Table of Contents
Copyright
Abattoir in the Aether
Dedication
Chapter One - The Long Hours of Earth
Chapter Two - Boarded!
Chapter Three - The Juggernaut
Chapter Four - A Strange Visitor
Chapter Five - Dramatis Personae
Chapter Six - Pickwick's Inheritors
Chapter Seven - A Tour
Chapter Eight - A Study in Sawdust
Chapter Nine - Frustration
Chapter Ten - The Austrian Manhunt
Chapter Eleven - Bloody Savages
Chapter Twelve - The Urgency of a Killer
Chapter Thirteen - A Deepening Gloom
Chapter Fourteen - The Aether Confession
Chapter Fifteen - Pickled Eggs and Secret Doors
Chapter Sixteen - A Fine Vintage
Chapter Seventeen - Into the Depths of Hell!
Chapter Eighteen - Doom Under Glass
Chapter Nineteen - The Ghost of Professor Wren
Chapter Twenty - Purest Bedlam
Chapter Twenty-One - A Shadow's Lair
Chapter Twenty-Two - Ode to a Juggernaut
Chapter Twenty-Three - The Hidden Prison
Chapter Twenty-Four - New Horrors
Chapter Twenty-Five - Torquilstone
Chapter Twenty-Six - The Hague Revelation
Chapter Twenty-Seven - An Hour
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Stepping Out
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Dolan's Home
Chapter Thirty - The Narrow Escape
Chapter Thirty-One - A Reversal of Fortunes
Chapter Thirty-Two - Le Boeuf Triumphant!
Chapter Thirty-Three - For Phoebus, Cloaked in Mourning
L. Joseph Shosty
Space: 1889 & Beyond—Abattoir in the Aether
By L. Joseph Shosty
Copyright 2012 by L. Joseph Shosty
Space: 1889 © & ™ Frank Chadwick 1988, 2012
Cover & Logo Design © Steve Upham and
Untreed Reads Publishing, 2012
Cover Art © David Burson and Untreed Reads Publishing, 2012
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Other Titles in the Space: 1889 & Beyond Series
Journey to the Heart of Luna
Vandals on Venus
The Ghosts of Mercury
A Prince of Mars
Dark Side of Luna
http://www.untreedreads.com
“ABATTOIR IN THE AETHER”
By L. Joseph Shosty
To Brandy and William. You made this possible.
Chapter One
“The Long Hours of Earth”
1.
EXCERPT 30.
“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press).
Friday August 30th, 1889.
Here in the aether, a question has awaited man’s true emergence, a question of basic, yet singular philosophical concern, one that has been asked and answered already, yet with no thought to the future. Now that our boots have stepped upon alien soil we must ask again, how does one reckon time? Are seconds, minutes, and hours still sufficient, or should we adopt a new paradigm? More to the point, should we subject Venus, Mercury, Mars, and the others to come to the long hours of Earth, or should we free them to take their own skilful measurements? For what is night and day to a man on tidal-locked Mercury, or the coming of Spring to generations who will one day grow into the majority on Luna? What is a year to a man who reckons it in eighty-eight solar days? Does it retain its significance, and does the Mercurian eventually swell with ignorant pride over a lifespan that seems four times as long as that of the Earthman?
Such questions are all I have, these days. I’ve begun keeping this journal again to record such wayward thoughts. There is little else with which to amuse myself, and I fear our end may be near. Thus, this journal may remain as the sole document of how we spent our final days.
The flyer Esmeralda, which spirited us away from Mercury, is inexorably becoming our tomb. Annabelle underestimated my ability to determine a ship’s worthiness, and it seems that the ghost of Colonel Shawbridge, the Somerset family friend who gave us the flyer as a gift, was all too ready to be rid of us following that horrid business with Hermes that he neglected to reveal its shortcomings. Had I greater competency, I would have found the hairline cracks in our hull or the damage to our navigational equipment. Annabelle is adept at navigation of the most basic sort, but she knows next to nothing of a flyer’s upkeep. Thus, we are limping toward Mars (we had hoped to return to Venus to retrieve the gear we left there, but that notion has been forced to one side due to our current predicament), which at the moment is the only inner world within easy reach, with no orrery or similar device to guide us, a faulty aether propeller, and a hull that is, as Annabelle mistakenly calls it, “taking on aether”, a term I’ve reluctantly adopted for expediency’s sake. The ship is small, and is possible to crew primarily from the bridge with only the occasional trip to stoke the boilers. To conserve atmosphere for as long as possible, I’ve sealed off all but the bridge, galley, two private quarters, a lavatory, and the greenhouse. These measures are merely stopgaps against the inevitable.
A reason for optimism. Annabelle has been a wonder in the face of our adversity. We have a well-stocked larder, and I doubt we’ll run out of potable water before we run out of breathable oxygen. By her command, we dine by candlelight and drink wine until we are giddy, and every meal is a feast. As I fear time is short, I’ve relaxed my manners with her somewhat. She has responded well to it. Though her sense of humour is morbid and common beyond description, and her coarseness and oftentimes masculine energy scandalises me, I proclaim before God that if I’m to meet my fate here in the aether, I cannot think of a more stalwart and lively companion.
