The George Hughes Trilogy

By Simon Dillon

For the first time ever, all three thrilling novels in The George Hughes Trilogy are present in one spectacular volume.

The Martian Inheritance, The Titan War, and The Neptune Conspiracy concern teenage boy George Hughes, who unexpectedly inherits the planet Mars.

In three riveting tales, George finds himself the target of covert assassins, hostile aliens, and even darker forces. But he also comes under the protection of a mysterious secret agent, and finds friends in unlikely places.

Packed with page-turning action, mystery, suspense, and mindblowing twists, The George Hughes Trilogy takes science fiction adventure to new and exhilarating heights.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Dillon
• Release date: Nov 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005118402

Simon Dillon

I was born the year Steven Spielberg made moviegoers everywhere terrified of sharks. I lived the first twenty or so years of my life in Oxford, and am pleased to have spent so much time in the place where some of my favourite writers wrote their greatest works (including JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, and Philip Pullman). I like to think I can write a diverting tale, and as a result I have penned a few novels and short stories. I currently live in Plymouth in the UK, and am married with two children. I am presently brainwashing them with the same books that I loved growing up.

Book preview

The George Hughes Trilogy

Book One: The Martian Inheritance

Book Two: The Titan War

Book Three: The Neptune Conspiracy

By Simon Dillon

Copyright 2013, 2015 Simon Dillon.

Revised 2022, previously published under the titles George Goes to Mars, George Goes to Titan, and George Goes to Neptune.

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Foreword: This is a revised version of a trilogy of novels previously published as George Goes to Mars, George Goes to Titan, and George Goes to Neptune. The plots have not changed, but the manuscripts have been substantially polished and tweaked, as well as retitled.

Dedication: For Zara, Daniel, and Thomas

Table of Contents

Book One: The Martian Inheritance

Chapter 1: The Mars Landing

Chapter 2: The Man with the Trilby Hat

Chapter 3: Mr Stains

Chapter 4: Giles

Chapter 5: Space Pilot Training

Chapter 6: The Voyage to Mars

Chapter 7: Rendezvous with the Holst

Chapter 8: The Holst Reception

Chapter 9: Exploring the Candor Chasm

Chapter 10: The Underground City

Chapter 11: General Grykur

Chapter 12: The Martian Liberation Sisterhood

Chapter 13: Attack on the Holst

Chapter 14: Mr Stains’s Agenda

Chapter 15: The Race to Earth

Chapter 16: Dark Horse

Chapter 17: Crash Landing

Chapter 18: The Battle of Farmoor Wood

Chapter 19: New Management at the Mars Trust

Epilogue: The Debriefing

Book Two: The Titan War

Chapter 1: The Martian Student Exchange Programme

Chapter 2: A Deadly Attack

Chapter 3: A Message from Titan

Chapter 4: The Secret Base

Chapter 5: The Outward Voyage

Chapter 6: Arrival at Titan

Chapter 7: The Rescue

Chapter 8: The Parallel Titan

Chapter 9: The Scavenger Nest

Chapter 10: The Black City

Chapter 11: Zargok

Chapter 12: The Escape Plan

Chapter 13: The Pursuit

Chapter 14: Fire and Wings

Chapter 15: Alter-egos

Chapter 16: Will Stock and the Time Travelling Assassin

Chapter 17: Through the Portal

Chapter 18: The Seventh Floor and Other Matters

Chapter 19: The Return of General Grykur

Chapter 20: Diversion and Infiltration

Chapter 21: Faith and Contingency Plans

Chapter 22: Aftermath

Epilogue: Old Enemies and New Allies

Book Three: The Neptune Conspiracy

Chapter 1: Exams, Bullies, and Nightmares

Chapter 2: The Attack on New Sunderland

Chapter 3: Nano Robots

Chapter 4: The Miniaturisation Cure

Chapter 5: Farewell, Reunion, and Departure

Chapter 6: The Voyage to Neptune

Chapter 7: Arrival at Neptune

Chapter 8: Shelthrak

Chapter 9: The Map

Chapter 10: Secret Investigations

Chapter 11: The Robotic Plague

Chapter 12: The Algriphians

Chapter 13: The Mulkurian Forest

Chapter 14: Mystics, Messiahs, and Monsters

Chapter 15: Pursuit of the Golden Faction

Chapter 16: Krelnar

Chapter 17: Lord Proltharn

Chapter 18: The Kalazeem

Chapter 19: The Battle of Therenyil

Chapter 20: The Return to Shelthrak

Chapter 21: The United Human Empire

Chapter 22: Invasion Plans

Chapter 23: Operation Jericho

Chapter 24: The Martian Occupation and Other Matters

Book One

The Martian Inheritance

Chapter 1: The Mars Landing

‘Today, the human race will land on Mars.’

As far back as he could remember, George Hughes wanted to be a space pilot. He knew everything about the history of interplanetary travel and had followed the Mars mission with avid interest.

The television newsreader continued. ‘United Spacelines vessel Holst will reach geostationary orbit within the next four hours. From there, preparations for landing will be made. As well as Captain David Gull, co-pilot Sophie Miller, and other crew, the passengers consist of businessmen, film stars, sports personalities, pop singers, and two former US Presidents. These celebrities will be surveying the terrain, choosing plots of land, ready for the architects who will build their luxury holiday homes.’

George munched his breakfast as the screen cut to a computer simulation displaying the Martian surface, indicating where the Holst would land and where the passengers could have their homes built. Decades previously, people had questioned the sanity of celebrities who wanted off-world accommodation, but following the huge success of moon colonisation, it was only a matter of time before attention turned to other planets. Martian holiday homes became the latest fad for the stupidly rich.

‘The Holst carried its passengers in luxurious accommodation across space over the last seven days.’

The television showed images inside the Holst. George pondered how much space travel had changed over the last hundred years. The vessel’s interior was a far cry from the cramped, weightless conditions of old NASA shuttles, and instead resembled the interior of a luxury ocean liner. There were expensively decorated living quarters, as well as a large restaurant, bar, casino, dance floor, and cinema.

A simulation outside the Holst revealed the craft resembled an enormous Y.

