by K. T. Hunter
The Informatics chamber certainly wasn't the grand spectacle that Gemma had expected. It was small, about twice the size of her stateroom. The ceiling felt low and close. Someone had polished the wooden floors to a warm, fine sheen. A shelf ran along the wall adjacent to the right of the door and continued to the opposite side of the room. A row of modified Remington Electric typewriters stood at attention on the shelf. One was typing along by itself on a long banner of paper, as if a ghost were composing a novel. Boxes of beige cards surrounded other such machines, and two of the Booleans were using them to punch holes into the cards. A young man in the corner of the room was in the process of packing a set of these cards into a drawer. He too, wore hunter green, like the rest of the men in the room. He picked it up, inserted it into a slot in yet another wall of the chamber, and pulled down a lever.
He turned to them and smiled; but his smile quickly melted into a red-faced grimace when he laid eyes on Gemma. She had to bite her tongue at the sight. Here was her accoster of yesterday.
Caroline noticed the exchange. "Oh, I take it you've met Mr. Humboldt already?"
"Just in passing," Gemma replied. She narrowed her eyes at him and took distinct pleasure in his squirming.
"Just yesterday," he stammered. He managed a small bow. "Yeoman Roger Humboldt, at your service, Miss." He gazed for a moment into the space beyond her shoulder, as if confirming that Dr. Pugh was not there to shove him out the airlock.
"Pleased to meet you," she said with the smooth monotone that she reserved for such situations, with just the right undertone of ice to it.
He turned away, checked the hopper's progress, and lingered there as Mr. Davies introduced her to the other Booleans. The wall that held the young man's attention was the true marvel here. The hopper itself was one of two drawers in the wall, and next to them was a wide window. Beyond it was a large rack of frames. Each frame contained a double stack of turning wheels. A box on the far right held more cards, but the machine was the one punching holes this time. Gemma walked up to the glass to study it more closely.
"Ah, that is the Engine itself," Mr. Davies said. "At least, that is part of it. We feed the data into it from this location. This set of wheels performs some of the simpler calculations. Some of the more complex mechanisms are on the deck below us."
"We use these punch cards here," Caroline said, "to talk to it. That top drawer holds the instructions. We can use those over and over to run different sets of numbers. We can put the numbers, them what varies, on cards in the other one."
"I don't know how the gubbins works, exactly," said Mr. Humboldt. He pointed to the moving wheels behind the glass. "The care of the mechanical parts falls to another lot down below. We can talk to 'em via the pipephone or send a note to 'em through the pneumatics." He pointed to a set of tubes that emerged out of the far wall and terminated in a cluster of clear boxes. Hollow cylinders lingered around on the table below them. "We can send notes to several places around the ship through them. The Cohort can also send their own punched cards for us to run through the A.E. Saves a bit of shoe leather. It's off now, 'til we launch, but it's right handy." He indicated the pipephone handset on the wall. "Pipephone takes less power, though. Your voice makes the energy for it as you talk, so use them when you can."
A loud grinding noise interrupted him. Mr. Humboldt used a knob to slide open the pane of glass. He reached into one of the frames and pulled out the crushed corpse of an insect.
"Bugger!" he spat as he tossed it into the rubbish bin. "More of those blasted beetles have escaped from the Gardens again. It's like they're in the bloody walls! Now I'll have to start the job all over again."
"Watch out when you debug like that, Humboldt," Caroline said with a snort, "or you'll get your peckham rye stuck in the machinery again."
"Bugs in me algorithm. What a bother," he mumbled. "Well, I need to halt for launch, anyway. Mr. Davies, may I beg a word with you?"
As the two men conferred in the corner, Caroline tugged at Gemma's elbow. "Speaking of which, have you seen the Gardens yet, Gemma?"
"No, actually, I haven't had an opportunity to see much of the ship at all."
"Oh, you have to see 'em! Lovely bit'o'green in the middle of the sky. The taters you ate this morning came from there! And it's got lemons and limes growing, too, so we don't get scurvy way up here."
