A Priestess of Mars

By M.E. Brines

Lilith of Gomorra is a noble Martian priestess who sees love as nothing more than an exercise in naked carnality. But when she discovers a higher form of love, her faith in the ancient religion turns to doubt and she must choose between her people and the man she loves. The fate of the Earth hangs on her choice.
In 1907 in an alternate steampunk universe where Tesla invented a electric antigravity device that makes steam-powered spacecraft possible, asteroid miners have discovered ruins that pre-date human civilization. Two expeditions head to Ceres to explore them–an American expedition funded by a wealthy senator, and a German one organized by the occult Thule Society and led by Aleistar Crowley. But the Martian priesthood and their supernatural allies have infiltrated both and plan to discover the secret of the weapon that shattered the ancient world of Pentara in order to turn it against the Earth.
Can Crowley and his proto-Nazis find the Kaiser a world-dominating weapon? Will the Martians achieve their apocalyptic revenge against their colonial masters? Whose side is Lilith on? Her father’s? Crowley’s? Or does she have ambitions of her own?

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.E. Brines
• Release date: Jul 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005065645

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

Chapter 1

April 30, 1907

The greatest minds of Mars had failed to destroy Earth’s civilization once. They must not–could not–fail the Masters again.

The light from the brazier flickered off the cold stone of the musty vault, the scent of old blood tainting the air. A large egg-shaped table stood in the center of the room, a bizarre mass of clockwork purring beneath the gleaming surface. Around it stood four men in dark robes… and one woman.

She was young, half the age of the others, and her skin was the color of ebony. Her lustrous hair cascaded down her back and over the unworn hood of her cloak. Before her on the table lay an ink-pot, quill pen, and a sheet of parchment made of human skin.

A portly figure in a blood-red satin robe gestured at her with a pudgy finger.

You. Bring us wine.

Her eyes narrowed, but she remained silent–and motionless.

The bald-headed man to her left had a pate that shone as if it had been polished. His robe was darkest silk. Embroidered on its back in gold thread was the symbol of the High Priest–an eye with flames for lashes inside a pyramid. He spoke with a voice that belonged in a crypt.

She isn’t a servant, you gluttonous fool.

A knocking interrupted.

The High Priest bellowed, Enter!

Across the cavernous room a door swung open, revealing torchlight and a pair of guards in red tunics with polished brass helmets. Short iron swords hung from their belts, although one had a Colt revolver tucked beside his scabbard. The High Priest scowled at the sight, but said nothing.

The guard cleared his throat nervously. Uh, the Elder of the Sacrificial Brotherhood, Milord.

Another dark-robed figure entered, giving the guard a wide berth, and bringing the faint scent of decay with him. An ornate wavy-bladed dagger hung from his sash. Both it and his fingernails were crusted with some dark, unsavory substance. He glared at the guard’s Colt as if its mere touch might contaminate him with some loathsome disease. Gesturing at it with skeletally thin fingers, he sneered at the portly figure in red.

Do all your temple guardians bear such Earther…. Sighting the woman, he paused, his lip curling as he struggled for the proper word. Devices? He smirked contemptuously as he took his place by the table. Behind, the door closed again, the guards remaining outside.

The portly one shrugged, an almost imperceptible gesture amid his rolls of fat. They may be unclean, but they’re effective. Cold steel is fine for unresisting sacrifices, but the encroachments of the Unbelievers can only be prevented with superior force. And that means hot lead.

The High Priest nodded. Regrettable, but true. Now that we are all here. He threw a steely glance at the tardy Elder. We can now, as the Earthmen say, get down to business.

And that business is? The speaker, the Keeper of Secrets, wore a black robe that hung over his sparse frame as if decorating a scarecrow. The wisps of white hair that rimmed his bald pate gave him an eerie look, like something a grave robber left behind.

The destruction of Earth. The High Priest gestured to the center of the table. A set of nine enameled globes on stalks protruded from grooves in the tabletop. Each globe was a different size and color and each moved at an almost imperceptible pace orbiting the flaming brazier in the center. The High Priest’s forefinger indicated a smallish blue sphere, the third out from the central brazier.

Easier said than done, said the last of the group, who wore a violet robe and a long gray beard. It’s taken us seven years to recover from the last attempt.

The High Priest nodded. And thanks to you, Chief Inquisitor, we possess much more complete information about the enemy’s forces and capabilities than we had at the time of my predecessor’s unfortunate attempt. We are much better prepared this time.

Her quill stopped and hovered over the parchment. She looked up. I urge caution, Milord. Their power is great.

The Elder drew his dagger and slammed it into the tabletop. Earthlings are weak! He glared at her.

She glared back.

The Keeper of Secrets eyed the dagger marring his table. "Their technology–pardon my language, Milady…."

She’s no lady, the Elder said.

