The Martian War by Kevin J. Anderson Page B

such people drove home the importance of what would be discussed here. Self-consciously, he straightened his brown hair and moustache, then brushed imagined lint from his sleeves. His mother would swoon if she knew where her “Bertie” was now—and probably try to shoo him out of the auditorium so that “his betters” could do their important work.
    T.H. Huxley entered from a side door, full of confidence. He wore a fine new suit and a perfectly knotted cravat. As he passed Wells, he paused. “Sit quietly and listen. Take notes of what is discussed and, most importantly —think about it. I may ask you questions afterward. I will make up my own mind, of course, but I would appreciate your analysis.”
    The whispering from the audience grew louder, then fell off as the old professor took long-legged steps across the lecture stage. Huxley bowed to his audience, then made a special show of recognizing Prime Minister Gladstone, the various lords, Members of Parliament, and military officers. When he was finished with the formalities, he grasped the lectern as if he were about to teach a class full of fresh students.
    “The greatest minds of the British Empire serve this institute. Some arrived openly, some in the middle of the night. Each one knows the importance of what is discussed and developed here behind closed doors.”
    The professor summarized the familiar threats to the Empire, including the growing danger of the German Second Reich and her unexpected alliances with Russia, and the always-unruly French. Huxley swept his gaze across every listener. “How, then, is the British Empire to prepare? By leading the march of progress, rather than allowing ourselves to be trampled by it!” He turned to the dignitaries. “Gentlemen, distinguished M.P.s, your Lordships, Mr. Prime Minister, I present to you the secret work of the Imperial Institute.”
    While the symposium continued, Wells feverishly took notes and wondered how he could possibly help reshape the world.
    The next two speakers, Professor Redwood and Mr. Bensington, were quite ordinary-looking fellows. Redwood cleared his throat, and Bensington did the same, only with more gusto, as if competing with his partner. Professor Redwood began, “We have created a food substance called Herakleophorbia —”
    “I thought of the name,” Bensington said. “Sounds quite impressive, doesn’t it?”
    “Though it’s the devil to spell!” Redwood retorted, then returned his attention to the talk. “When used as a food source, Herakleophorbia greatly promotes growth and increases the size of any living creature.”
    Bensington leaned closer to the lectern. “Ideally, we will be able to create giant warriors who can overthrow any enemy army.”
    Redwood held up a hand. “For now, though, our amazing foodstuff has been tested only on laboratory animals.”
    “But with extraordinary success!”
    Both men gestured to their assistants, who disappeared behind the stage and then returned, tugging two heavy wooden carts. In each cart rested a large cage that contained a snarling, ferocious-looking brown rat as large as a sheep, with a rope-thick pink tail, flashing eyes, and long sharp teeth. Their shrill squeaking could be heard all the way to the back of the lecture hall. The mammoth rodents clawed at the cages, gnawing on the criss-crossed bars with jaws powerful enough to sever an oak sapling in a single bite.
    While some of the lords and generals stared wide-eyed, Prime Minister Gladstone applauded. “Bravo! With such a substance we could feed the hungry, grow crops and meat animals large enough to fill every need. The trade unions and syndicalists and downtrodden poor will no longer have anything to complain about.”
    “Well, Mr. Prime Minister, that is certainly one application,” said Mr. Bensington. “Very astute of you to grasp that promoting social harmony is in itself a method of defending Britain.” Redwood scowled at his partner. Wells couldn’t