But let me confess, finally, that I tire of these magnets in my boots. Although I knew little of such things four months ago, after travelling in several different kinds of aether flyers I now realise that the gravity I enjoyed on Sovereign is not the norm.
2.
Annabelle dragged herself from the depths of sleep. Thusly she sat a while, gathering her wits, before unbuckling herself from her berth and pushing off towards the floor. The dream again. Already the images were beginning to fade, save that of the little girl. She could have been no more than three, this child. They were at the Tall Oak, the Summer grazing grounds for her tribe, near a creek where Annabelle once filled bladders with its cold, sweet water. When the men were hunting, she would often bathe there. The child, with flaxen hair so soft that Annabelle ached to run fingers through it, was naked and wet, as if she had just gone bathing herself. It was here the dream always ended, and Annabelle woke in a deep, unexplainable melancholy, as if something had been taken from her.
The muscles in her back and shoulders were sore. She stretched.
The dreams also left her tense and panicky, and her sleep was suffering. Hovering in the dark, naked but for her under garments, she shivered. It was cold out in the aether, and already they were using so few of the flyer’s amenities to conserve power, she felt guilty in wanting for something like a warm cabin. Her best dress, the one with pink chiffon and lace bunched at the neck, hung from a brass rod by the porthole to air. She hastily performed her toilet and dressed for dinner. Nathanial will just have to swallow decorum for once and help hook me into this dress, she thought. Until then, she could do with it hanging loose on her. At least in the dress she was warm.
Speaking of Nathanial, she found him sometime later on the bridge, sitting in his usual spot, the window seat nearest the convex bubble viewport. On his lap was one of his dusty, old books, his face turned outward to stare into the inky depths of the aether. Since leaving Mercury he had made such daring strides to be friendly to her, but Annabelle knew these feelings were manufactured, put on in some misguided masculine desire to protect her. She saw through it all. There was a sense of melancholy growing in him as well, supplanting his usual reserve. Once, when he stared into nothing, Annabelle would wonder what incredible ideas might be swirling around in his head. Now, it was as though a shadow was passing over his face.
“Dinner is served,” she said.
She carried two platters laden with food. Upon seeing her Nathanial came forward to help set the table, but she gently pushed his hands away. This wasn’t his work to do. Nevertheless, he insisted on lighting the candles and folding the napkins, while she served. She would have liked freshly cut flowers in a vase, but Nathanial said they could spare nothing from the greenhouse.
“We have Summer truffles,” she said. “Don’t ask me how; it’s best it remains a mystery. Canned pheasant garnished with potatoes and carrots. Mexican tortillas, the same recipe Abuela Gutierrez used in Arizona. Remember her? And candied walnuts.”
“Sounds delicious,” Nathanial replied. “I could do with a bit to eat.”
“And there’s wine, of course,” she added. Nathanial grinned at this. Even drank through a glass straw from a sealed container, the wine was heavenly. “There’s enough of it to get us roaring drunk, if we like.”
The meal was bland, but filling just the same. When they were done they adjourned to the window seat, taking their sealed glasses with them.
“The air has a strange taste to it today,” Annabelle said.
“An unfortunate side effect of taking on aether, I’m afraid,” Nathanial explained.
“It’s giving the wine a queer taste.”
“I’m afraid the news is much worse than that.”
She set her glass down. “What is it now?”
“It’s the greenhouse. I don’t know how, but we’re losing power to the solar lamps. When they cease to function, our supply of breathable air will quickly run out.”
“Any other news?”
Nathanial arched an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“I’m expecting a heliograph message from my Aunt Mabel, from back East. I was wondering if someone had come ’round with it.”
“Annabelle, this is serious, I think you’ll agree. Do please act accordingly.”
“Merely trying to lighten your spirits.” She took up her wine glass again and drank from it.
“I’m in no mood for it.”
“I can tell.” Nathanial gave her a sour look, but she ignored it. Instead, she asked, “So, do you have a plan?”
“For what?”
“When the situation becomes hopeless, of course.”
Nathanial lifted his chin. “I hardly think this is a topic for polite discussion.”
Oh, that Nathanial again. The stiffly formal gentleman who had worked with her uncle a year ago, the one who had sought to keep her at arm’s length when all his aloofness did was entice her. She had almost forgotten that Nathanial ever existed, given the changes he had undertaken since coming to her rescue on Luna.
“It’s just the two of us, Nathanial. Let’s speak freely.”
“You forget the presence of God, and what you’re suggesting is a terrible sin.”
“So, is it your plan, then, that we salute the flag and suffocate, as God intends?”
“That is blasphemy!” Nathanial leapt to his feet, wine glass forgotten, and paced a few feet away, where he stood with his back to her. His shoulders heaved with powerful emotion.
