When the meat was again offered, Arnaud shook his head. The one who returned his stare shook his, leaned forwards and grabbed another piece of meat. Arnaud put up his hands to stop a lump of flesh hitting him in the face and was left holding what looked like a chicken leg, roughly plucked so that some blue and yellow feathers remained embedded in the skin.
Arnaud swallowed, disgusted with the fact that saliva flooded his mouth. The bird was raw; he couldn’t…shouldn’t be salivating. At least, he recognised this as one of the parrot-type creatures he’d first seen.
“Minos…” Arnaud said, sounding uncertain. How could he explain that his kind cooked meat? He’d found no way to create a fire here. The caves were warm enough and the leaves kept him from freezing, but…fire? He couldn’t create a flame and keep it burning long enough to catch hold. It was as if the frost itself was determined to thwart every attempt, and the one way he’d found of preparation wouldn’t work on such tough flesh.
How strange he must appear to them—pale skin, a strange creature that ate leaves and wrapped himself in them, would not shuck his clothes and wade in to bathe. Weak.
The one he’d named Minos still regarded him, that great maw working, chewing. Not wanting to lose the leeway he had gained, to belittle the progress he had made communicating, Arnaud reached for a spearhead that lay on the ground. As well as using these for weapons, the Bubalus used them for knives. Some were fashioned from stone, some from bone. Arnaud didn’t stop to wonder over the construction of the one he had selected. Under watchful eyes he used it to cut and pull away the skin. Fortunately, the flesh beneath was pale, almost bloodless. He’d always refused meat before but this time he could identify it, and to prepare it was like skinning chicken. He wasn’t sure he should eat fowl raw but…what choice did he have? Maybe he’d be lucky. He’d risked food-poisoning often enough, yet was still breathing; aside from one instance of a resulting upset stomach and rough few hours, he was surviving.
He handed the skin back to Minos who took it and tossed it in his mouth, complete with feathers. He pressed a hand to where Arnaud assumed his heart lay and then to his mouth, which seemed to be a particular way to the Bubalus of giving thanks. As far as he could make out it meant gratitude for the sacrifice, of giving something up. Maybe Minos thought the skin an offering. Arnaud cut the rest of the portion up into small bites. This way he could pop them into his mouth and swallow them without chewing, or tasting. He needed to show gratitude, fortitude…and he required nourishment, and not only because he had lost weight.
The sickness had come upon him after he’d been bitten by one of the “butterflies”. Pretty they might be, but their bite was more vicious than any mosquito’s. Still, he hadn’t thought anything of it—he could hardly protect himself from every threat—until the bite became inflamed. Minos had taken one look at it, nodding, as if he’d expected this. The Bubalus put up with these bites, too, but either their blood was different or their thicker hides protected them, because they seldom grew sick. Even when they did, the effects did not last, and they knew how to treat the disease. They had shown Arnaud how to mix the juices from two separate plants, to use the squeezed leaf as a poultice for the bite itself, and to drink down the liquid. The first time the rancid taste had been so unexpected, Arnaud would have spat it out if Minos had not clamped one of those great hands over his mouth and forced it down. He’d drunk the rest without complaining, shuddering at every swallow. Even with medication, for Arnaud, the suffering lingered.
He threw raw meat down his throat hoping it would bolster his immune system to beat this illness. Which reminded him: worried that his strength might fail, he always kept his own stocks. He would have to go out tomorrow to replenish supplies.
4.
ANNABELLE WAS THE last to emerge from Esmeralda 2, and as she took her first step outside she found herself stumbling down. Folkard, who was only a few steps before her, turned quickly and prevented her from making a fool of herself. No one seemed to notice, the few people in the bay were too busy going about their business. Even if she had fallen all the way down the steps leading out of the flyer, she doubted they would have heard her anyway. The bay was noisy, mining carts being pulled on wheels to and from smaller flyers, some full of ore and minerals, others empty.
“A problem with your leg?” Folkard asked.
