Amidst Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 2)

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “We won’t be able to communicate via electromagnetic wave,” Hand pointed out. “Too much static from the Sun.”

  “I don’t plan on traipsing about for very long,” Folkestone said. “But this is something deserving to be seen by human eyes.”

  A spasm of envy passed over Swift’s face, then was gone.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I get the lay of this new world,” he said. “Should something arise before then, come get me.”

  What struck Folkestone first was the absolute silence. On most planets where excursion suits were required there was usually some sort of atmosphere, even a thin one, and in the aether there was always the soft hiss of cosmic dust caught in the currents of space. If he moved, he could heard the small whines of the tiny aether-powered engines and the whirs and clicks of the gears. But if he stood still, as he did now, the silence of a dead world closed in.

  He moved to create noises in his ears. Using a range of devices built into the excursion suit, he searched for energy fluxes and discharges. No matter where he turned his eyes, he always saw the Sun at the edge of the world, a visual taunting by heat that would never touch this night land.

  Walking about was an easy matter, not only because of the very light tug of gravity but because the ground provided good footing. The rocks were rugged, not worn smooth. Although there were a few places where frozen gases limned in the starlight, the entire plain around them was barren and black, no chance of slipping.

  Folkestone abruptly froze. He peered into the blackness away from the landed aethercraft. He thought he had seen a light among the near hills, but he saw nothing now. He moved about, trying to recreate the moment when he first saw the light, but saw nothing but the unrelenting dark. Were it a glimmer of starshine upon a patch of frozen gas, he should see it again, but there was nothing.

  Then his breath quickened. A small point of light came from behind a projecting black cone. It vanished, then reappeared a little down from where it had been. It held stationary for several moments, then went out. It did not move behind an obstruction as it had before but merely winked out of existence. For long minutes Folkestone stood motionless, peering into the blackness, wondering what moved where nothing was supposed to dwell.

  Something suddenly gripped his shoulder. He strangled a cry of alarm, and was glad he had when he saw it was Hand. They touched their helmets together.

  “You nearly gave me a heart attack, Hand!”

  “Sorry, sir, but we’ve detected something.”

  Folkestone nodded, but instead of immediately following Hand back to the ship he stood still upon the crater floor staring at the black hills, where starlight created deep shadows within, where the darkness now remained unbroken. He considered what form of life might dwell in this frozen night, and shuddered.

  Hand returned and they touched helmets again. “Sir, something wrong?” He looked across the stygian leagues, but saw nothing but unending gloom. “Did you see something out there?”

  “I thought…” Folkestone shook his head. “No, nothing. Let’s go in so you can tell me what’s afoot.”

  Once aboard the craft, they doffed their excursion suits, careful not to touch the chilled metal without gloves. Mist rolled from the suits as they quickly heated up.

  “The Professor got several odd energy readings at two-seven-three degrees,” Hand said.

  “Not absolutely sure, but mostly sure it’s not from the furnace of the Sun,” Swift reported when Folkestone raised his eyebrows in a quizzical arch. “This close to the Sun, it’s even harder to separate the energy forms than it was on Mercury, but hardly impossible.”

  “And I picked up some aether echoes,” Hand added. “Normally I’d’ve shaken them off as ghosts but for the Professor’s readings.”

  “We’ll proceed slowly toward the source,” Folkestone said, “as close to the surface as we dare.”

  Hand readied the craft, checking the repulsor banks, boiler, and aether engine. This close to a planetary body, they could use the repulsors to keep to a low altitude while the engine gave motive force. The impulse jets allowed the precise maneuvers critical for the nape-of-the-ground flight Folkestone wanted to maintain.

  “We will be able to weave about the mountains, travel through the defiles,” Folkestone pointed out. “All visual flight rules.”

  Hand nodded, looking uneasy.

  “What does that…” Swift started to ask.

  “What the Captain means,” the Martian said, “is that we’ll be so low, if you want to leave your mark on this planet, just stick your leg out the hatch and drag your foot.”

