S
St Helens RLFC
Guest
Right, I am writing a sequel to HG Wells' War of the Worlds. If this was the Prologue of a book, would it maintain your interest? Would you want to find out more?
Prologue
In the late years of the 19th century, the human race was saved from extinction. After all the implements that we had spent thousands and thousands of years researching, developing and using weapons we thought made us invincible failed against the Martian invaders, we were saved by the scourge of human health. The common cold. At the cost of a billion human lives, man lived to fight on, rescued by something that to this day is a constant nuisance to us, something that if we could, we would exterminate. The way the Martians felt about us.
As every Martian succumbed to something we shrug off, and as every mighty tripod strode dominantly across the Earth’s surface for the final time before groaning to a stop, the world began to rebuild. Entire countries were rebuilt from heaps of smouldering rubble. On the ashes of those condemned to a fiery death by the heat ray, civilisation set itself up again, grabbing the second chance of a life with both hands. Over time, races built themselves back up, population climbed away from virtually nothing, economies reappeared and governments returned to power.
But as all this was happening, the threat from Mars was still very real. People watched telescopes day and night, with people taking turns and shifts watching the red planet, millions of miles and light years away, constantly checking, always being alert to the possibility that the Martians could launch thousands more fighting machines to the surface of the Earth, probably taking another billion lives with them before they too fell victim to their weakness. Time passed, and no green flashes emerged from Mars. No more bloody thirsty creatures winging their way to feast upon the life blood of the human race.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. The Martians weren’t coming. They had decided that they were beaten, their tail between their legs. Or so millions hoped â€" were they, in fact, just waiting for a better chance? Were they going to wait until their vastly superior minds had managed to figure out how to defeat the common cold? As all these questions were asked, and as people lived in fear, authority figures were faced with one of the most difficult and important issues. What was to be done with the dead Martians and their destructive fighting machines?
Emergency councils were set up, led by the intelligentsia that remained. Leading scholars, politicians and any remaining figures of authority held meetings, sometimes in collapsing buildings covered by rancid, rotting red weed, the paling fronds blowing in the wind, almost as if it were still alive, crawling, creeping… In these meetings it was decided that the corpses of the Martians were to be buried in deep graves until greater means of disposing of them became available. Most of the fighting machines were broken up for scrap metal, the very things that destroyed so much were a massive part of the effort to rebuild the buildings, houses and cities that had fallen victim to the hellish heat ray.
And in a time of colonial competition, the government of every country, great and small, moved fighting machines to secret locations and made attempts to understand them. Any nation that had an operational vehicle would become the superpower of a very weak planet. Alas, over a century of testing proved futile. The greatest scientific minds of the 20th century tried and failed to understand the brilliant and intricate mechanisms of the ghostly tripods, now reduced to stationary figures, although many people refused to have anything to do with this scheme â€" perhaps because they still expected the machines to spew a bright white death for all those around them. Technologies advanced, the ability to catch up with Martians seemingly did not.
These tests were kept an absolute secret from the general public. And as time went by, the millions who survived the attempted extermination pushed it to the back of their mind, determined to be a focal part of the rebuilding process for the human race. It would be fair to say that the Martians were forgotten about within 15 years as entire cities rose from rubble, greater and stronger than before, like a Phoenix rising from its ashes.
But until the start of the Second World War, when cities were once again reduced to rubble by enemies from the sky in Europe, cautious eyes still scoured Mars with telescopes. Until an equally evil menace sprang up in Europe and the Far East, we lived in a state of permanent paranoia; equipped with a fear that life could be removed from our control at any given second by something we had no answer to, millions of miles away.
With the coming of war, the Martians were forgotten about. In the years after the war, when much of the planet once again had to rebuild, eyes were no longer turned to Mars, waiting and waiting for a terrible fate. And so, with all this confusion, the Martians picked the best day to enact their new plan. On Tuesday 8 May 1945, the day that would become known as VE Day, a green chute of gas shot up from the surface of the red planet. But nobody witnessed it. Everybody was too busy celebrating the end of the war to man telescopes. As furore erupted, the ominous sign that death was on its way was missed.
Or was it an ominous sign? No more flashes followed that night, the following night, or the night after. An army of cylinders did not follow the first cylinder, the only cylinder headed to Earth. This cylinder was not as keen to arrive as the ones involved in the previous invasion though â€" it travelled much slower, almost taking its time. The last time these deliverers of death had been wending their way to our planet, they had arrived directly at great speed, aiming directly to cause as much destruction as quickly as possible.
Nearly three months passed. On the morning of the 6th August, 1945, the Enola Gay dropped the first ever nuclear bomb to be used in warfare on the Japanese city of Hiroshima, causing damage even worse than what the Martians had managed. As the world learnt of this, the lone, unnoticed cylinder entered the atmosphere of the Earth, plunging toward its destination, ready to deliver its deadly payload….