Annabelle looked down at the offending appendage. “I feel so.” She stood up straight, feeling all her muscles strain under the pressure. “The gravity of this planet is unusually low…”
“High actually,” Folkard corrected her, “it’s one point one five of Earth’s, which explains the extra weight we are feeling. Given the diminutive size of Ceres, its intense gravity had long been a genuine mystery—still is to those scientists innocent of the discovery of gravitar. The core of the world must contain a considerable quantity of the substance. A lengthy stay here would do wonders for our bodies; loss of excess fat, our hearts would eventually pump a greater supply of blood, our extensor muscles would develop.” He raised an eyebrow and nodded at a passing miner. “You don’t think he got like that from an excessive health regime, do you?”
Annabelle watched the brawny miner in question. For quite some moments. She turned away, feeling she should probably blush at the sweat running down his extremely firm forearms, but instead she simply thought of George, and idly wondered if he would be allowed to work on Ceres for a few months before their honeymoon. Folkard was now watching her, and this time she did blush. What would Jacob think if he could read her mind?
“Yes, well, I think Nathanial needs to fix this leg of mine. I feel like I can barely move it! At this rate I will have one vastus medialis bigger than the other…”
“Not to mention the vastus lateralis and then…”
Annabelle held up a hand. “Please, Captain, let us not stretch the point.”
Folkard laughed. “Ah yes, very good, Miss Annabelle. I see the gravity of your situation has not dulled your humour.”
Annabelle joined him in his laughter, an act that elicited the admiring look of several miners. She was almost tempted to give them a wave, but she had to remember she was now betrothed and had to act with a certain degree of decorum. Even if her instinct insisted she do otherwise.
“Let us see how Nathanial is doing, shall we?”
Folkard nodded, and offered Annabelle his arm. Together they joined Nathanial, who was talking to a particularly tall miner. Not that he was a patch on Nathanial, of course, but he towered over Annabelle, and just about beat Folkard, too. His blond hair was dirty, sweat and grime over his face. Annabelle would have thought the miners on Messor Base would at least clean themselves from time to time.
“Ah,” Nathanial said, noticing them, “this is my sister, Miss Ann-Marie Brooker, and our captain, Richard Matheson. This is Eero Koivunen, he has been sent by Mister Blayney, the base manager, to welcome us.”
Mister Koivunen regarded Annabelle for longer than she found comfortable, his blue eyes speaking of dark thoughts. He smiled, and offered her a slight bow. “Noin kaunis nainen, tarvitsevien miehien ympäri, ole hyvää.”
Annabelle frowned, but did not step forward; instead she continued to hold on to Folkard’s arm. “I’m sorry?”
“You do not speak Finnish?” Koivunen nodded, with another smile that betrayed his lust. “I was saying you are welcome to Messor Base. All of you are,” he added, reaching out a hand to Folkard.
The captain stepped forward and gripped hands firmly. “Thank you, Mister Koivunen,” he said, his voice carrying a warning.
“Perhaps you are hungry after your long journey? We have fresh meat should you like some.”
Nathanial looked at Koivunen, puzzled. “How did you get fresh meat out here?”
“We have our own means, Professori Brooker.” He waved it away. “You want to see the boss?”
“Yes, I do. We have a schedule to keep.” Nathanial looked around the bay. “I don’t suppose Doctor Fontaine is nearby?”
He began to lead them away from Esmeralda 2, Nathanial by his side, looking around at everything as they went. Annabelle held back, mostly because she had little choice since her mechanical leg did not function very well in the high gravity, but also because she wished to talk to Folkard out of earshot.
“Something is not right here,” she whispered, looking up at him, but the captain was paying her no mind. Instead he was looking elsewhere. She followed his eye-line but she could see nothing of interest. “Captain?” There was no response. She pulled gently at his arm. “Jacob?”
He blinked and looked down at her. “Ah, do forgive me, Miss Annabelle. It was the Heart calling. We can get some of the required minerals here.”
“That is rather fortunate.”
Folkard frowned. “One would think so, but as I understand it, such minerals are located throughout the Solar System, I believe the Heart is simply making use of our detour.”
