“Close, that’s for sure. Close enough for most ships to try and navigate the Earth’s orbital wake.”
Nathanial’s eyes lit up. “An aether vortex?”
“You know your stuff, Prof. Yes, an aether vortex. Venus and Earth’s wakes are about to merge.”
“Oh Lor’!” The excitement Nathanial had briefly experienced was now giving way to dread. He knew all about aether vortices.
As the planets orbit the sun their aether wakes, the slipstream of their movement around the sun, are pressed outwards. When the wakes of more than one planet overlap, violent aether vortices are produced; gravitational disturbances in space, quite capable of tearing apart aether flyers. Horror stories of the worst kind of vortex miscalculations had reached even Nathanial. There was no doubt in Nathanial’s mind that the Sovereign was manned by the best navigators Her Majesty’s Navy had to offer, highly trained men who knew how to avoid the lee of the planets, very capable of predicting the convergence of planetary turbulence, but they were on a direct approach for Luna, and the Earth’s orbital wake was unusually turbulent due to the interference of the moon. There really was very little way to avoid a vortex when the Earth’s wake was about to converge with that of another planet.
It was one of many things he had been mindful of when re-designing the aether propeller governor. On the one hand it was designed to carefully modulate the performance of the aether propeller when in Luna’s dense gravity, but it had also been designed to provide an efficient way to navigate through an aether vortex. It had, of course, yet to be tested in a practical way, and if Nathanial knew anything of Captain Folkard from their short time together, it was that he liked to test the mettle of his people. Nathanial doubted Folkard would treat his ship any different.
As if to prove his estimation right the pipe whistled a short distance away. Boswell grinned, turned, and walked away, leaving Stevenson looking up at Nathanial. The fear in his blue eyes was felt acutely by Nathanial.
“Sir, can the Sovereign withstand such a vortex?”
Nathanial had almost forgotten that Stevenson was only in his second year as a seaman. Certainly he had never served with Captain Folkard before. Nathanial placed a reassuring hand on the ordinary seaman’s shoulder, and winced as the cold cloth pressed against his skin. “It shall if my governor has anything to do with it, Stevenson,” he said, offering what he hoped was an affirming smile.
Stevenson swallowed, and gathered himself to attention. He saluted Nathanial. “Yes, sir!”
Boswell returned, an excited grin on his face. “This is it, Professor! Would you care to work the governor?”
Nathanial did not know what to say at first. Instead he stood there, looking at Boswell, thinking off all the lives on the ship. How could he be responsible for all of them! He was a scientist; he did not belong on a battleship. Being in the engine room, in the company of Boswell and Stevenson had disarmed him, made him lower his defences. He had almost forgotten who he was. What he was. He should be at home, wherever that was…it was most certainly not aboard a Navy ship venturing on a mission into unknown territory, navigating its way through an aether vortex that would almost…
“Professor?”
Nathanial was dragged out of his thoughts by a plaintive voice. He looked down at the imploring features of Ordinary Seaman Stevenson. So young, so innocent. A boy, really, hardly a man at all. Stevenson blinked, his eyelids seeming to move in slow motion.
“What is your name, Stevenson?” Nathanial found himself asking.
“Erasmus, sir,” Stevenson said, puzzled.
“Erasmus! A superb name! And you have a mother, a father?”
Still it was clear Stevenson had no idea why Nathanial was asking such things. “Yes, sir, and a baby sister, Emma, who I’ve yet to see. She’s only four months old,” he said.
The ship buckled, the first indication that it was entering the aether vortex.
“Professor,” Boswell snapped, “make a decision now, sir, or stand aside.”
Nathanial did not even look at Boswell, instead he staggered towards Stevenson and gripped the young man by his shoulders. The ship rocked again. Nathanial smiled. “I do this for you, Erasmus, so you will get to see your sister.” He released Stevenson and looked to Boswell. “What must I do, Chief?”