  “Is it necessary?” Swift asked. “Hephaestus’ gravitational pull on us is greater than the Sun, relatively speaking, but eddies will affect us as we approach the temperate zone.”

  “We do not want to be detected, so we have to keep out of their line of sight,” Folkestone explained. “Also, no one is likely to detect the energy from our ship because of the Sun, but approaching like this will keep our emanations low, and the cover of the landscape will mask them even further.”

  Swift sighed and gave a fatalistic little shrug. “I defer to your experience and skill, Captain.”

  “Everything’s at the ready, sir,” Hand reported.

  “Strap in, everyone.”

  “Captain, I must ask you,” Swift said as he belted himself to the chair. “When you were outside, what was it like?”

  Folkestone thought of the far glimmer of light that had moved among the dark mountains, then said: “It was quiet.”

  The repulsors pushed the craft up a few feet from the surface. Folkestone engaged the aether engine at its lowest level of operation and used tiny bursts from the maneuvering jets to turn the craft in the direction of the mysterious signals. The limbs of the Sun waved slowly beyond the near horizon like shimmering ruby whips. With the corona of the Sun before them and the stars above, there was no need to engage the forward arc lamps.

  “The eye plays strange tricks in an unknown realm,” Professor Swift commented. “Or it may be an aspect of our relative motion.”

  “What do you mean, Professor Swift?” Hand asked.

  “I saw, just for a moment, a glint of light on the plain there, as if it were pacing us,” Swift said. “Then gone. Starlight reflecting off frost, perhaps, or a glimmer from the corona.”

  “How far away?” Folkestone asked.

  “No more than a mile or two, though it’s hard to tell,” he said.

  “Should we investigate, sir?”

  Folkestone shook his head. “Stay on course.”

  “Aye, sir.” Hand acknowledged. His brow furrowed slightly as he considered the odd expression in his friend’s eyes, an almost haunted look. “Staying the course, sir.”

  They felt no sensation of motion, but the landscape seemed to flash past. In open space, where there was no frame of reference except the stars, it was easy to think oneself motionless despite the tremendous velocities attained by modern aetherships. Here, they were not exceeding fifty miles an hour, less when avoiding some obstacle, but the closeness of everything created an impression they were hurtling at breakneck speed.

  “Sir, I detect a ship approaching aft, five hundred miles and closing fast,” Hand reported. “Altitude four hundred feet.”

  “Any sign they’ve spotted us?”

  “No, sir,” Hand replied. “A gradual descent, otherwise no change at all in course. It should pass over us…” He consulted his instruments. “Now.”

  They peered out the curve of the forward port. An aethership, brightly lit with navigation lamps, coursed swiftly over them, bound for the same point on the horizon that drew them. In seconds the craft was out of sight.

  “That pilot has a real fire blazing up his backside,” Hand said.

  “That’s good for us,” Folkestone commented. “And I think the question of MEDUSA’s presence here is settled.”

  “I don’t suppose that means we can call in the cavalry.”

  Folk
estone frowned in confusion.

  “He means reinforcements, sir,” Hand explained, calling upon his vast knowledge of American sensationalist literature.

  “Not until we find out what is going on, Professor.”

  Swift sighed. “Into the valley of death rode the six hundred…”

  Folkestone chuckled. “Hopefully, we valiant three will fare better than did those poor lads.”

  “I wonder who was in that ship.” Hand muttered.

  * * *

  Martin awoke from another fell dream. Whispering entities burrowed through his brain like fiery worms. He tumbled out of his bunk and sat dazed on the metal floor as explosions sounded around him. Then he realized the booms were actually caused by someone pounding on the door of his compartment. Before he could gather his wits about him, the clockwork mechanisms of the lock whirred loudly in protest and the door slid aside.

  He saw two dark shapes rush inside, one massive, the other tall but slight. A fist not much smaller than his head gripped his shirt and yanked him into the air.

  “Get to your feet, fool!”