“If that is so, why do we need to go to specific places?”
“Because the Heart wishes to guide us to places where the minerals are easier to reach. As Stone said, we are on a schedule, and the Heart understands that.” He frowned again, that distant look returning to his eyes. “Interesting. I do not know how, but I just got this strangest feeling. As if the Heart wishes us to make haste.”
Annabelle wished she understood the connection that both Folkard and her Uncle Cyrus had to the Heart, but like so much else about this mission it seemed that it would forever be a mystery to her. And a source of concern. Sometimes it felt like the Heart had its own agenda. She could not believe it was simply helping them out of the goodness of its own…well, heart.
“We should probably do so, then, before we lose sight of our guide,” she said, and together, Annabelle moving as fast as her leg would allow, they both moved to narrow the distance between them and Mister Koivunen.
5.
“A WASTED JOURNEY,” Mister Blayney said, “but that is the problem being so far out here, isn’t it? You would have been wiser to stop off on Mars and send a heliograph message. It’s going to be a long wait now then.”
Not what Nathanial had wanted to hear. He looked around Blayney’s office, his eyes resting on a daguerreotype of a team of miners outside a colliery on Earth. Wales, no doubt, judging by his strong accent. What he knew of small Welsh towns, which tended to include all colliery towns, the locals were not overly keen on strangers. It seemed Blayney had brought such an attitude with him to Ceres.
“Then where is he? I certainly did not come all this way to be fobbed off with excuses,” Nathanial responded with equal obstinacy. He was supposed to be a wealthy professor, so he would play the part with fervour. Of course, he had to admit, if only to himself, that Dylan Blayney had got his dander up the moment Koivunen had seen them into Blayney’s office.
Blayney regarded Nathanial with an aggressive look. “Now, you listen to me, boyo, there’s no need to get chopsy. Don’t think you can come here with all your wealth and status and lord it over us. This is a place for hard working men, not people born with silver spoons in their mouths!”
Nathanial narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his closed fists on Blayney’s over-crowded desk. “No, you listen to me, Mister Blayney. You know nothing of my life, so do not sit there passing judgements.” He stopped, and for a moment he could see his brother, Dorian, looking back at him scornfully. No, Blayney may be an obstinate fool with too much power, but he did not deserve the kind of bile Nathanial had when he thought of Dorian. “I can see you are a hardworking man,” he started again, his tone more even, “and I can respect that. But, please, do not disrespect me by thinking I have attained my position by sitting on my hide.”
A gentle cough came from behind him and a hand rested on his shoulder. Nathanial glanced back and saw Annabelle looking at him. Sweet, gentle Annabelle. There was something in her eyes, something that gave him pause. She had frustrated him, irritated him, teased him, and always been there. He didn’t deserve her loyalty, but what would he do without her?
“Gentlemen, please,” she said, “there is no need for this. All we need to know is the whereabouts of Doctor Fontaine. We have a very efficient aether flyer, I’m sure we can reach him ourselves without putting any of your staff out.”
Still a peacemaker, despite the fire in her heart. She would make a most excellent wife for Commander Bedford, Nathanial knew. And then he would see her no more. He needed to find Arnaud. Nathanial stood back, and allowed Annabelle to take up Blayney’s attention.
“Miss Brooker, I can see you knows how to talk to a man of my position, something your brother could stand to learn.” He smiled at her and stood. “Doctor Fontaine is still out on Hygeia, and I’m afraid I cannot authorise a visit.”
“We have our own flyer,” Nathanial said. “We do not need authorisation. No one nation has claim to the belt, and I believe your authority only extends to the supervision of the miners and the administration of this base.”
“That’s as may be, Professor Brooker, but I doubt your flyer is equipped to navigate the asteroid belt. No.” Blayney shook his head. “Fontaine isn’t due back here for another week. You are, of course, welcome to wait here. We have little amenities, and are not set up for long visits, so you’ll have to use your own ship for anything you need.” He smiled at Nathanial, challenging him. “And if you are to remain here, then I insist you all pitch in.”