‘The Holst is the largest spacecraft ever built. Her fuselage is fifty feet tall and over five hundred feet long, by three hundred feet wide. She has been equipped with revolutionary new slingshot rockets, enabling her to travel faster than any vehicle in history. The journey from Earth to Mars was made in less than seven days, averaging between five hundred and seven hundred thousand miles per hour. Until now, a manned voyage to Mars seemed impossible, due to the energy requirements, but water-powered slingshot rockets have changed everything...’

The screen went black.

‘Another power cut,’ said George’s adoptive mother Gertrude, from the kitchen.

‘Typical,’ said, George’s adoptive father Albert, from the bathroom.

George sighed. The power cuts always seemed to occur when there was something interesting on television. But he had to leave soon anyway, or he’d be late for school.

Gulping down his last mouthful of dry toast, George crossed the sitting room to collect his schoolbag. Their tiny flat consisted of one bathroom, one kitchen, one bedroom, and a large communal living area with faded, peeling wallpaper that doubled as George’s bedroom. Against one wall, an ancient-looking brown and green sofa riddled with holes faced the even more ancient-looking television that had been broadcasting the Mars landing. George stared mournfully at the blank screen for a few more seconds, hoping the power would be restored once he returned.

Gertrude strode into the room, flustered and out of breath. Her clothes were ragged from years of wear and tear, and her hair always stood on end, no matter how much she brushed it. Craig Patrick and his gang of bullies at school often said his adoptive mother looked like a witch. This infuriated George, who thought Gertrude the kindest, sweetest person in the world.

‘You ‘ad enough breakfast, George?’

Even though he was still hungry, George knew better than to say he hadn’t eaten enough. Gertrude would offer another slice of toast then there would be none left for her.

‘Plenty, thanks,’ said George.

Gertrude wasn’t convinced. She crouched down and scrutinised George with worried eyes. ‘I ‘ope we’re feedin’ you proper. You’re a growing lad after all.’

‘I’m fine. I’d better go, or I’ll be late for school.’

Albert emerged from the bathroom in his shabby dressing gown, his grey hair sticking out at peculiar angles much like Gertrude’s. ‘George, m’lad! Could you let the power station know our electric’s gone again? I’d go myself, only I’m already late and the roads will be a nightmare when I get out.’

George nodded, thinking, with a stab of pity, just how much older his adoptive parents looked, even though they were only in their late forties. Despite this, their eyes had a sparkle of contentedness that George envied.

‘’Ave a good day dear,’ Gertrude said as George left.

‘Y’never know,’ Albert added. ‘Today could be the day that changes your life.’

Albert often said that to George.

George closed the rotting chipboard door behind him, and strode away from Flat 3, Road 7, DCT District 427; the tiny, run-down concrete bungalow that had been their home for most of George’s thirteen years. He ignored the familiar thick black clouds smothering everywhere affected by the atomic fallout of World War IV, but wished he lived in the nearby city of New Sunderland. At least there, the atmosphere processors ensured it was sometimes possible to see the sky.

George again wished he was a space pilot and could travel to Mars, even though he knew this could never be. Interplanetary travel was prohibitively expensive in the DCT scheme. He couldn’t get within a mile of a spaceport, let alone apply to be a pilot, unlike other children his age, born into rich families. But George refused to let go of his ambition. One day things would be different.

After ten minutes, George reached DCT School 832, which he had attended since the age of five. He stared up at the dreary steel and concrete columns of the school building, groaning inwardly. The mock examination papers had been marked, and the teachers would be angry at his results.

Sure enough, as he sat in the classroom at his internet terminal, moth-eaten Mrs Richards fixed him with a cold glare from beneath shaded spectacles.

‘George Hughes, I’m sorry to say your results are outstanding.’

George sighed, resigned to what was coming.

‘I’m disappointed in you, to say the least. I don’t understand why you continue to defy me. There was no need to get all the questions correct.’

Craig Patrick yelled from the back of the class. ‘Because he thinks he can be a space pilot!’

George glanced at Craig as the other pupils sniggered. Craig was a stupid bully and had a face like a pale spotty camel, yet somehow managed to be the most popular person in class. Mrs Richards let the laughter continue for a moment then motioned for silence.

‘No Craig. Someone as intelligent as George would realise there’s no chance of ever becoming a space pilot. Unless he’s magically forgotten who he is and where he lives. Have you forgotten George? You know what the DCT scheme is, right? Debt Control Tax. Instituted forty years ago to prevent financial collapse after the war. Intended as a temporary measure but became permanent. Every low-paid worker pays one hundred percent tax, to avoid slipping into debt. In return, the government feeds, clothes, and houses you, as well as providing a generous allowance...’

‘Hardly generous,’ George muttered.

‘I’m sorry. What was that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Exactly what any space pilot application made by you will lead to, George. Therefore, there must be some other reason you insist on attaining marks that will never be of any use to you.’

George’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. He hated the way Mrs Richards made fun of him in front of the entire class.

‘Come now George, you could at least have answered this question incorrectly: Calculate the speed of light from a light source emanating from within a spacecraft travelling at one hundred thousand miles per hour. No thirteen-year-old DCT child should know that.’

‘299,792,458 metres per second,’ said George, without even thinking.

‘And what’s all this stuff underneath? Can’t you answer any question simply?’

‘It was a trick question. The speed of light is constant, regardless of whether the source of the light is in motion or not. However, that is assuming the light is travelling through a vacuum, in the absence of matter. In reality, the speed of light depends on the material the light moves through. For instance, light moves slower through glass than through air…’

‘Enough!’

George fell silent at Mrs Richards’s command. He had launched into a scientific lecture without meaning to, but the speed of light and theory of relativity were such fascinating subjects, he couldn’t contain his enthusiasm.

‘If you must answer everything correctly, then at least have the decency to keep your answers free of explanations that are nothing more than showing off.’

‘But the question said to explain…’

‘Be quiet.’

Mrs Richards began to foam slightly at the mouth. From experience, George knew this was a sign that now would be a good time to back down. But he also knew this was a humiliation he would have to endure again. Despite being a DCT child, despite what he knew about his future job prospects, and despite Mrs Richards, deep down he knew someday he would be a space pilot. Therefore, he had to study hard. If that meant endless ridicule for getting high test results, it was a price he would have to pay. Try as he might, he couldn’t deliberately get Maths and Science questions wrong. Why did everyone think it was showing off to use his talents to the best of his abilities?