  “What…what is…” Martin mumbled, still trying to fight free of the dreams that seared him continuously. “Is…is that you, Mr Ahriman? What is going on?”

  “You are needed.” He let go of Martin’s shirt.

  “What is happening?” Martin grabbed the thick-muscled arm of Lord Khallimar’s servitor to keep from falling back to the floor. “I did not know you were coming. Lord Khallimar needs my help?”

  “Yes, I want you to review more transformation equations and all the manifestation vectors,” Lord Khallimar said, stepping from the shadows. “You must do this quickly and efficiently.”

  Ahriman pressed him to his knees, but his master stopped him.

  “No, Ahriman, Mr Martin is very important to us,” Khallimar said. “He is essential to the establishment of the New Order.”

  “I am?” Martin breathed.

  “At the moment,” Lord Khallimar said.

  “For the moment,” Ahriman added.

  “What is going on here?” demanded a harsh voice from the doorway. “What are you people…”

  With a roar, Ahriman rushed the door and grabbed Laplace. He slammed the supervisor against the wall.

  “I’m sorry!” he cried in a strangled voice. “I did not know. I was not told…”

  “Mr Martin is no longer under your direction,” Lord Khallimar said. “He has been reassigned to other duties.”

  “Lord Khallimar, please forgive me, I was not…”

  Ahriman’s forearm choked off further pleas.

  Lord Khallimar made a vague dismissive gesture.

  “Go away!” The giant Mesopotamian gave Laplace a shove, propelling him halfway down the corridor.

  When Ahriman rushed away, Martin fought the urge to climb back into bunk and return to the realm of burning ghosts.

  For the last twenty-six hours he had claimed illness, confining himself to his quarters. Reluctantly, the station’s doctor verified a diagnosis of malignant cerebritis. The truth, however, was that he could not free himself from the voices. He had stopped trying. Now he even sought them in slumber, when they were at their strongest. With his acceptance came the terrible realization of what the voices really represented, who they really were.

  When they had first come to him, pried open his brain and wriggled in, he connected them to the fiery entities that writhed about the Mills, the native life of this scoriated planet. By slow degrees, he leaned the truth, that they were ghosts, spirits he had dispatched to Hell by his own hand.

  And now he was in Hell with them.

  “Are you listening to me?” Khallimar demanded.

  Ahriman slapped Martin.

  “Yes, Lord Khallimar,” Martin gasped, trying to capture the man’s words. “I have been ill…”

  “Begin your review now,” Khallimar instructed.

  Ahriman shoved a stuffed valise into his arms.

  “You have two hours,” Khallimar said.

  “But…”

  “Not a minute more; time is of the essence.”

  “Yes,” Martin muttered. “I will do my best.”

  “Stay with him, Ahriman, see that he keeps to his task.”

  “As you command, My Lord,” Ahriman acknowledged.

  “I must ready the Mills, see to defenses.” Khallimar started to leave, then turned around. “Martin, do you know Baron Bellaseus?”

  “I know…” Martin’s throat froze a moment. “I know of the name, having heard it…somewhere…” He made a vague gesture. “I do not know who…”

  “He has never contacted you?”

  “No, Lord Khallimar.”

  The lean dark man regarded Martin with malevolent suspicion, then whirled about and departed.

  “Get to work,” Ahriman growled.

  Martin opened the valise and pulled out the papers, spreading them before him. Even when the equations and tables, formulae and vector matrixes swam into focus it was difficult to concentrate. The ghosts crowded around him. Their igneous thoughts were almost as unrelenting in waking as when he slumbered.

  The Mills are stirring again…

  “Quiet,” Martin whispered, opening a drawer and pulling out a fountain pen.

  The cold things are gathering life into the Mills…

  “Be quiet,” Martin hissed.

  Ahriman, uncertain if he had actually heard something, moved close and bent down, his face close to Martin’s.

  More cold things have come to watch the Mills…

  “Shut up!” Martin yelled.