The Keeper ignored his remark. "As I was saying, their technology gives them great power. But they are foolish in the extreme. If our positions were reversed and they had failed to do to us what we attempted to do to them, our retaliation would have been swift and merciless. Yet instead of destruction and death, the fools built us roads, hospitals and schools. And their King Edward is now also our emperor."

The Elder pried his dragger from the table and eyed the tip for damage before returning it to his sash. At least he doesn’t interfere with the Sacred Rites.

That’s only a matter of time, the High Priest said.

She paused in her note taking. But the hospitals treat the sick, the schools are teaching literacy and their missionaries don’t force anyone to convert.

Those damned schoolteachers and filthy missionaries! The Elder fondled his dagger.

The inquisitor shrugged. That religion of theirs hasn’t really taken off, except among the Untouchables. It’s not even the religion of the majority of the Earthmen, just the more influential nations of the West. But it’s still dangerous.

The High Priest said, That is why we cannot wait. We must destroy them, and the time for that is now.

She laid her quill on the table. They might not be so stupid if we fail a second time.

Which is why we must not fail, the High Priest replied. The Ascended Masters will not stand for it.

Uh, have the Masters commanded another uprising? Because, I think… well…. she paused.

The High Priest held up a hand. It doesn’t matter what you think. You were summoned here to make the record, not for your wit.

But you called for the heads of all departments.

Of course, we need input from the temple guardians, the Sacrificial Brotherhood, Keepers of Mysteries and the Holy Inquisition. But the Sacred Whores aren’t likely to be much use overthrowing Earth – we don’t plan to screw them to death!

The others laughed.

You’re the one who put me there… father.

"Wasn’t my idea. It was one of Granddad’s before the Earthers blew him to pieces. But you are good at the job. That I admit. Not many have risen to the post of Head Mistress at your age."

What good is that if all you require is a scribe?

The Chief Inquisitor produced a thin-lipped little smile—usually the last thing people accused of heresy ever saw. Milord, if I might remind you of that private talk we had last week? Is it really wise to have someone suspected of heretical views making the record of a meeting of this nature?

As I said then, Inquisitor, asking questions does not make her a traitor.

I’ve burned people for less.

No doubt. But I know her better than you. She is trustworthy and will shortly prove that to your satisfaction. He gestured at her to take up the quill again, which she did.

Yes, the High Priest said. Mars can’t match their mastery of … machines. Luckily the Earthers have handed us the key to their own destruction. Their very mastery of space will lead to their doom! They have discovered ancient ruins on….

He gestured at a small white globe located midway between a little red marble and a huge sherbet-colored ball marred by a garish red spot.

Pentara, the fifth planet.

The Keeper of Secrets muttered, Well, not precisely correct, Milord. It hasn’t been a planet for at least six thousand years. It’s just a collection of fragments and broken pieces sharing a similar orbit.

True, the High Priest nodded. But we’re all familiar with the myths and legends about how Pentara became shattered.

The Keeper shook his head. They aren’t myths and legends, Milord.

Not anymore, said the Chief Inquisitor.

Precisely, said the High Priest. The damnable Earthmen have discovered ruins on the largest fragment, an asteroid they call Ceres.

How’d they get all the way out there? The Elder asked, still toying with his dagger.

The Chief Inquisitor glared at him. Those thrice damned aetherships of theirs, of course. How do you think they came to plague us here? Magic fairy dust?

Aetherships, the commander nodded wistfully. I hear their latest one is called HMS Dreadnought. It’s got ten twelve-inch cannon. The explosive shells stand as tall as I do.

She gestured at him. We have no hope of defeating something like that.

The Chief Inquisitor gave her an icy stare, and then addressed the High Priest. And you still doubt?

Doesn’t matter, the High Priest said. All their mighty aether fleets will be useless if we can discover the secret of how Pentara was shattered. Once we have that, we can shatter the Earth, destroy their civilization. Freed of their interference, we can cleanse Mars from those treacherous Untouchables, the way it should have been long ago!

The Commander of the Temple Guardians looked up with a hopeful smile.

The Elder of the Sacrificial Brotherhood grinned like a Death’s head.

But the Keeper of Secrets said, "That’s all well and good, fine proposal and all, but how exactly are we going to do that? None of the ancient writings mentions what exactly it was they did that caused Pentara to explode. I mean, we know they discovered a way to concentrate and control the magickal Vril energies produced by the dark sun that glows inside each of the living planets. Presumably they lost control somehow. But we don’t know how they got control in the first place. It wasn’t as if there were any survivors. All that happened way before humans ever lived on Mars. We wouldn’t even know what we do except for the knowledge provided by the Ascended Masters. They haven’t further enlightened you, have they?"

No, the High Priest said. "But don’t you see? The Earthers have discovered ruins on Pentara. That means something survived, even if none of the inhabitants did. If we can discover some lost esoteric scrolls or inscriptions and put those with what we already know, the Masters can help us piece together the gaps. Once we know what the ancient Pentarans did, we can do the same–only this time it will be Earth that is reduced to a swarm of asteroids. To accomplish their destruction we must dispatch an agent to Pentara to obtain that information."