After school, George didn’t want to face the jibes that would inevitably come his way as he left the building, so he tried to slip away unnoticed. Instead of making his way across the playground, he crept around to the rear of the school, hoping to leave through the back gate. Unfortunately, upon passing the dustbins he was confronted by Craig Patrick and two of his cronies, Dave McFarlane and Trevor Scott. Trevor was tall, pale, and thin. Dave was short and fat.

Upon seeing him, Craig, Scott, and Trevor cut off George’s escape. George’s heart sank at getting caught. At the back of the school there were no surveillance cameras, and no witnesses to the beating up that would inevitably ensue. George was no fighter, and Craig was considerably bigger than him.

‘It’s the space pilot!’ Dave hissed.

‘Think you’re better than us?’ taunted Trevor.

‘Of course, he is!’ Craig pressed his ugly face against George. ‘He’s going to be a great scientist like, like…’ Craig stuttered as his brain tried to catch up with his mouth, before he finally managed to think of a name. ‘Frankenstein!’

‘It’s Einstein you moron,’ said George.

‘Whatever,’ said Craig, punching George in the jaw. His teeth slammed into the side of his mouth, cutting his cheek. Tasting blood, he staggered back but remained on his feet. Knowing he was in for more of the same, George decided he wouldn’t just take it silently.

‘Do you really enjoy this? I mean, surely there’s only a very limited amount of fun in making my life miserable?’

Craig punched him again, this time on the nose. A jolt of pain shot through George’s head and his eyes filled with water. He decided to fall to the ground even though the punch hadn’t been hard enough to cause this. That way, Craig might give up earlier and leave him alone.

Craig, Dave, and Trevor all began to kick him as he lay sprawled on the tarmac. George curled up into a ball and closed his eyes, aware only of blinding pain as blows rained down on him.

‘Wait!’ said Craig. The kicking ceased.

‘Let’s get him a space helmet!’ said Dave.

‘I reckon he’s had enough,’ said Trevor.

‘I say when he’s had enough!’ hissed Craig.

George opened his eyes and saw Craig carrying a large dustbin filled with rubbish over to where he lay. Dave and Trevor pulled him to his feet and Craig placed the dustbin over his head. Cold rice pudding, eggshells, and other waste from the school kitchens spilled down his head, neck, and face. The dustbin covered most of his body.

George couldn’t see a thing. He tried to breathe in and accidentally tasted rotten, stinking cabbage. Coughing violently, he spat it out and waited for Craig and the others to leave him alone.

Eventually, the hysterical laughter from Craig and the others stopped and George heard them run away. After waiting a moment, he pushed himself out from under the dustbin. His back and ribs ached from where he had been kicked, and his mouth and nose were swollen. The taste of blood and rotten cabbage lingered in his mouth as he scraped away the worst of the mess from the dustbin.

When he finally left through the back gate, George thought he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure emerging from behind the other dustbins, but when he turned back there was no one. Dismissing the image as a trick of the light, he hobbled into the road and staggered along the street away from the school.

The grey landscape seemed darker than usual. A rumble of thunder echoed in the skies. George remembered he had to visit the power station on his way home to report the loss of electricity, so hastened his step, despite pain from his bruises. People kept staring at him, and George realised he must look and smell disgusting. He continued to brush himself down, but the stench of the bin clung to him. He longed to be home where he could take a shower.

George noticed crowds congregating around one of the many giant video screens dotted outside around DCT District 427. People were watching with great interest, and George remembered the cause of their curiosity. He rushed into the crowd and stared at the screen. Several people moved away from him, making disgusted faces at the smell.

George’s heart thumped with excitement as the screen displayed the Holst spacecraft on the surface of Mars. Sophie Miller was about to become the first human to set foot on the surface. She had already put on her spacesuit and had emerged from the hatch, walking down the ladder to the ground. The Holst utilized the latest digital cameras to beam pristine pictures back to Earth; a far cry from the fuzzy images of the 1969 moon landing.

George expected Sophie Miller to come out with a snappy one-liner similar to Neil Armstrong’s legendary one giant step for mankind quote. However, she could only manage an uninspiring but understandable ‘Wow!’ as she set foot on Mars and stared across the bleak red landscape.

At this, people began to move away from the screen. George couldn’t understand why. He wanted to clap and cheer, but his enthusiasm for space travel wasn’t shared by these people whose only thoughts were of their own troubles. Yet although his dream of becoming a space pilot seemed further away than ever, George couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride that elevated him above his miserable day. Mankind had landed on Mars. Although, he didn’t know why, he knew it was the beginning of a new era that would change the world forever.

Chapter 2: The Man with the Trilby Hat

A few minutes later, George reached the power station office; a stark, grey building staffed by low-level power company officials who oversaw the distribution of electricity to DCT districts. Because of the frequent power failures, George was used to coming here. Upon entering, he joined the queue that led to the flimsy plastic booths set up for DCT customers. Some people glanced at his dirty clothes and moved as far away as possible to avoid the smell.

Whilst waiting, George had an uncanny suspicion he was being watched. By whom, he could not say, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Something wasn’t right.

He glanced around at other customers (doubtless, also there to complain about power outages), but couldn’t see anything unusual. Yet George couldn’t shake off the feeling of someone or something staring at him, watching his every move.

At the back of the queue, he caught sight of a man in a long black trench coat and matching trilby hat. This struck George as odd, especially since most people in DCT districts could not afford matching clothes, let alone a trilby hat. Such headwear was rare, and prohibitively expensive even for those not on the DCT scheme. He couldn’t be part of the DCT community, but in that case, what was he doing here?

After reporting that his home had no electricity, George hurriedly left the plastic booth. On the way out, he sensed the steely gaze of cold grey eyes observing him from beneath the trilby hat.

Unnerved, George headed home as quickly as he could. The encounter had disturbed him, and he wanted to get back safely before darkness fell. He told himself he was being silly, that there was no danger, and the whole thing was his imagination. But who was the man in the trilby hat and what was he doing? Was he the same shadowy figure he thought he had seen hiding behind the dustbins at school?

Thoughts of this odd man evaporated as George reached his house. Gertrude was out, Albert wouldn’t be back for hours, and the room felt chilly. The power was still off, so any shower he took would have to be a cold one.