Boswell nodded, smiling himself despite the rocking of the ship. “Take your station, Professor, and follow my instructions to the letter.” Boswell’s smile faded, and, his face now grim and focused, turned back to steam behind him, to where Nathanial could just make out the seaman he had almost bumped into previously, standing with the pipe in his hand, ready to receive and relay orders from the bridge. “Seaman Fenn, inform the bridge we stand ready.”
Nathanial stumbled back to the governor. He looked at Stevenson, who was steadying himself by the side of the propeller unit. The two men smiled at each other and Nathanial focussed on Boswell who stood, almost shrouded, in the steam. For a brief second, as Fenn relayed the bridge orders to Boswell, Nathanial wondered again as to what he was doing. Taking responsibility for all the lives on the largest flyer in the fleet. No, he thought, shaking his head, he was a scientist and he had developed the most precise way of measuring and manipulating the aether since Edison had built his first prototype propeller. The governor would not fail, and neither would he.
5.
AS HE approached the closed door Nathanial felt his body shake. Shock, or the result of the adrenalin surging through his body from the excitement in the engine room. It had proved to be less dangerous than he expected; a simple stream of instructions passed between Fenn and Boswell and the boatswain on the bridge. Instructions that Nathanial found himself very capable of following.
The turbulence itself was almost nothing after all. The ship rocked, certainly, and Nathanial had successfully managed to bang his head against the bulkhead next to the governor, but otherwise, according to Boswell, little damage was done.
Once they had successfully navigated the vortex Nathanial was summoned to the bridge. Stevenson led the way once more; the young man seemed to have composed himself nicely, once they had emerged from the aether vortex. Glad, no doubt, at the thought that one day soon he would be able to see his family again. As he followed Stevenson, Nathanial could not help but smile at the thought that he had somehow played a role in restoring the young man’s confidence. He was also relieved to breathe oxygenated air once more. He brushed his fingers along the leaves of one particular plant which stood in the short corridor leading to the bridge.
He looked at his hand closely. It was filthy, covered in grime and sweat. He did not even wish to consider how he would appear to Captain Folkard; his clothes were still damp with sweat, his ginger hair stuck to his head in clumps, and his whiskers…Nathanial touched them. They had curled under the heat and steam of the engine room.
“I think the captain has probably seen worse sights, Professor,” Stevenson said.
“Ah, I am that transparent to you?”
Stevenson smiled at Nathanial. “No, sir, but I remember feeling much the same after my first visit to the engine room.”
For reasons Nathanial could not quite fathom, he found the support and camaraderie from Stevenson very comforting. They had reached the door, however, and so any further conversation was immediately curtailed. Stevenson rapped his knuckles on the door and waited. With a click, the door opened. Directly in line of sight stood Captain Folkard, hands behind his back, looking directly at Nathanial.
Beside him Stevenson snapped to attention. “Ordinary Seaman Stevenson reporting Professor Stone to the bridge as ordered, sir!”
Folkard nodded once. “Thank you, Ordinary Seaman. Dismissed,” he said, and added, “next time I see you I expect you be in a clean uniform.”
“Aye, sir!” Stevenson turned swiftly and marched away.
“Welcome to the bridge, Professor,” Captain Folkard said as he stepped towards Nathanial. “Please do enter.”
Nathanial did so.
He expected a larger area than the one he was in. Visiting the bridge while the ship was being constructed was not something that had interested him, after all his concern was with what enabled the ship to sail the aether; the heart of the ship, as it were. The brains did not interest him. Until now.
A few men worked at their stations; a navigator sat at his desk, checking over the orrery and astrolabe, the helmsman, or coxswain as the Navy called them, stood at the wheel, a small ratchet-like device that controlled the precise changes in the electromagnetic field of the aether propeller through a system of ropes and pulleys routed throughout the infrastructure of the ship. Others went about their own business, of which Nathanial knew naught. Lieutenant Bedford was nowhere to be seen, Nathanial noted with a brief sensation close to disappointment; he was probably not needed on the bridge while the captain was in charge and was most likely enjoying a banyan of his own.
