The warmth from the little mug of mulled wine he cradled in his hands was soothing as the chill of the evening air nipped at the end of his nose. Sitting on a park bench at the edge of the Christmas Market, he had a completely clear view of the one and only entrance and exit to the pretty, brightly-coloured, chocolate-box English village scene.
The local brass band had just finished a jolly wassailing song to muted applause: not that the performance was unappreciated… it was just hard for those gathered there to make a decent sound through gloved and mittened hands!
After bowing in gratitude to the crowd, the conductor turned to face the band and the choir again, tapping his music stand four times with the tinsel covered baton he was holding in his right hand. As he raised his hands, the band struck up and the choir launched into the final piece of their set: the well-loved Christmas carol, Hark the Herald Angels sing.
Taking a sip of his comforting drink, the man reflected on the words he was listening to…
… sing,
Glory to the new-born King!
Peace on earth…
‘Peace on earth,’ thought the man, ‘would be rather welcome.’
Not many people knew of the effectively interplanetary war between the inhabitants of planet Earth and those who lived on their nearest celestial neighbour, Mars, but war there was. Not like the three world wars of the 20th century, where there was significant loss of life, wiping out whole generations of young men. It was more of a war of nerves, and those who knew found that the activities of the Mysterons shredded their nerves so much more than any of them would admit.
… and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled…
‘And reconciliation between the two civilisations would be so welcome as well!’
The man reflected that reconciliation usually began where there was common ground, and he knew there wasn’t any to be readily found as far as the Mysterons were concerned. He took another, longer draught of the cooling liquid, pleased that he could still feel the warmth going down his throat and giving his whole insides a pleasant glow, as he considered why he had come to the Christmas fair that evening.
Looking around, he could see happy children, squealing with delight at the people in ridiculous looking fuzzy costumes and harried parents watching them like hawks in case they wandered off. Unbidden, a thought entered his head in which the Mysterons and humans were alike. The Mysterons believed Earthmen to be paranoid, belligerent, destructive and war-like. And the relatively few people on Earth who knew about the Mysterons, believed them to be cold, callous, manipulative and heartless.
“There has got to be more to both of our peoples than that,” the man breathed out loud, to nobody in particular.
… Veiled in flesh the Godhead see,
Hail the incarnate Deity…
Without wanting to, the man shuddered. It was the first time he had noticed any similarity between the Christian belief in the incarnation of God in the infant Jesus as a human being, and the incarnation of the Mysterons in human flesh.
Several years ago, he had authorised a scientific think tank to study the corpses and detritus of Mysteron replicants in an effort to understand how the process of retrometabolism actually worked.
Despite many challenges in the whole process, their best working theory was that vehicles, aeroplanes and other inanimate objects were akin to the 3-D printing process. How that translated into the creation of replicant bodies was anybody’s guess, even after almost a decade of study. It seemed clear that the human memories were also recreated, but almost like photographs of old family members that people no longer remembered… there was knowledge and information, but no life, no feeling, no empathy… nothing.
… born to give them second birth.
Hark…
Draining his cup before the remainder of the liquid became completely cold, his thoughts turned to Captain Scarlet and his remarkable talent for coming back to life again. His body was surely as much of a 3-D printing as any Mysteron replicant, but something that had hitherto defied discovery or understanding was how he had reasserted his humanity, his memories and especially his emotions. The man wondered if even the Mysterons knew the answer to that conundrum.
As another round of muffled applause died down, the band drew their set to a close, and the man heard a dark voice behind him.
“You do know that I could have killed you, Earthman?”
The man’s reply was even and calm. “If you were going to do that, Conrad, you would have done so by now.”
Captain Black grunted and sat down beside the man who, in another time, had been both a friend, confidant, and commanding officer. “And if I had, Colonel, your sniper in the church tower would no doubt have returned the compliment.” He paused. “Once again, warlike military types such as your Spectrum agents use sanctuaries like that church for your own ulterior ends.”
“Goodness, Conrad,” exclaimed Colonel White, “I see that the Mysterons are also not above being the pot that calls the kettle black.” As Black did not reply, White added, “No offense.”
“None taken,” rumbled Black. He sat back in silence. Without looking round, he said, “I take it your people had noticed that I come here to this church’s Christmas Eve festival every year.”
“Yes,” replied White, his simple answer giving nothing away. “Care to explain yourself?”
Black sat forward, wrestling with his thoughts. “It’s strange… this time of the year...” He paused. “It’s the only time of the year that I feel…” Black looked as if the word on his lips tasted as vile as a rancid scallop. “… human.”
“Unlike Captain Scarlet’s, your body still is human, isn’t it?” asked White.
Black grunted again but the noise gave nothing away.
White continued to speak more to himself than anybody else. “That’s the difference between you and Scarlet, isn’t it? His body is that of a Mysteron replicant, but his human emotions have somehow been rebooted. You, on the other hand, still have your human body, but ordinarily, the Mysterons repress your human emotions, replacing them with that relentl – ”
Black interrupted in a soft whisper: “Today is the only day I don’t hear them.” Another pause. He turned to look at White. “I hear them in my head, you know. All the time… relaying instructions… but never on Christmas Eve. That is why I come here.”