Deciding he couldn’t wait, George peeled off his stinking clothes and plunged under the cold water. He gasped and shivered, but at least he was able to get clean. He washed quickly, not wanting to stay under the water longer than necessary. The last thing he needed was a cold in the middle of winter.

George dressed quickly then sat and read his physics textbook by torchlight. Ten minutes later, the lights came back on. George put the textbook down and switched on the television. He turned to channel 42, which broadcast uninterrupted coverage of the Mars landing. David Gull had joined Sophie Miller on the surface, and they were conducting a geological survey with three other members of their crew. George stared at the glorious red and bronze landscape, longing to be with them.

The click of a key in the front door indicated Gertrude had returned. ‘Did you ‘ave a good day, dear?’ she said, as she entered the sitting room.

‘Fine,’ said George. ‘Except on the way home, I tripped and fell into a pile of rubbish.’

Gertrude looked puzzled. ‘How d’you manage that?’

‘Slipped on a banana peel.’

‘Well, them clothes’ll need washing. Try and be more careful George. We only ‘ave limited funds for…’ She fell silent and shook her head. ‘Never mind.’

Later that evening when Albert returned, he had bad news. The marshmallow factory he’d worked in all his life was reducing its workforce and he had lost his job. Gertrude worried about what would happen to them. Unless Albert could find another job in the next week, they’d be out of DCT accommodation and on the streets. Despite this, George’s adoptive father remained cheerful.

‘I’m sure it’ll all work out for the best,’ Albert said, as he finished his bowl of cabbage soup. ‘Never did like working there anyway.’

‘You told me you liked working there, when my parents worked there,’ said George.

‘Yeah, well, what I meant was, I liked your parents. Terence and Anne were my best friends. It’s why we took you in, after the accident at the factory when they…’ Albert didn’t finish his sentence.

‘…when they fell into a vat of liquid marshmallow and drowned,’ said George. ‘Such a stupid, pointless way to die.’

‘They loved you. That’s what you need to remember.’

George couldn’t understand how Albert maintained his relentless optimism, but was glad he did, as it meant he was never unpleasant to be around. However, even Albert’s irrepressible cheer was sorely tested that weekend, as he hunted for another job. George and Gertrude helped him as he searched the internet and local newspapers, but it was no good. There simply weren’t any openings for someone of his social status. By Sunday, Albert was more miserable than George had ever known him to be. He tried manfully to remain good-humoured, but from his voice, George could tell they were staring at the wrong end of an exceptionally harsh reality: Unless Albert found a job within twenty-four hours, they would all be homeless.

To keep his mind off the prospect of living on the streets, George watched the ongoing coverage of the Mars landing. All the Holst passengers now had an opportunity to explore the surface and were busy picking spots where their homes would be built. The idea of celebrities arguing over property on Mars amused George, and he idly wondered what it would be like to be a Martian estate agent.

The following morning, a gloomy atmosphere lingered at breakfast. Only a few hours were left for Albert to find a job. Trying his best to be cheerful, he smiled at George and said what he always said.

‘Today could be the day that changes your life.’

George didn’t reply, as he realised today could indeed be the day his life changed – for the worse.

Later at school, Mr Harding the PE teacher announced there would be a cross-country run that afternoon, instead of the usual football training. George hated cross-country runs, especially as their local so-called countryside consisted largely of dead trees and toxic rivers. Damage from the atmospheric disrupters on warheads fired at the northeast of England meant the land would not recover for decades.

Nothing grew in the fields, and rivers were contaminated with lethal toxins from the deadly chemical waste nearby factories poured into them.

The boys in George’s class changed into shorts and T-shirts, and began their bitterly cold, miserable run from the school gates, along the roads in DCT District 427, and out into open country. Endless black clouds swirled overhead. A swathe of drizzle stung George’s face as he ran along the muddy track that led up Farmoor Hill. Puffing and panting, he was struck by the pointlessness of these running exercises. How could Mr Harding possibly believe such exhausting experiences were character building?

By the time he reached the top of the hill, George had fallen behind. The rest of the boys were over a hundred yards ahead, running across a ridge overlooking a desolate countryside covered in dead grass, which eventually descended into Farmoor Wood. The wood was filled with petrified trees; like a graveyard commemorating an era where the countryside once flourished. Beyond the wood to the south lay empty fields that had once been used by local farmers to grow wheat. Now all they contained were a pair of electrical bunkers; two ugly grey blobs that looked strangely out of place even in this bleak landscape.

George didn’t know the land around Farmoor Wood well, and for that reason wanted to stay within sight of the other boys. He made an extra effort to catch up, but glancing back, he saw the only boys behind him were Craig Patrick, Dave McFarlane, and Trevor Scott. George groaned. They wouldn’t need an excuse to beat him up again, if they got the chance.

Pushing ahead as fast as he could, George stomped through puddles of mud. The curtain of drizzle escalated into full-blown rain, and before long he was drenched. All the time, the other boys got farther ahead. Behind him, Craig Patrick and the others drew closer.

George leapt over a wooden stile and plunged into Farmoor Wood. He could still just see the backs of the other boys, running ahead between the blackened trunks of dead trees. The great dark branches loomed over him like the hands of some huge evil beast. George shivered and tried to ignore his surroundings. Twigs and roots crunched under his feet. He kept imagining he was running over a sea of severed fingers, their brittle bones breaking beneath his shoes.

After another ten minutes, the ground rose sharply. George ran along a path next to a steep embankment. Shattered remains of an old shopping trolley lay strewn across the ground, and he leapt over the various pieces of twisted metal. Far below, he heard the rushing of a stream. He had managed to keep the other boys within sight, but was tiring, and knew it wouldn’t be long before he lost them completely.

Glancing back, George saw Craig Patrick looming closer. He had picked up a large metal pole from the ruins of the old shopping trolley. George tried to speed up but before long heard Craig yell.

‘Out of the way, space cadet!’

A tremendous blow crashed across the side of George’s skull, and he fell. A wave of blinding, intolerable pain washed through his head, and everything went black.

George didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious by the time he woke up, but there were no longer any sounds of running boys. Craig and his cronies were long gone. The rain was more persistent, and as he pulled himself up, he could feel large, icy cold drops running from his nose.