"Truly?" Gemma asked with genuine surprise. "My institute had me convinced that it would be hardtack and water for the entire trip."
"I'd be glad to take you on a tour, Miss," Mr. Humboldt said with a grin as he and Mister Davies wandered back over to them. The icy effects of her introduction had worn off quickly.
"Not without a chaperone," Mr. Davies countered. The room erupted into laughter as he glanced at the clock on the wall.
"Quiet, you lot," he said. "Getting close to time, now." He slid open the window to the bridge. Gemma was able to observe the nerve centre of the ship for the first time.
The bridge was about twice the size of the cozy Informatics chamber. Behind a raised chair stood Captain Moreau, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned his head slowly as he observed the rest of the deck and nodded his head from time to time. She could see the same reassuring (yet naughty) smile that he had given her yesterday just before their own launch. He looked more like a lad of ten lording it over a shiny new toy train than a ship's captain, despite his great stature.
He was handsome, at least by current social standards. Tall and lean, his long face shone with hope. His wide, warm smile infected the nervous crew. His spine was straight and his gait was steady as he moved about the bridge. He was almost too handsome, as if someone had carved him out of flesh, as Pygmalion had once carved a woman out of ivory. He was so impossibly good-looking that it was hard to believe that he was real and not some heroic character in a penny dreadful, a bespoke hero. Gemma allowed herself an inner smirk; handsome men always put her in a cynical mood.
A ring of workstations surrounded the command dais. At the front of the ring was a viewport similar to the station's observation deck. It looked out upon a dark pool of twinkling stars. It felt odd, seeing a night sky this time of morning. It seemed that in space, the difference between day and night took on a completely new definition.
Behind her, she could hear the Booleans shuffle cards and paper about. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Davies pushing a notebook into Caroline's hands.
"We talked about this," he said. "Please keep your personal research in your stateroom, Yeoman."
"What," Mr. Humboldt chuckled, "did she see it again?"
"Roger, this is serious research!" Caroline replied. "The Psychical Society--"
"Shut it, you two," Davies said. "We've got work to do."
They lapsed into a barrage of technical jargon, and Gemma tuned them out as she continued to study the bridge. On the opposite side from Informatics was a matching window, and she recognized the man standing there as one of the wireless operators. Apparently, the room was long enough on that side of the ship to have windows onto both the main corridor and the bridge. She supposed that was so that they could have direct access to the bridge but also serve those who did not need the bridge.
To the left of that window sat Mr. Wallace, who was stroking his enormous mustache and glancing at his reflection in the glass panel next to him every few seconds. The officer on the other side of it added notations in a red grease pencil. He struggled to keep a straight face every time Mr. Wallace preened himself. The poor man was losing his fight.
"This is a real treat. Historic, this is," Mr. Humboldt said. "In fact, keep hold of your gear, lads. It's now all part of history! I bet people are trading our CDVs even now! Why, even me French letters will be in a museum!"
"Still in the box, like as not," another Boolean muttered.
"What sort of fuel are we using?" Gemma asked.
She was thankful that in her guise as a scientist that her questions would be part of her role instead of something suspicious. A natural phil
osopher was supposed to be curious.
Mr. Davies replied, "It might be better if Dr. Pugh covered that. I believe your Cohort will have a tour later today? It takes a while to explain it all."
Mr. Humboldt broke in. "Well, we have a technological wonder here, Miss L. It's sort of a multi-fuel kind of engine. Anything that has a melting point, see, can be made into what we call propellant. Although mostly we use argon gas, and lots of it, 'cause it's easy to get. What we do is heat up the gas to a really, really high temperature, hot as hell, and it gets all the electrons in the gas all excited, see. They get so happy they push themselves out the ship's backside, and Bob's your uncle. We start out a little on the slow side, but we speed up as we go, right? It's getting to where we're moving along at a pretty good clip. There's this old cove, Newton, you see, and he calculated that once you get something moving along it stays moving along until something interrupts it. So we'll just keep moving along until we get to the other place, and we'll have to be braking about halfway there or we'll pass it right up. And can you guess what we use to get it so hot? I guarantee there's no amount of coal going to get you that hot anytime soon. We use the same thing we use to send our messages to the folks back home -- radio waves!"
