot of men near the entrance we had excavated.

Sergeant O’Brien emerged with two men firing into the mass of natives: rapid fire until their fresh magazines were exhausted. I took advantage of the respite, shouting, Fall back! and running for the passage. The handful of men remaining followed my lead.

An army of tribesmen followed them.

We ran down the sloping passage to where the huge hinged doors stood ajar. Lady Bryce stood there in the gap, her short dark hair stuck out unbrushed and dishelved. The shirttail of her blouse hung down untucked from her trousers; she looked exactly like she’d been dragged from her tent in the wee hours of the early morning. Taking up a wide-footed stance with her pearl-handled Colt revolver gripped firmly in one hand, she began firing over our heads up the passage, fanning the hammer back with the other hand like a gunfighter from the American frontier while her finger held the trigger back, her face contorted like one of the furies of Greek mythology.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

She exhausted her ammunition just as I reached her and shoved her roughly back through the doorway.

Get back! I yelled. A native javelin bounced off the door near where her head had been only a moment before.

One of the more fleet-footed of my men rushed past us into the darkness seeking a refuge. He was going to be disappointed when he turned the passage and reached the still-sealed doors at the end of it.

I grabbed Din, my personal servant, and two more soldiers as they tried to pass. Push these doors closed! The eyes of the soldiers stared at me in panic and shock. One of them shrugged off my hand and fled inside.

But grubby little Din understood. He grabbed one of the portals and tried to swing it closed. I threw my shoulder against the edge of the other great metal door. But they didn’t budge.

They’re damaged. Lady Bryce called out. An earthquake long ago warped the hinges. We didn’t force them open, we merely dug away the debris covering them.

The other two soldiers that ran up the passage returned. One of them cried out, It’s a dead end! We’re trapped!

I looked back up the passage from where we had come. Sergeant O’Brien and a pair of men were fighting to hold back a horde of tribesmen filling it back to the entrance. More and more tribesmen crowded the passage, pushing them back by sheer weight of numbers. The tribesmen were so crowded they could hardly fight. They were shoved right onto my men’s bayonets.

But with their weapons stuck deep into the enemy my men were unable to parry a half-dozen other spear thrusts. Two of them went down overcome by the sheer weight of bodies charging down the passage, pinned beneath a swarm of tribesmen, their stabbing spears pumping up and down like some sort of ghastly threshing machine.

Sergeant O’Brien backpedaled, swinging his rifle by the muzzle like a cricket bat as the hordes pressed closer and closer. I aimed my revolver at the closest foe, but pulling the trigger produced nothing but an impotent CLICK.

Suddenly, we heard the sound of kettledrums.

The natives broke contact, hurling a couple of javelins at us before withdrawing back up the passage into the daylight. One bounced off the half-closed portal I was leaning on. I beat another aside with my bloody sword.

Reload, ye bloody fools! Reload while ye can, shouted Sergeant O’Brien as he scrambled back down the passage to the relative safety of the doorway. There he thumbed rounds into the yawning maw of his rifle as fast as he could. I wiped my sword on my trouser leg before scabbarding it, then broke open my Webley, ejected the cartridges, and began thumbing more into the cylinders with trembling fingers.

At the entrance a tribesman appeared holding his shield horizontally in both hands like a serving tray piled high with sand. He took a few steps into the passage and threw his load onto the floor before turning and rushing off. He was followed by a dozen more who repeated his actions.

I snapped my revolver closed. They’re trying to bury us alive!

With one smooth motion I lifted my weapon and fired, dropping a tribesman in his tracks. The others fired, too. Soon anyone who showed himself in the entrance was gunned down.

But it made no difference. They simply held back and tossed the sand in from around the corner or clambered up the side of the pyramid and dropped it into the entrance from above. Occasionally one would misjudge his cover and expose himself. Two or three shots would ring out and he’d fall. But the ones we killed simply added to the growing pile of sand and debris blocking us in.

Soon they rounded up some of our own diggers and put them to work at spearpoint filling in the passage they spent the day before excavating.

Should we shoot ‘em, sor?

What difference is it going to make? They’d just round up some more or go back to throwing basketfuls in from the sides. Sooner or later they’ll bury us one way or another.

One of my men looked up from where he was kneeling watching our own diggers kill us a basketful of dirt at a time. We could charge ‘em. He wiggled his rifle moving the bayonet at the end of the barrel in a slashing motion.

Yeah, and die like the res’ o’ th’ company, ye knucklehead. Naw, we’s dead men. Our only choice is to take it fast or slow, like. Whatderyer say, sor? Which’ll it be?

I just shrugged. There didn’t seem to be much hope either way.

Soon we were completely entombed. My last sight as any glimpse of light from the outside was cut off was a cascade of sand running through the gap between the two door panels. Stygian darkness closed in on us like a blanket: darkness like the inside of an unopened grave.

* * *

A light flared in the darkness.

Blinking at the unexpected glare, I turned to find Lady Bryce kneeling by a collection of brass lanterns I’d overlooked in the heat of battle. They’d been left in a row by the corner of the passage near a two-and-a-half gallon tin of kerosene and a mattock, no doubt abandoned there when work ceased last night.

She had a lit match in her hand and in the act of lighting the wick said, There’s a third possibility. We can go on into the pyramid. This may not be the only way in, or out. She replaced the chimney and adjusted the length of the wick. The glow of the lantern cut through the darkness left when the enemy filled in the passage to the outside world.

She rose to her feet, lantern in one hand and Colt in the other. Many of the pyramids of Egypt have back ways in, either dug secretly as escape routes by workers who knew they were to be entombed with their master or else dug from the outside in by grave robbers. I don’t see why this one should be any different.

She held the lantern high and I surveyed what was left of our expedition: besides the sergeant and myself there were three other soldiers and one local civilian, Din’ my personal servant. He saw me eyeing him and smiled back, displaying his unfailingly cheerful disposition and abominable dental hygiene. I asked, Why didn’t you run off with the rest of the diggers?

The short, bald, skinny little guy grinned his usual gap-toothed smile and waved a enemy javelin he’d picked up and adopted as his personal weapon. Got’s to stay wif me master, I do.

Ach, the bugger knows who’s payin’ ‘im, that’s fur shure. The sergeant muttered from where he knelt, lending a hand lighting the other two lamps, then passing them to me. I handed one to … Atkins, that’s your name, isn’t it?

Yes, sir. His eyes lit up at my recognition.

I glanced over at the other two privates, then reconsidered. I’d rather have them unencumbered with their