When the water dripped into his mouth, he realised the rain had mingled with blood. He put his hand to the side of his head, discovering his jaw swollen where he had been struck. A bloody gash ran across his face to just below his left ear. His head pounded and his back ached. Staggering to his feet, he wondered if he’d sprained his ankle.

Dizziness overcame George as he stared at the petrified trees. He stumbled to a nearby trunk and leant against it, shivering in the bitter cold. The endless rain made it hard to see very far into the woods. He tried to get his bearings but couldn’t see the path from where he had fallen. He was near the bottom of the embankment, not far from the deadly polluted river that rushed through the muddy banks past dead plants and petrified reeds.

Regardless of the pain in his ankle, George knew he’d have to climb back up the embankment. Retracing his steps was the only way he could get out, otherwise he’d be wandering hopelessly in Farmoor Wood. He staggered forward with grim determination, climbing the slope in the stinging rain. He had to use his hands and knees to pull himself up, but all too often they sank into the mud, and he slid back down. Pain in his back and ankle increased. His head felt three times as heavy as usual, as though it might topple off his shoulders. George wanted to lie down and fall asleep, but the biting cold ruled out that possibility. He had to get out of this wood and back home.

Then there was the matter of Craig Patrick. George realised he would have to tell a teacher what happened. He had never told on anyone for bullying before, but what Craig had done was beyond mere bullying, and close to attempted murder. It was unusual for him to attack someone so viciously, and Craig would have known George could have rolled all the way into the river, ending up hideously burnt by the toxic liquid rushing through it. Perhaps this had been his intention all along, but why had Craig degenerated from bully to potential murderer?

As George pondered this question, he climbed as best he could up the steep embankment. He dug his muddy hands into the ground, pulling himself up another few inches, when he caught sight of something that made him freeze in alarm.

Silhouetted at the top of the embankment stood the man in the trilby hat. His outline was unmistakable. He looked down towards the stream, and George realised this man, whoever he was, was looking for him.

George slid back down a few inches and crouched behind a petrified bramble bush. Its dead branches would never produce blackberries again, but at least it provided some cover. Hardly daring to breathe, George he watched the mysterious man pace up and down on the path above the embankment.

The man watched for a few more minutes, then disappeared. George thought he had given up looking, but as he was about to resume his climb, the man appeared again, and to George’s dismay began descending the embankment towards him.

George’s heart pounded. What should he do? Remain hidden or run? He could see the man heading directly towards him. If he remained hidden, he would be discovered. On the other hand, he was in no condition to run with his injured ankle.

The man in the trilby hat got closer, putting a hand into his pocket. George gasped as he pulled out a handgun.

He was going to have to decide quickly. If the man got much closer, he would be spotted, but could he outrun his stalker with a sprained ankle? He’d have to try. There was no choice, if he wanted to live.

As quietly as he could, George slid back down the embankment to a reasonably level section of ground, then began to run away through the mud. Intense shooting pains travelled up his leg from his injured ankle. His head felt heavier than ever, and in this state, he knew his only option was to remain hidden.

A gunshot rang out amid the rain. George ducked. A bullet buried itself in a petrified tree trunk near his head. The man in the trilby hat had only narrowly missed. He was trying to kill him!

Terrified, George ran faster. He brushed through dead plants and bushes. Blackened thorns and briers stabbed at him as he went, but they didn’t delay him. They were long dead and snapped and fell as he fled.

George’s mind raced with questions. Who was this man? Why was he trying to kill him? It made no sense. He was just an ordinary DCT schoolboy. How could he be important enough to assassinate?

Another gunshot echoed through the air. George dived to one side. The man had missed again. George didn’t dare to look back but could hear the fast pace of his mysterious attacker. He was gaining on him.

The ground became more uneven. George found the going harder, especially with the rapidly increasing pain in his foot. As he clambered over mounds of earth and dead branches, sweat poured down his face, mingling with the blood and rain. He felt feverish and hot. His bruised body could not take much more, but he couldn’t stop, or else he would die.

On and on he ran, through rain, mud, and dead vegetation. Running along an incline proved difficult, and all the time his pursuer drew closer. A bullet sang past his head, narrowly missing. If the man got any closer, he wouldn’t miss. There was no way he could escape, unless…

George veered off, down towards the toxic river. He had concocted a dangerous plan, but perhaps such a reckless move might put off his pursuer. Risking a quick glance behind him, he saw the man in the trilby hat was closer than ever. He had a blank, emotionless face with cold, merciless eyes.

George reached the banks of the river and stared at its festering, steaming surface. The poisoned water splashed to and fro over jutting rocks, burning and eroding them. After choosing a crossing point, George carefully but quickly dashed across, using the rocks as stepping stones. Under normal circumstances, no one in their right mind would dream of doing something so foolhardy, as a single slip would mean immersion in the deadly liquid. But if he didn’t try, George knew he’d be killed.

He reached the other side. Breathing a sigh of relief, George crouched behind a large tree trunk and peered back across the riverbank. The man with the trilby hat reached the point where George had crossed. Uncertainty registered in the man’s cold eyes, and he hesitated.

For a second, George thought he had outwitted the attacker with his rash journey across the deadly river, but a moment later saw this was not so. The man in the trilby hat began to cross, his eyes locked on the tree trunk where George lay hidden.

Panicking, George leapt out from behind the tree and tried to run, but a loud gunshot and agonising pain in his left leg forced him to his knees. It felt as though a dog with razor-sharp teeth had bitten a chunk out of his flesh, as George clutched the bloody calf muscle near his foot.

He tried to stagger to his feet, but it was too painful to walk. Blood spurted from the gunshot wound. Escape seemed impossible. Looking back, George watched his assailant reach the other side of the stream, his expression still cold and emotionless. There was no joy or regret, merely a mechanical recognition that the job of killing was almost complete.

George glanced around in desperation, looking for a weapon he could use against his attacker. Along the bank, a dozen feet to his right, protruding a couple of feet from the ground, sat some old pumping equipment similar to an American-style fire hydrant. It had once been used to try to divert the course of the toxic liquid into a treatment works where it could be neutralised. The project had been abandoned when it became too expensive. All that remained was a pump connected to the river, and a roll of hosepipe that could be attached to it. George realised he was looking at a potential weapon, but he would have to crawl to reach it, connect the hose, and work the pumping mechanism. To do that, he needed to buy time.