“I hear you acquitted yourself quite admirably with the propeller governor, Professor, despite your…ah…injuries,” Folkard said as Nathanial walked further onto the bridge. Nathanial glanced down at the now grotty cloth wrapped around his left hand. What a sight he must have appeared! “As I believe I said before, sir,” Folkard continued, “you are quite the bully trap. I suspect old Boswell took you for a coward?”
Nathanial grimaced. “I am not quite sure I would put it like that, Captain, but…” He stopped, seeing the slight lift of Folkard’s lip. Once again he was the source of Folkard’s amusement. “Yes, well, quite, Captain Folkard. I must say, from what I have seen of the Sovereign she is quite the…Oh my!”
Nathanial stopped just past the coxswain and looked at the sight outside the window. As a child he had little interest in stargazing, laying on his back on the wet grass of Putney Parish, looking up at the moon on a dark night. But now he was here, looking at the grey orb, so close and so big, he realised that in some ways he had always wanted to be here.
Luna.
“Quite an awe-inspiring view, would you not agree, Professor?”
Nathanial swallowed and licked his lips. He hadn’t realised just how parched being in the engine room had made him. “It is…spectacular, Captain. Spectacular,” he said once more, the word barely a breath of air.
He remained standing there for a few moments, while the crew busied themselves, bringing the Sovereign ever closer to Luna. He glanced up at the stars behind the moon, and wondered at the vastness of space beyond, and the mystery it must have contained. Secrets lost to the ages, things beyond the reach of current science. For the briefest of heartbeats Nathanial felt a deep desire to uncover those secrets, to discover just what was…out there!
“Very well, then, Professor.” Folkard look over at the bosun. “Mister Dinnick, see that the atmosphere suits are prepared.”
Nathanial slowly emerged from his dreaming as he became aware of a presence beside him. Standing there, now also looking out to Luna, was Captain Folkard. “Do you intend to stand there for the remaining hour, Professor?”
“I beg your pardon, Captain?”
“We have an hour until we attain a lower lunar orbit, then we shall find this ‘glow’ Doctor Grant’s research spoke of.”
Nathanial frowned. Annabelle had mentioned the glow before, in one of her letters, but he had not shared this information with anyone. “You do seem remarkably well-informed, Captain, if I may say so.”
Folkard smiled slightly. “British spies, Professor, remember. We learned a lot more about Grant’s research than just the work you and he did on the governor.”
At first Nathanial did not respond. After all, what more could he say? Instead he looked down at his clothing and grotty makeshift bandage. “I really must freshen up before we land.”
“Do not concern yourself too much; I anticipate that you will become a lot more haggard before this mission is complete.”
Chapter Three
Arrival on the Moon
1.
EXCERPT 3.
“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press.)
Saturday 13th April, 1889.
It has been over an hour since I left the bridge, and in that time I have visited the sickbay to get my wounds properly treated. It was a pleasant surprise to find the doctor there, one Robert Beverly, a formal man. Stout, resolute and very Welsh. His prognosis; remain chipper and the wound will heal in no time. It is refreshing to find such people on the Sovereign; I was beginning to fear that the ship was crewed by blackguards. Not that I have any disrespect for Staff Engineer Boswell and his crew in the engine room, but it does seem to be that perhaps Captain Folkard allows his crew a little too much informality. The British Empire is founded on strong character, strength of purpose, rules and propriety. Folkard insists he runs a tight ship, but I have so far seen little evidence of this. That is not to say that the crew of the Sovereign are incompetent; quite the opposite is true. But they could do with a stronger hand.
I have since returned to my cabin. Well, I call it my cabin, but of course I still share it with several ratings, one of whom I have discovered is Mister Stevenson – he was just finishing getting changed into a clean uniform when I arrived. Short he may be, probably no taller than five and a half feet, but he is well developed. He has gentle eyes, eyes that smiled at me as soon as I entered, despite his formal salute. As if I, an ersatz professor, deserve to be saluted by a member of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy! We barely had time to exchange pleasantries before other ratings arrived for their own rest-bit.