That piece of intel piqued the colonel’s curiosity. “And why do you think that is, Conrad?” He was surprised that Black was engaging him in this conversation.
“I don’t really know.” Black took a deep, cleansing breath. “St. Margaret’s in Burnage is my family’s church. There are six generations of my family buried in the churchyard here.” He waved in the general direction of the antiquated headstones to his left. “My happiest memories of childhood are of this time of the year. My worst childhood memories are of this time of the year. Maybe the intensity of those conflicting emotions militates against the hold the Mysterons have had on me since they seized me on Mars.”
“They really are vile, aren’t they?”
Black cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “The Mysterons? How so?”
White chuckled, with no humour whatsoever. “The vicious nature of their war of nerves. Their callous disregard for human life. Their hell-bent commitment to causing as much fear and mayhem as they can.” He paused, feeling like spitting. “They are beneath contempt.”
Black turned to look at White. “There is so much more to the Mysterons than that, Charles. They are scientists and philosophers; they have endless debates on ethics; they have a deep appreciation of beauty and art; and they are compassionate.”
At White’s stony silence, Black pursued his train of thought with an uncharacteristic passion.
“It is not as if humans have anything to be proud of, Charles. Your endless wars and greed. You are still unwilling to distribute the resources of the planet fairly. And as much as I appreciate this church and this time of the year, the institution it represents permits its teachings of sacrifice, of love for one’s neighbours and God’s universal acceptance, to oppress people on the basis of colour, gender and sexuality.”
“Not all of us do that, Conrad. Some do, I grant you… but not all,” retorted White.
“And you think all of the Mysterons support the war?” asked Black, with a hint of anger that surprised even him. “Of course not! The Mysterons just handle their internal differences so much better than…” He looked for all the world like he was chewing a wasp as his mouth wrestled to form the word, “…us.”
“And do you really think that Mysterons would have done any better than us if they were in our shoes?” White glowered, uncomfortable at where the conversation was going. He blew out as breath he didn’t know he was holding, and softened his manner. He found that, despite himself, maybe he could see a glimmer of common ground with the Mysterons. Looking up at the illuminated cross at the top of St Margaret’s tower, he said, “Jesus spoke about loving one’s enemies. None of us have ever really come to grips with that, have we?”
In an entirely human motion totally uncharacteristic of the man and his relationship with Colonel White, Black reached out to touch the arm of his former friend and commanding officer.
“Would that we could, Charles, would that we could…”
“But you won’t feel like this tomorrow, will you?”
Black withdrew his arm and shook his head sadly. He stood up to leave. “Are you going to have your people execute me now, Charles?”
White studied Black intently, then smiled. “No. Maybe I should try, you know? It’s a pity… I would have liked to have seen your fancy disappearing trick at close hand.”
Resting his chin on the palm of his hand, White spoke into his wrist communicator, ordering the assault team stationed in the church tower to stand down. He stood up to face his erstwhile colleague.
“Stay here. Enjoy the moment while you can.”
Black snorted, “Are we having our own Christmas truce then, Charles…just for today?”
Ignoring his words, White declared, “Let the Mysterons know that humanity is not what they think we are. There is more to us than they have seen. Maybe one day they can find this out for themselves.”
Walking away from the twinkling lights of the Christmas Market and the now dwindling crowds, White didn’t look back as he said, “Just wish the Mysterons Happy Christmas for me, eh?”
Authors’ notes:
Contrasts is a stand-alone story that brings a number of strands together for me. I obviously love Captain Scarlet and am grateful that the TV taught me important lessons in life, such as that girls could fly planes and blow up bridges and that all sorts people from different backgrounds and racial origins (including Ireland) had a part to play.
I also love the Christmas season. I used to be in Christian ministry but I resigned from that in 2004 to work as part of the burgeoning Northern Ireland peace and reconciliation process. I really only miss ministry as this time of the year as I enjoy reflecting theologically about the message of Christmas, although my confidence in the religious establishment has drained away appreciably.
I have no reason for choosing St. Margaret’s Anglican Church in Burnage as the location for this story other than it is one of the many churches in the Greater Manchester area in Lancashire, England. I still have a copy of the background and biographical material on the characters in Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons, which says that Captain Black hailed from the wonderful city of Manchester I have visited many times.
As always, I am particularly grateful to our website administrator, Chris Bishop, for her encouragement and for the way she helps to keep childhood memories of Captain Scarlet alive and relevant to who we are in later life. Sincere thanks also go to the wonderful Marion Woods, who beta-read the story in such a thoughtful and helpful way. Any remaining errors, weaknesses or shortcomings that remain in the story are entirely mine and mine alone.
Whatever festival we celebrate at this time of the year, I wish everybody the best and happiest of ones and all the best for a Peaceful, Happy, Safe and Healthy 2023.
Jim Murdock
Bangor, Northern Ireland
December 2022