Too much time.

He needed another plan.

Eventually, he caught sight of a large stick that he could possibly throw at the mystery man, but what good would that do? It was petrified and would break the moment it struck him. He would merely delay the moment of death. Yet some delay was better than none, so George reached out across the damp earth to try and grab the stick. The man in the trilby hat pointed his pistol at George’s head and closed his finger over the trigger. It was now or never.

George managed to reach the stick and throw it at the man. It hit his face but as George feared, it snapped harmlessly. His attacker appeared to barely feel it.

Dismayed, George felt around for something else he could use to defend himself. He found a small stone and was about to throw it, when a cry rang out from the embankment on the other side of the stream.

‘George Hughes! Where the devil have you been?’

The man turned to see the origin of the cries. Mr Harding rushed down the embankment looking very irritated. The PE teacher caught sight of George’s bleeding leg and the attacker, and his eyes filled with alarm.

The man in the trilby hat turned to shoot Mr Harding. George threw the stone, and it struck the attacker’s jaw as he fired. He yelled in pain, as did Mr Harding, who collapsed with a bullet in his chest. In the confusion, the mysterious assassin lost his footing and stumbled backwards, tripping on a rock at the edge of the river. His blank, calculating face registered only the faintest glimmer of surprise as he fell headfirst into the gushing current of the lethal river.

His head surfaced almost at once, but it was already too late. The man in the trilby hat screamed. Toxic liquid burned his skin. His eyes melted. His skin blistered and bled profusely. Within seconds, the flesh around his neck was gone. The man’s terrible cries were no longer heard as the deadly chemicals devoured his larynx. His face dissolved, and he collapsed at the side of the river.

George wanted to hide, but he had been unable to tear his gaze away. He stared at his attacker’s corpse in silent shock. His head buzzed with unanswered questions, and as he let himself relax, the pain from his many injuries returned with a vengeance. His head swam. He leant back on the ground as the rain fell, and within seconds was unconscious.

Chapter 3: Mr Stains

When he woke up, George found himself in a strange bed with the concerned faces of Albert, Gertrude, and a man he didn’t know all staring down at him. The stranger was in his mid-forties, well-dressed in a silk suit, and appeared well-fed. George could immediately tell this man was not in the DCT scheme.

‘George!’ cried Gertrude, hugging him.

‘How’re you feeling?’ said Albert.

‘Alright…’

George tried to sit up. His head and lower left leg were bandaged. He felt tired, but also a lot better. Glancing at the white walls and linoleum floors, he wondered how he’d ended up in a private hospital. The place was far too clean to be the local DCT ward. The furnishings looked brand new, and he had his own television, internet terminal, and en-suite bathroom. Outside, darkness had fallen.

‘Is it still Monday? Where am I?’

‘St Bernard’s hospital,’ the stranger replied in polished tones. ‘I am Mr Stains, your lawyer.’

George stared at Albert in bewilderment and felt a bit suspicious. His lawyer? Why did he need a lawyer? More to the point, how could he afford a lawyer?

‘Mr Stains says he needs to speak to you real urgent like, George, but won’t say why,’ said Albert. He shot a distrustful glance in Mr Stains’s direction.

‘Yes, a matter of some urgency,’ said Mr Stains.

‘I sent him to your school,’ Albert continued. ‘But when he got there you was on a cross-country run. Then, once Mr Harding and them other boys returned, and you was missing. Mr Harding went to look for you and…Well, once we found you, Mr Stains insisted on bringing you here and kindly offered to pay the bills.’

‘What about Mr Harding?’ said George. ‘Is he alive?’

Mr Stains nodded. ‘He was lucky. A couple of inches higher and the bullet would have hit his heart. You probably saved his life with that stone you threw.’

Georges stared at Mr Stains, baffled. Why would a rich lawyer come all the way to DCT District 427? Why would he pay for his treatment at a private hospital?

Mr Stains cleared his throat. ‘I can see you’re confused. There is much I must tell you, but for now…’

‘Why was that man trying to kill me?’

‘All in good time. You lost a lot of blood and had to have a transfusion. They’ve micro-sealed the bullet wound and it should be completely healed in a couple of days, but the doctor says you need to rest. We’ll talk again, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.’

Mr Stains gave a courteous nod, turned, and strode away. Wanting answers, George leant forward to protest. Gertrude gently smoothed his brow.

‘Easy George. Tomorrow, we’ll come back, and I’ll bring some of your favourite chocolate.’

George smiled, although where Gertrude would find the money for such extravagance eluded him. Perhaps Mr Stains would pay for it as he had the hospital bill but thinking about money reminded George Albert had been looking for employment.

‘Are we homeless?’

Albert shook his head. ‘Far from it. Mr Stains got me a job in another factory nearer home, and he’s moving us to the nice end of town. Real posh like, so things are on the up for us.’

George was relieved, though no less suspicious of Mr Stains. Still, whatever his motivation, getting Albert a job was exceptionally kind, not to mention paying for expensive, cutting-edge, rapid-healing micro-surgery in a non-DCT hospital.

After a few more kind words from Albert and Gertrude, who seemed just as in the dark about this bizarre turn of events, George was left alone for the night. He fell asleep quickly, despite his nagging unanswered questions.

The next day, George awoke to find he was on television. A local news programme explained how a schoolboy had been attacked and shot in Farmoor Woods. It went on to tell of the man in the trilby hat’s grisly demise. He had been identified as Montgomery Stone, a notorious professional killer. Also, police arrested Craig Patrick, Dave McFarlane, and Trevor Scott. They were approached by Montgomery Stone who paid them to knock George out during the cross-country run. The assassin told them he was an undercover policeman who needed George out of commission as he was a dangerous criminal, but when Trevor discovered the truth, he had been conscience-stricken, and confessed everything to the police.

George couldn’t help but feel a smug sense of satisfaction as he watched Craig Patrick and his cronies marched in handcuffs past curious television reporters. They had been extremely stupid to believe an undercover policeman would ask them to knock him out. However, the reporter never referred to George by name, but instead said the victim of these attacks wasn’t allowed to be identified for legal reasons.