  “Stop your foolishness and get to…” Ahriman’s eyes widened. He clawed at the fountain pen shoved into his throat. His fingers spasmed. He fell, chin striking the edge of the desk, then thudded against the floor. A river of blood flowed across the metal.

  Martin looked down at the dead man and smiled. It had been such a very long time. He felt better. Even the voices seemed to retreat. He reached down, pulled the pen free and started reviewing the work assigned by Lord Khallimar. He felt such a lucidity and a facility of mind as had eluded him since first hearing the voices. He flew through page after page.

  * * *

  “No doubt about it now,” Folkestone said.

  “Not a blooming doubt,” Hand agreed.

  To their left and slightly below them, ensconced within the shadows of the foothills, was a collection of dome and blocks, upon which was mounted an array of antennae similar to what they had seen at the Pandora facility. Passageways radiated from and connected to outbuildings of various sizes and arrangements. They watched another aethership come from the void, execute a turn and approach the base with the swollen Sun aft, landing upon a platform that was retracted after the ship landed. Some distance from the base was a raised plain upon which was erected an array of angular ebony blocks, as if it were an alien Stonehenge.

  Swift edged forward and pressed his helmet against theirs. “What do you suppose those black slabs out on the plain are?”

  “They have to have something to do with the collection of the energy we saw manifested near Pandora,” Folkestone replied.

  As if to punctuate Folkestone’s observation, a swirling corona of fire formed above the unreflecting blocks upon the shimmering plain. Within the fire there erupted brilliant sparks and filaments of energy arching upward. It appeared as if the visual display reached for the Sun, but they counted it something of an optical illusion that the coruscating arms of the Sun itself seemed to make caress the black monoliths.

  “Blimey!” Hand gasped. “What in blazes are those?”

  Brilliant tendrils snaked among the bases of the black slabs, writhing around them and curling up the sides like fiery worms. Both Folkestone and Swift thought of the strange lights seen in the eternal night of Hephaestus, but each had difficulty reconciling the frustratingly brief glance afforded him with what was so blatantly displayed upon the plain now.

  “Could they be alive, Professor?” Folk
estone asked.

  “It could be a natural phenomenon peculiar to Hephaestus,” he said, but his tone carried no conviction.

  “Look alive to me,” Hand said. “A little like the Fire Worms of Mercury.”

  Swift smiled indulgently. “You can’t always believe what you read. But if Fire Worms existed, they might look like those.”

  “It’s time to get back to the ship,” Folkestone said. “It appears the base is being readied for some sort of action.” He glanced at the expanding nimbus around the monoliths. “The sooner we call a strike against this installation, the better.”

  It would take at least fifteen minutes to return to the shadowed defile in which they had landed their craft. After being overflown by the unknown aethership, they adjusted their own course to intercept its destination while at the same time following even more closely the lay of the land. When they first caught a glimpse of the MEDUSA base, they clung to the baseline of the hills till they came to a sheltered spot where the ship could be hidden from casual observation by rising spires of rock and protected from direct heat.

  As they neared the aethership, Folkestone motioned for the others to drop out of sight. Hand moved beside Folkestone. Before he could press his helmet against the other man’s he saw what had caused the Captain to halt their journey.

  Two figures in gleaming excursion suits, specially designed for a world of constant light and fire, stood near their craft. It appeared they were trying to force their way in, but were ill-equipped for it.

  “There’s just the two of the blighters, sir,” Hand pointed out.

  “I’ll go right, you go…” He stopped as he saw the shadow of Professor Swift come to a standing position behind them. He turned and saw the reason why the Professor abandoned concealment.

  “Sir, we can’t…” Then Hand saw the three men who had come up from behind armed with rifles of unfamiliar design. “Crikey!”

  Any kind of communication not based on aether technology was not possible this close to the furnace of the Sun was impossible, but there was no mistaking the gestures of the newcomers. They raised their arms, let their weapons be taken, and marched down to the ship, joining the other two. Once inside the ship, Folkestone and the others removed their excursion suits and were searched.