Annabelle was ashamed for having spoken so to him, yet she did not apologise, either. Let him fume, she thought. Whatever he might believe, she was not going to die in such a way. Her derringer held two shots. Used properly, that was enough for them both. At the very least there was a bullet for her when the time came. She would meet her Maker in her own way. If that was insufficient to grant her entry into Heaven, then so be it.
Some moments later Nathanial spun on a heel and marched to steering. Taking the aether wheel in hand, he corrected their course. The loss of their navigational equipment had been nearly the last straw until Nathanial had conceived of a new plan. Using their telescope he had located Mars. Taking a small pot of ink, he had drawn a circle on the view port glass. By keeping Mars in the circle, they would eventually reach its orbit. Limping as they were through the aether, corrections were only necessary twice a shift, if that. What had begun as a tiny dot in their sky had grown larger since. Mars was not her first choice as a port of call, but it had dry dock and materials for repairs, assuming they could be afforded.
Annabelle finished her wine. I should see to the cleaning up, she thought. Good grief, how domestic that sounded! She might have stirred, then, just to have something to do, but all of a sudden Nathanial was back at the window seat, peering out at something outside. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of what had his attention, but she could see nothing. Probably exactly what he was looking at, too: nothing. Nothing that would interest her, anyway.
“Really, Nathanial. The worst of it must be sitting here, waiting for the inevitable. Can’t we…”
“Just a moment,” Nathanial replied. He climbed up onto the seat, his legs and hips jostling Annabelle so that she crawled off the seat and stood behind him, hands on her hips. Nathanial floated upward, pressing his face to the glass to have a better look.
“You look ridiculous.” She would have said more, but he was waving off further comment. “What is it?”
“I can’t tell.”
This piqued Annabelle’s curiosity. She climbed onto the window seat with him and stared out of the window. “I don’t see anything,” she said after a moment.
“Wait,” Nathanial replied. “It will come again.”
A minute later, it did. There was a flash of light, a short one, followed by two longs, and a short. “Do you see?” Nathanial asked.
“Yes.”
“It has a definite signature, which means it’s coming from an intelligent source.”
“It’s Morse Code,” Annabelle said.
Nathanial stared at her. “You’re certain?”
“Of course. Someone is using an aether flyer class heliograph. We’re being hailed.” Annabelle went to their heliograph. Luckily, it worked on manual control, and thus was still in use. She tapped out a brief reply.
“A new message!” Nathanial shouted.
Annabelle ran back to the view port and waited for the message to repeat. When it did, she sat down.
Nathanial looked down at her. “What is it? What does it say?” he asked.
Annabelle heaved herself to her feet. The cleaning up would have to wait. She needed to get to her quarters and fetch her knife and gun.
“It’s a cutter,” she said, “one of three. We’re in restricted space, and we’ve been informed their guns are trained on our hull. If we change course suddenly beforehand, they will open fire on us.”
“Beforehand? What do they mean?”
Annabelle shrugged. “They mean to board us, of course.”
Chapter Two
“Boarded!”
1.
A row of grim-faced men crowded close, squinting at Nathanial over the sights of their carbines. They were very clean, Nathanial thought, which he admitted might be a queer first impression for a normal chap, but he had not bathed in nearly two weeks. His hair was oily, and his scalp itched. A thick ginger beard crusted his chin and jaw, while these men were clean-shaven. Their blue coveralls were pristine, their carbines shiny and well oiled. His clothes were dirty and stank like some wild animal.
Annabelle had disappeared not long after the ships had hailed. Nathanial could only wonder where she gotten herself to, but he was glad she had chosen that moment to hide. If there was to be violence, he hoped she would have the good sense to stay hidden.
Two men emerged from the airlock. One was a tiny fellow, perhaps in his sixties, small-boned, with a sharp patrician nose on which perched a pair of spectacles. His lips were thin and bloodless, and his skin had the papery look of one who had crossed the threshold into old age. With him was his near antithesis; a large, broad-shouldered Irishman with bright yellow hair, florid skin, and an energy that made the room crackle with his presence. A grin split the Irishman’s face, while the little man remained reserved.
“Be back ’round in a moment,” the Irishman said, and he left, motioning for two of the men to follow him. The little man nodded, almost imperceptibly. Nathanial got the impression that the man’s every movement was microscopic, so one had to pay strict attention to the man to know what he was thinking or doing.
He spoke.
“You’re English,” he said.
Nathanial nodded. “I am. And you’re clearly not. Belgian? Austrian?”
“You’re in restricted space, and by a standing order from your mother country, you’re to be held in custody until such time as agents will be sent from Earth to retrieve you so you might stand trial.”
Nathanial held up a hand. “One moment, sir. Am I given to understand that I am being taken prisoner by Her Majesty’s Royal Navy? If that is the case, where are your ship’s colours? Why are these ratings not in uniform, and furthermore, why is a foreigner clearly in command?”
series 01 04 Abattoir in the Aether Page 1