Prologue
In the late years of the 19th century, the human race was saved from extinction. After all the implements that we had spent thousands and thousands of years researching, developing and using weapons we thought made us invincible failed against the Martian invaders, we were saved by the scourge of human health. The common cold. At the cost of a billion human lives, man lived to fight on, rescued by something that to this day is a constant nuisance to us, something that if we could, we would exterminate. The way the Martians felt about us.
As every Martian succumbed to something we shrug off, and as every mighty tripod strode dominantly across the Earth’s surface for the final time before groaning to a stop, the world began to rebuild. Entire countries were rebuilt from heaps of smouldering rubble. On the ashes of those condemned to a fiery death by the heat ray, civilisation set itself up again, grabbing the second chance of a life with both hands. Over time, races built themselves back up, population climbed away from virtually nothing, economies reappeared and governments returned to power.
But as all this was happening, the threat from Mars was still very real. People watched telescopes day and night, with people taking turns and shifts watching the red planet, millions of miles and light years away, constantly checking, always being alert to the possibility that the Martians could launch thousands more fighting machines to the surface of the Earth, probably taking another billion lives with them before they too fell victim to their weakness. Time passed, and no green flashes emerged from Mars. No more bloody thirsty creatures winging their way to feast upon the life blood of the human race.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. The Martians weren’t coming. They had decided that they were beaten, their tail between their legs. Or so millions hoped â€" were they, in fact, just waiting for a better chance? Were they going to wait until their vastly superior minds had managed to figure out how to defeat the common cold? As all these questions were asked, and as people lived in fear, authority figures were faced with one of the most difficult and important issues. What was to be done with the dead Martians and their destructive fighting machines?
Emergency councils were set up, led by the intelligentsia that remained. Leading scholars, politicians and any remaining figures of authority held meetings, sometimes in collapsing buildings covered by rancid, rotting red weed, the paling fronds blowing in the wind, almost as if it were still alive, crawling, creeping… In these meetings it was decided that the corpses of the Martians were to be buried in deep graves until greater means of disposing of them became available. Most of the fighting machines were broken up for scrap metal, the very things that destroyed so much were a massive part of the effort to rebuild the buildings, houses and cities that had fallen victim to the hellish heat ray.
And in a time of colonial competition, the government of every country, great and small, moved fighting machines to secret locations and made attempts to understand them. Any nation that had an operational vehicle would become the superpower of a very weak planet. Alas, over a century of testing proved futile. The greatest scientific minds of the 20th century tried and failed to understand the brilliant and intricate mechanisms of the ghostly tripods, now reduced to stationary figures, although many people refused to have anything to do with this scheme â€" perhaps because they still expected the machines to spew a bright white death for all those around them. Technologies advanced, the ability to catch up with Martians seemingly did not.
These tests were kept an absolute secret from the general public. And as time went by, the millions who survived the attempted extermination pushed it to the back of their mind, determined to be a focal part of the rebuilding process for the human race. It would be fair to say that the Martians were forgotten about within 15 years as entire cities rose from rubble, greater and stronger than before, like a Phoenix rising from its ashes.
But until the start of the Second World War, when cities were once again reduced to rubble by enemies from the sky in Europe, cautious eyes still scoured Mars with telescopes. Until an equally evil menace sprang up in Europe and the Far East, we lived in a state of permanent paranoia; equipped with a fear that life could be removed from our control at any given second by something we had no answer to, millions of miles away.
With the coming of war, the Martians were forgotten about. In the years after the war, when much of the planet once again had to rebuild, eyes were no longer turned to Mars, waiting and waiting for a terrible fate. And so, with all this confusion, the Martians picked the best day to enact their new plan. On Tuesday 8 May 1945, the day that would become known as VE Day, a green chute of gas shot up from the surface of the red planet. But nobody witnessed it. Everybody was too busy celebrating the end of the war to man telescopes. As furore erupted, the ominous sign that death was on its way was missed.
Or was it an ominous sign? No more flashes followed that night, the following night, or the night after. An army of cylinders did not follow the first cylinder, the only cylinder headed to Earth. This cylinder was not as keen to arrive as the ones involved in the previous invasion though â€" it travelled much slower, almost taking its time. The last time these deliverers of death had been wending their way to our planet, they had arrived directly at great speed, aiming directly to cause as much destruction as quickly as possible.
Nearly three months passed. On the morning of the 6th August, 1945, the Enola Gay dropped the first ever nuclear bomb to be used in warfare on the Japanese city of Hiroshima, causing damage even worse than what the Martians had managed. As the world learnt of this, the lone, unnoticed cylinder entered the atmosphere of the Earth, plunging toward its destination, ready to deliver its deadly payload….