George wondered what these legal reasons were, as the nurse brought him breakfast: Bacon, egg, sausage, tomato, and fried bread with fruit juice. It was a far better breakfast than he normally ate.

Shortly after he had finished, visiting hours began. It wasn’t long before Albert, Gertrude, and Mr Stains arrived. The nurse closed the door so they could talk privately.

Albert and Gertrude looked on tensely as Mr Stains flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles. ‘Right, George. The time has come for answers.’

The lawyer moved closer and spoke ten words George would never forget.

‘You have just become the richest boy in the world.’

George laughed. He couldn’t believe it, but as he caught sight of Albert and Gertrude’s open-mouthed shock, he realised this was no joke.

‘How?’

Mr Stains cleared his throat and spoke matter-of-factly. ‘I appreciate this will be a shock to you George, but you are the legal owner of all property on the planet Mars.’

George felt as if he had entered a surreal dream. How could he possibly have a legal claim on the planet Mars?

Mr Stains continued. ‘To understand how you obtained this property, one has to begin at the beginning; in the year 2006, to be precise. Your great-great-grandfather Jonathan Hughes, who was an American citizen prior to settling in Britain, once made a legal and binding claim, registered at the US Land Registry and Copyright office, to the entire Martian surface. His sole right over the sale of Martian property was also recognised by the Russian government and the United Nations. These organisations all agreed that if the planet Mars was ever colonised, Jonathan Hughes or his descendants would have exclusive access to all property and the legal right to sell it at whatever price to whomever he pleased.’

George couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Why did they all agree to this?’

‘At the time, it was thought highly improbable that Mars would ever be colonised, and as a result, the powers that be decided Jonathan Hughes was a lunatic. All property rights were signed over to him, and they now pass to you, as you are his only surviving heir.’

George’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. This had to be a mistake. Albert and Gertrude, who had both been trying to formulate words for some time, finally managed to splutter out a sentence between them.

‘But why have we…’ Albert began.

‘…only found out now?’ Gertrude finished.

‘Because Jonathan Hughes went to great lengths to keep his claim a secret. Although the people of his time considered him mad, he was a man of great vision who knew mankind’s destiny was to conquer other planets. As a result, he set up a legal company called the Mars Trust to handle his claim and to ensure his descendants identities weren’t compromised. Part of this meant keeping the truth of their inheritance from them, until such a time as Mars was colonised.’

‘But how could this Mars Trust maintain itself over the years?’ said George. ‘Who funded it?’

Mr Stains smiled. ‘Your great-great grandfather was a very wealthy but eccentric man. When he died, he left his entire fortune to the Trust to maintain it as long as necessary, to protect his claim. The interest alone on his fortune has funded our organisation and allowed it to exist until today.’

‘You mean George’s family was already rich?’ said Gertrude.

Mr Stains nodded. ‘Needless to say, his sons and daughters were not happy when they discovered upon his death, his entire fortune had been left to a mysterious Trust, about which they knew nothing.’

‘But why make this claim to Mars?’ said George. ‘Surely, if he was that rich, he didn’t need the money?’

Mr Stains shrugged. ‘Since when has wealth stopped the rich from wanting to be richer?’

George began to think his great-great-grandfather wasn’t just eccentric, but cruel and mad, especially as the Mars Trust had survived purely on the interest from his fortune. He imagined his great-grandparents must have been very bitter indeed at not receiving a penny of inheritance, whilst the Trust had been sitting on a fortune as it went about its business of protecting the heirs of Jonathan Hughes from discovery.

Then the obvious point occurred to him. The Mars Trust had failed to protect them. It had failed to protect him from the assassin Montgomery Stone.

‘If the Trust was supposed to protect my identity, why did Montgomery Stone find out who I was?’

Mr Stains cleared his throat and cracked his knuckles again. ‘Now, alas, we come to the more unfortunate segment of this story. Fifteen years ago, when Mars colonisation began to look as though it might happen after all, a member of our staff betrayed the Trust and sold information regarding the identity and whereabouts of Jonathan Hughes’s surviving relatives. This member of staff, whom I am ashamed to say I personally employed in good faith, was later prosecuted and sent to prison, but by then it was too late. The damage was done.’

‘What damage?’

‘This member of staff, Bernard Wilton, was contacted by an as yet unidentified individual who wanted this information and was prepared to pay for it. This person went to great lengths to ensure he couldn’t be traced. Believe me, we have tried. Anyway, he told Wilton no harm would come to the descendants of Jonathan Hughes, so Wilton gave away their whereabouts. He was either very naïve or very stupid, for no sooner had he given out the information than people started to die. All of Jonathan Hughes’s descendants were systematically eliminated one by one; each dying in bizarre and unusual accidents that always appeared suspicious but could never be proved as murders.

‘Your parents, Terence and Anne, both died in the same marshmallow factory accident you have heard about, except the Mars Trust has always known it wasn’t an accident. It was murder. Montgomery Stone killed your parents, but we have never been able to prove it to the police. Of course, he was acting under instructions from this elusive, unidentified somebody else, who knew about the potential fortune that could be made from Martian property. With you as the only surviving relative, the Mars Trust did all it could to protect you from this foul conspiracy. Once you had been successfully adopted, all paperwork and computer files linking you to them were destroyed. We knew we couldn’t protect you forever, and it was inevitable that your enemy would eventually track you down. We kept a close watch on the likes of Montgomery Stone, although given your narrow escape it nearly wasn’t close enough.’

‘But how will getting rid of me help this enemy own Mars?’

‘Because once you are dead, the Hughes family line dies forever, and Mars is there for whoever can register a claim first. The many celebrities that voyaged to Mars aboard the Holst tried to lay claims on particular sections of the planet, before the Mars Trust pointed out to them that your great-great-grandfather had beaten them to it.’

Mr Stains fell silent. George tried to take it all in. His parents had been murdered by Montgomery Stone, but now this assassin was dead and couldn’t identify his employer. Neither could Bernard Wilton, the traitor from the Trust. That meant whoever eliminated his parents tried to murder him. They were still out there and would probably make another attempt.

‘Who is this person trying to kill me? You must have some idea.’