"Radio waves?" Gemma asked. She had seen many strange things during her forays for Mrs. Brightman, but she had never heard of using radio waves in such a manner.
"Radio waves is just part of the spectrum, you see, all 'lectromagnetics. You can use it for a lot more than sending a telly to your mum back home, let me tell you. You being a scientist, I'd figure you might know about 'lectromagnetics, though."
"She's the ship's geologist," Mr. Davies said.
"Rocks," Caroline added. "She studies rocks, Mr. Humboldt."
"Oh, well, I guess you don't have much call to study 'lectromagnety when you're gawping at rocks all day."
The bosun's whistle interrupted them.
"Attention, all hands! Make preparations for departure."
Gemma could hear the echo from the speaker as the actual man spoke into the tube just a few yards away. Mr. Davies pushed down a slider on the wall, and the speaker went silent.
"That would be Commander Cervantes, our first mate. We can hear him well enough in person," he said.
"Mr. Cervantes," the captain said, "poll the stations, if you please."
Olive-skinned and raven-haired, Mr. Cervantes rolled the names of the various stations on the bridge off his tongue in a Spanish accent that went straight to Gemma's toes.
"Dock Control, prepare to cut station mooring cables and umbilicals."
"Prepare to cut moorings and umbilicals, aye, sir."
"Life Support, switch to internal power only."
"Life support on internals, aye, sir."
"Oberth Control, confirm that the main engines are on standby and ready to commence primary plasma heating."
"Confirm engine standby, aye, sir." The officer standing by one of the round telegraphs moved its lever and watched the pointer on the neighboring telegraph move in response a moment later. "Oberths are on standby, sir."
"Thruster control," Mr. Cervantes said. "Stand by for push away from station, Mr. Goldberg."
"Thruster control, standing by, aye."
"Mr. Rathbone, confirm wireless contact with Shackleton Station and TIA headquarters."
A few moments later, the man in the Wireless window replied. "Confirmed, sir. Flare Watch reports no signs of solar activity."
Gemma noted that everyone stopped and took a deep breath at that announcement. Cervantes paused to cross himself, and then he snapped to attention in front of the captain.
"Captain Moreau, all bridge stations report ready for departure."
"Excellent, Mr. Cervantes. Mr. Rathbone, please open a voice channel from the bridge to the Station."
"Channel open, captain."
He strode over to a large microphone attached to one of the side stations. "Shackleton Station, this is Captain Moreau." Gemma detected an edge of nervous pride in his voice. "Thunder Child's Fury requesting permission to depart."
"Permission granted, Captain Moreau, and godspeed," came the reply through the bridge speaker. "Terra Vigila!"
"Mr. Cervantes, we have clearance to depart. Complete your procedures."
"Dock Control, secure the cargo bay doors," the first mate said. "Complete the retraction of all cables and gangways."
Gemma watched the responding officers at their corner stations. She anticipated feeling some rumble, even a small vibration, as these chores were completed, but she could detect nothing.
"Mr. Allston," the captain said to the officer at the bridge telegraph, "Have Chief Nesbitt commence the plasma heating sequence."
"Commence primary heating sequence, aye, sir," Mr. Allston replied. He pulled the lever on the telegraph to "CPH" and watched the responding telegraph move to a symbol that she did not recognize. "Estimated time to optimal temperature, two minutes, Captain."
"Mr. Goldberg, commence push away from the station." The captain turned to the officer at the navigation station, who was a broad-shouldered man with deep brown skin. "Mr. Pritchard, once we have cleared the station, navigate us to the launch point."
Mr. Pritchard responded, "Navigate to the launch point, aye, sir."
The crew called back the orders in a surprisingly calm fashion, as if they had rehearsed it a hundred times. She found Mr. Pritchard's cadence of speech odd. Perhaps he was an American? She knew that there would be some of them among the crew. The Martians had hit North America hard, and many of their larger cities had been devastated by Black Smoke.