And as the others around her nodded, Lilith knew what she had to do.

Chapter 2

It was dark and although the skies were clear and freckled with stars, the two moons shone but weakly. The blocky shapes of warehouses were lit fitfully by occasional gaslights. In the distance, a few larger structures blazed with electric bulbs. The air was ripe with aquatic decay.

Two figures stumbled arm in arm down the cobbled street. One was singing, or at least that’s what he was attempting, some ribald dockside limerick set to a dancehall tune. It was more an exercise in rhyming the word Nantucket than the epic ballad the singer was attempting.

His companion, a stocky individual in sailor’s garb, who sported fiery red hair with a bushy moustache and matching beard, shushed him.

Bill, me boyo. Hush yerself, willya? You know how these Marsies feel about Earthmen. And this ain’t the nicest neighborhood.

Bill giggled, pausing to sweep an arm around, taking in the seedy warehouses on every side. ’Course. If it was a nice neighborhood, they’d all be yelling at us to pipe down.

He was wearing a silk tortoise shell-patterned waistcoat, tweed jacket slung over one shoulder. His collar gaped, the tie MIA, an early casualty of the night. He giggled again and began a slow pirouette, waving at the darkened second-story windows in a nearby factory as he took up his song again. He hadn’t quite made a complete revolution before he began to stagger. Michael grabbed him by the flailing arm.

Come on, Bill. Let’s get ye back aboard before ye hurt yerself. He reached around with a practiced hand and grabbed him by the back of the belt, guiding him toward the wharf.

Aw, Bill wailed. You’re no fun.

Michael chuckled. You’ll be sayin’ that tomorrow, fer sure.

Just ahead, a shadowy figure crouched behind a pile of crates. As the pair passed, it drew a wavy-bladed dagger from its sash. The razor-sharp steel had been blackened against gleaming, as had the hand that gripped the pommel.

Bill stumbled on the curb, but Michael caught him one-handed before he fell. He gestured ahead with his free arm. There she is, Billy-boy. All we gotta do is get you aboard and tuck you in fur the night.

Just ahead, a large vessel rested in the canal. Unlike a sea-going ship, the upper works of this one were arched and smooth, uncluttered with exterior railings, rigging or companionways. The upper hull was as featureless as that beneath the surface of the canal, except for a bulbous protrusion forward, a single smokestack amid ships and a strange round ball the size of a carriage aft. The ball was connected to the ship with a profusion of pipes and looked, to a jaded eye, a lot like a larger version of a moonshiner’s still. Behind was a huge circular mirror the size and shape of a giant’s shield, as if Achilles had been twenty feet tall. Near the smokestack a lantern flickered from an open hatch wide enough to accommodate a loaded wagon. A gangplank led from it to the dock.

In the shadows behind, the dark figure darted silently to a stack of casks, then closer to the cover of an enormous spool wrapped in cable the thickness of a man’s wrist.

Just then a sailor emerged from the open hatch, rifle in hand. Who’s there? he called in a loud voice.

The dark figure sunk back into the stygian shadows.

Michael waved his free arm. It’s jest me and Mister Clark, back from a night on the town.

The sailor straightened and threw him a rudimentary salute. Very good, sir.

Bill Clark stumbled again, this time without the assistance of a curb. Michael again caught him before he went sprawling. Eyeing the gangplank bridging eight feet of dark, oily canal water, he called, Jenkins. Help me get him aboard. I don’t fancy fishin’ fer gentlemen this time o’ night.

Yes, sir.

They each took Bill by an arm, and over his less than coherent protests, walked him across the gangplank.

The dark figure watched from the shadows as they disappeared through the hatch.

After waiting the space of six heartbeats, the figure darted from concealment, scrambled across the gangplank and through the hatch, bare feet moving silently across the iron deck.

Inside, the passage branched left and right over a large hatch set into the deck. The figure cocked an ear. From aft came the faint sound of singing and a muttered, Hush up, Bill. You’ll wake the professor.

The hatch in the deck was steel and about eight-feet square, with two leaves hinged on opposite sides. With one ebony-skinned hand, the figure grasped a handle and pulled. The hatch didn’t budge.

The intruder tucked the dagger back into the sash and tugged with both hands. The hatch swung slowly back on well-oiled hinges and the figure ducked into the darkness below, lowering the hatch behind.

A moment later the sentry returned, whistling the same tune Bill had tried singing. He glanced back the way he’d come. Then, seeing no sign of Michael or another officer, set his rifle by the hatch and pulled a half-smoked cigar and a box of matches out of a pocket. Striking the match on the bulkhead, he coaxed the cigar to light, then tossed the match into the canal, before leaning against the bulkhead and exhaling a long plume of smoke.

* * *

William Clark had his own stateroom