We stood there in an awkward silence for several moments while the ratings went about their business, before Stevenson placed his cap on his head and returned to duty. The newly arrived ratings barely spared me a glance, instead they quickly undressed, folding their uniforms neatly, and climbed into their cots. No doubt the Sovereign is soon to be a very active place, and the ratings knew to get their sleep while they could. For my own part I barely noticed them, moving about the cabin as quietly as I possibly could, changing into something a little more respectful, my mind taken up with thoughts of Stevenson.
I am keen to sit down and talk to that young man more. It is quite possible that I shall not be returning to Earth for some time, and it is agreeable to see that I may have found…made a friend aboard ship.
I am now, once again, sitting on the edge of my cot waiting. I do not know this ship enough to just walk around it unguided, besides which I suspect Captain Folkard would not appreciate his guest acting as if he owns the ship. And so I wait, and hope that when my guide arrives he does not awake my sleeping cabin mates. I should think that they would not be wholly appreciative of being so awaken.
2.
NATHANIAL DID not have to wait long. Stevenson returned presently, careful not to disturb his fellow ratings, and informed Nathanial that he was needed on the bridge. Nathanial’s curiosity was instantly piqued. Being asked to the bridge was one thing, but to be needed was quite another. He promptly left the cabin, and followed Stevenson through the ship. He entered a busy bridge, and noted with interest that this time Folkard did not dismiss Stevenson, who instead stood back and waited, standing at ease by the now closed door.
“Ah, Professor,” said Folkard, and motioned Nathanial over. “Would you care to identify the object below?”
For a brief moment Nathanial glanced at the steel grating beneath his feet, then realised the captain meant outside the ship. So he walked past the coxswain and joined Folkard. He peered out of the glass that formed the viewing port from which the helmsman was able to direct the path of the ship. He nodded at Bedford, who was standing next to the navigator’s console. He looked up and nodded in response, his expression grim.
Nathanial swallowed and felt his heart beat that bit faster. Clearly something serious was going on.
They were now within the non-atmosphere of Luna, and in his mind Nathanial could see his governor working away, delicately making adjustments to the aether propeller. A smile passed his l
ips; he would wager that even the design of Cyrus Grant was not as efficient as that which he had perfected. Guilt at that thought soon jumped to the forefront of his mind once his eyes saw the object to which Folkard had alluded.
A wreck of a flyer rested on the lunar surface, several yards from a crater that stretched on for miles. Abstractly, Nathanial’s mind calculated that the crater was at the very least four times the diameter of the Grand Canyon. The basin stretched across into shadow, the dark side of the moon facing away from Earth. Even though they were miles above the wreck, the flyer was big enough for Nathanial to immediately indentify it. The last time he had seen it was in Arizona, resting on the birthing scaffolding. It was the flyer of Doctor Cyrus Grant, designed especially for lunar navigation.
“Oh Lord,” he said, a whispered prayer. If only they had instruments that detected life signs. As advanced as their science was, still their medical knowledge was lacking, and instruments to measure heart rate from a distance was still many years away. “Captain,” he continued, not able to take his eyes off the wreckage, “that is the Annabelle, Doctor Grant’s flyer.”
“Yes, Professor, that’s what we feared.” There was a beat of silence, the background rattle of the ship the only sound that permeated the bridge. “Very well,” Folkard said, his voice now quiet with authority, “Lieutenant Bedford, assemble a team to investigate the Annabelle. I want Ordinary Seaman Stevenson on that team.”
“Yes, sir!” Bedford snapped to attention, saluted, and left the navigator’s station. “Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, you have had low-gravity training?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“Capital! You’re with me,” Bedford said. He glanced over at Nathanial. “Do not fret, Professor Stone, if Miss Somerset is in the wreck we will do everything we can for her.”
Nathanial, the wind having been taken out of him by the sight of the flyer and the possibility of Annabelle’s demise, straightened up, his mind now set. “I appreciate the sentiment, Lieutenant, but if I may? I request permission to join your team.”
Journey to the Heart of Luna Page 5