Nathanial glanced back at Folkard. It was clear that Blayney was attempting to call their bluff. “I’m suddenly reminded of our first trip to Lunar,” he said in a low voice.
“The bore drill,” Folkard said, with a sharp nod. “Yes. Fancy getting your hands dirty again, Professor?”
“Of course, you’d probably be better off waiting on Mars,” Blayney said. “I’m sure someone with your influence will find suitable lodgings there.”
Either Blayney really didn’t like him, or he just wanted them off Ceres. Nathanial wasn’t sure which, but he’d wager money on the latter. Returning to Mars would put another four weeks onto their journey. Time they did not have. “Well, I certainly am not averse to getting my hands dirty. And I daresay the captain here will do his share while we wait. What of you?” he asked Annabelle.
“I think I will be quite happy to look around the base,” she said, getting into the spirit of things, “what woman wouldn’t wish to be surrounded by such strong men?”
“Really, Ann-Marie, what would mother say?”
“I’m sure she would commend me.”
Nathanial turned from Annabelle to Blayney with a smug smile. “You see? We shall wait until Doctor Fontaine returns. And we would appreciate it if you could send a heliograph to, where did you say, 10 Hygeia?”
Blayney did not look impressed. “So, you knows the names of the asteroids. I guess that makes you one of us, does it?”
“My brother knows a great deal about a lot of things. You have scientists here, too, do you not?” Annabelle looked up at Nathanial, her face the picture of sibling pride. “I’m sure you would love to talk about Vulcan with them.”
Blayney folded his arms. “I’m sure he would. So happy to oblige you all,” he mumbled, clearly not happy with being outfoxed by a wealthy man and his spoilt sister.
6.
HE’D GOT THE idea watching the birds, and he’d watched the birds because the Bubalus used them as a food source.
Arnaud set out accompanied by a round of snickering. The Bubalus knew what he was doing and some shook their heads and rolled their eyes—part amusement, part disgust if he could judge. Oddly, they were unconcerned with the things he carried—a sack he’d fashioned from the remnants of the clothes that had been worn by the miners; one of the spearhead blades, and a long beak taken from the discarded bones of one of the parrots. The strange design of the birds’ beaks served a very specific purpose.
As well as constructing a sack
from what remained of the ripped clothing—Arnaud tried not to think of how the men had been ripped apart as easily—he’d managed to salvage a couple of items for himself, ignoring or washing out any bloody marks. His survival kit now included a pair of boots that fit well enough, a warm jacket (only one rip) and even a miner’s cap. He’d tied two strips of fabric together to form a scarf and wrapped others around his hands as gloves. He’d been tempted to wrap his fingers, but found it too awkward. Today, he needed his hands bare for dexterity.
He hadn’t gone far when a round of coughing overtook him, bringing with it a bout of dizziness. When his head cleared, Arnaud was hunched over, gripping the side of a tree, blinking away tears—he couldn’t be certain whether he wept from the struggle, or frustration. All he wanted to do was to sink to his knees, curl up and sleep.
No. Not yet. He couldn’t afford to suffer another bad turn until he fetched enough food to sustain him for a while.
He set out, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. At least he knew exactly where he was going and his purpose.
The “snails” were easy to find. The trouble was getting them out of their shells. He’d first come across the molluscs because the Bubalus used them as bait to entrap the birds. The birds sought the snails because they were easy pickings. The long curved design of the beak meant the birds could reach into the cavity and pull the snail’s body out of its shell piece by piece.
At first Arnaud had winced at the thought, but nature was cruel sometimes by necessity, and he had found a neater, more humane method of extraction.
Having reached the area where he would find the most snails, Arnaud spent some time picking the right one. He’d found the smaller ones surprisingly tough, while the biggest had the most unpleasant texture in the mouth. About two by two feet in size was perfect.
“Pardonnez-moi. Je suis désolé ainsi.” Although the apology didn’t make much difference to the snail, and Arnaud had never been in a habit of expressing regret to his food before, somehow he couldn’t help it.
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