She finally felt a slight movement as the ship nudged itself away from the station. She felt hollowness in the pit of her stomach. They were committed, now; this was the point of no return, and they were leaving the only world that they had ever known. She gripped the rail in front of her until her knuckles turned white and threatened to burst through her skin. Whispers of the disastrous lunar voyage curled around in her brain, and the hollow feeling in her gut ached.
The bosun's whistle echoed throughout the ship. Everyone snapped to attention. The captain's voice flowed through the speakers throughout the ship.
"This is Captain Moreau. As the entire world listens for word of our departure, I would like to share my thoughts with you. Many of us were just infants when our namesake struck the first blow against the Invading Martians, but we still carry within us the heart of that brave steamship. Many people are alive today because of the courage of her crew. Others gave their lives during the construction and maiden voyage of our own vessel. We carry that legacy forward to realms unknown. We are the first of our race to break the bonds of our mother world. We do so through human innovation and inspiration. We carry the fight back to the Red Planet to protect our loved ones back home. We do not know what awaits us there, but we are prepared to bring them low enough that they will never trouble us again. We will be free of the Martian Threat for all time. Because we as a people have the ability to turn tragedy into something greater, humanity will someday see her children in every corner of the sky. Every one of you, down to the last cabin boy and galley assistant, will have their names written in the great volume of History. Earth is awakening to claim her destiny. As we set sail, let us give meaning to the lives lived before us and give a new world to those who come after us. We walk among the stars, among the legends, where no other human has walked, in the name of all those who perished, in the name of the Terran Industrial Alliance, in the name of our Kings and Countries, and in the name of all Humanity."
Caroline whispered into Gemma's ear. "Told you he was like Lancelot, pretty speech and all."
"Bet he was up all night, writing that," Humboldt said with a cackle. Davies elbowed him in the ribs until he stifled his giggles, but his grin remained.
Captain Moreau took another deep breath and turned to the officer standing at the bridge telegraph. "Mr. Allston, what is the status of the engines?"
The officer gaz
ed down at the pointer on the telegraph. "Captain, the engines are in departure status and are standing by to fire on your command."
"They heard his speech down in Luxembourg City," Mr. Davies explained. "We can broadcast voice as well as telegraphy. You can be sure, they've recorded it so it can be heard 'round the world. After it's been edited, of course."
In this quiet room with only a few people watching, it was hard to believe that an entire world waited breathlessly to hear this man, and that his speech would be read by schoolchildren for years to come, perhaps in a sequel to the Invasion Chronicle.
"Mr. Pritchard, notify me the moment we are in launch position."
"Aye, sir."
An excited tension sparked around the bridge. Everyone watched the captain, Mr. Pritchard, and each other, as the seconds stretched out like taffy. Everyone but the captain jumped when Mr. Pritchard spoke again.
"Captain, we are in launch position."
"Let us depart, then! Mr. Allston, give the word to Chief Nesbitt to engage main propulsion. All ahead full." He looked at the navigator. "Take us out, Mr. Pritchard."
Mr. Allston moved the brass telegraph lever to "All Ahead Full". The ship shuddered a bit, and the captain gave the order to check the dampeners. The shuddering stopped.
"Are you certain we have engaged the Oberths?" Gemma asked.
"Oh, most assuredly," replied Mr. Davies. "I was on the lunar shakedown voyage, Miss Llewellyn. Believe me, the dampeners have improved much since then."
"You were on that voyage?" she gasped. "Is it true that half the crew--"
"Yes, I was," he said as he lowered his voice to a whisper. He patted the chair next to him. She sat in it, and he leaned in closer so that the others could not hear. "So were Caroline and Humboldt, but none of the rest of this lot. They replaced the ones we lost. I was fortunate enough to be in a sheltered area of the ship when the flare enveloped us. So were the Captain and Mr. Pritchard. We had no warning at all. We lost many colleagues ... friends... that day."
"It must be so difficult to go on another voyage after that," Gemma said.