Mr Stains smiled darkly. ‘I do. We’ll discuss that another time, but first I think it’s best if I explain what will happen next regarding the money you inherit. First, your great-great-grandfather’s will makes clear that once Mars was colonised, if there was any money from his fortune left, it goes to the most direct descendant. That means you, George. Of course, as I mentioned previously, his entire fortune, which I must say is a considerable amount plus interest, does indeed remain, and it shall all go to you once you come of age. Until then, it is to be held in trust by us. This also extends to any money you make from property sales on Mars. Once you come of age, you are free to do as you choose with his fortune.’

‘So, George don’t get no money till he’s eighteen?’ said Gertrude.

‘Correct. Until that time, any spending of funds must be authorised by the Trust.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said George. ‘Are you telling me I can’t use my own money to make sure Albert and Gertrude get a proper house in the city, away from the DCT scheme?’

‘Such an extravagant use of funds would need to be approved by the other Trust board members,’ said Mr Stains. ‘I have already greatly exceeded my authority by providing your adoptive father with another job and home.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Perhaps not. However, until you are eighteen, we can only act within strict guidelines set down by your great-great grandfather about what we feel is in your best interests.’

‘But why don’t Albert and Gertrude get the money? They’ve looked after me my whole life.’

‘Albert and Gertrude Green are not blood relatives. I understand you wish to see them comfortably well off, but unless I can get the board to approve your desire for such a significant transfer of funds, my hands are tied.’

‘Don’t worry about us, George,’ said Albert. ‘We’re better off than we’ve ever been, thanks to Mr Stains’s generosity.’

George fumed inwardly; angry at Mr Stains and irritated by Albert’s simple contentment. He couldn’t believe he’d become the richest boy in the world, only to find he couldn’t use the money to help the people he loved until he was eighteen. He began to fantasise about coming of age, abolishing the Mars Trust, and sacking the entire staff, including Mr Stains, despite the fact he had saved his life.

‘Is there nothing I can do with the money?’ said George.

‘We will use it to send you to the very best schools,’ said Mr Stains. ‘And you will be able to live in fine accommodation in the city. You will be given every advantage and opportunity someone of your age could hope for.’

Mr Stains moved closer and grinned.

‘You’ll be able to go to a school where you aren’t berated for doing well in physics examinations.’

But George was confused. ‘Surely you don’t mean…?’

‘I’m afraid I do. For complicated legal reasons, as a result of your inheritance, Albert and Gertrude are no longer your guardians.’

George and Gertrude spoke in aghast unison. ‘What?’

‘Who will look after him?’ said Albert.

‘The Trust will allow George to remain with you if he wishes, but I personally do not believe that will be in his best interests. I am now his legal guardian, and there are many great opportunities ahead of him that he should not miss because of misguided loyalty.’

‘Misguided loyalty?’ Gertrude cried. ‘How dare you!’

‘Forgive me for being blunt,’ said Mr Stains. ‘It’s an unfortunate habit, but in my profession, brevity can sometimes be mistaken for lack of tact. I know this is a difficult decision for George, and I fully intend to give him a few hours to think about it.’

‘A few hours?’

‘You can have my answer now,’ said George. ‘I’m not leaving Albert and Gertrude.’

‘So, there’s an end to it,’ said Gertrude.

But Albert didn’t look so sure. ‘What would George miss out on, if he don’t go with you?’

Mr Stains once again cleared his throat and cracked his knuckles. ‘Well, before he comes to live in the city and attend schools with pupils of his calibre, the Trust requires his presence in an important business transaction…’

Gertrude was now beside herself with anger. ‘For heaven’s sake, Mr Stains, George don’t want to be no businessman! He wants to be a space pilot!’

Undeterred, Mr Stains finished his sentence. ‘An important business transaction on the planet Mars.’

George’s jaw dropped open in disbelief for the umpteenth time since the conversation began. He honestly thought he was dreaming, and immediately pinched his arm to check. Mr Stains smiled.

‘I can assure you this is not a dream. Your presence is required on the Martian surface so the Trust can negotiate property sales with the various people that wish to build there. Technically of course you don’t need to be there, but as you are the landowner, your presence will enable customers to put a name to a face.’

George finally managed to form some words. ‘You mean you want me to…?’

‘Yes George, I want you to learn to be a space pilot so you can fly to Mars.’

‘But how?’ said Gertrude. ‘George is too young.’

Mr Stains shook his head. ‘Age is not a factor these days. Many children with well-off parents learn basic space flight once they’re in secondary school. With a few days of training, we’ll have George at least partly ready. The Trust has invested in a specially designed spacecraft. It’s called the Argo, and she’ll be ready to fly within a week.’

George found it difficult to sort through all this information in his mind. His life’s ambition was suddenly and dramatically about to be fulfilled. But only if he accepted the guardianship of Mr Stains and left Albert and Gertrude. He wanted to go into space, but couldn’t leave his adoptive parents, not after the years of kindness they had shown him.

However, Albert looked very thoughtful, and spoke again. ‘George, listen to me, my boy. It ain’t for Gertrude and me to stand in the way of your future.’

‘But I don’t want to leave you, Albert,’ said George, though he began to realise this was only half-true. The prospect of travelling to Mars felt more thrilling than anything he had dared to dream.

‘No,’ said Albert, kindly but firmly. ‘You’ve got a great adventure ahead of you, and heaven forbid we stand in the way of it.’

George looked to Gertrude expecting her to butt in any second and say he couldn’t go, but instead, she nodded slowly as though she reluctantly agreed with Albert.

‘Sweetheart, you’d be missing out,’ she said. ‘You’ve always wanted to be a space pilot, so what would be the good of it? Besides, with this person out to get you, perhaps it’s safer for you in outer space?’

Mr Stains cleared his throat again, and George got the impression it wouldn’t be as safe as she thought. But he said nothing, partly out of not wanting to worry her, but mostly because the excitement and magnitude of what had happened finally began to sink in. He smiled at Gertrude, then turned to Albert.

‘You were right. Yesterday was the day that changed my life.’

Chapter 4: Giles

After the meeting with Mr Stains, George spent a pleasant day with Albert and Gertrude. They talked everything through, and after several hours, at least began to get used to the idea of George being the richest person in the world, and exclusive owner of the planet Mars.

But George was more excited about his forthcoming interplanetary flight. Only a few