The Daedalus Incident

by Michael J. Martinez

  Yet there were four others severely wounded, with sickly charred burns and bloodied limbs, and these were men who may be saved. Putting the unfortunates lost to the Void out of mind, Weatherby quickly called for the orderlies, fighting back the bile in his throat as he knelt beside the worst casualty.

  “Where is Ashton?” Weatherby demanded of one of the crew who came to render aid.

  The man merely shook his head sadly. As the fog of battle cleared from his head, Weatherby could see the gaping holes in the deck beneath his feet, and feared that little aid would be forthcoming from the ship’s alchemist.

  Thankfully, officers carried a handful of curatives on their persons at all times, and Weatherby managed to stop three of his men from bleeding out. The fourth, sadly, breathed his last before Weatherby could get to him.

  With his men stable and the orderlies bandaging their burns, Weatherby picked his way up to the main deck to report, stepping around a small gathering of marines; Maj. Denning was among those who had fallen in the engagement, and they knelt in prayer over his corpse. Yet once Weatherby arrived upon the quarterdeck, he found Morrow was elsewhere; James directed him toward the cockpit, where the captain had gone to check on Ashton.

  Weatherby rushed back down below toward the belly of the ship, hoping Ashton somehow managed to survive the battle. When he entered, he was aghast at conditions therein, and crushed at how misplaced his hopes had been.

  There was a massive hole in the lower half of the starboard wall, where one of the Ganymedean’s shots had penetrated, strewing charred and blasted wood throughout. Floorboards and walls still smoldered where fires and acids from the lab were released. And in the middle of the room, Morrow and an orderly were kneeling over the battered and bloody body of Dr. Ashton, attempting to administer curatives in the dim lantern light.

  Weatherby attempted to walk into the room, but tripped—upon Ashton’s severed leg, which had been thrown from his body. Unable to keep his stomach calm at this, Weatherby quickly rushed toward a hole in the hull, rent by alchemical shot, and made it there in time so that his hurried breakfast did not stain the deck as it came forth.

  When he turned back around, he saw Morrow and the orderly, still kneeling before the rest of Ashton’s body, but with resigned looks upon their faces. “It’s no use at all,” Morrow said. “He’s dead.” The captain looked up to see Weatherby staring in horror; Weatherby knew full well that the captain had taken note of his lack of composure. “Mr. Weatherby, please ask Mr. Plumb to change course. We’ll have to put in at Elizabeth Mercuris to make repairs.

  “And we’ll need to find a new alchemist, sad to say,” he added.

  Weatherby nodded and saluted, then rushed away above decks, grateful for Morrow’s discretion. He knew the captain would be less forgiving if there had been more crewmen about, however, and he resolved to steel himself more thoroughly next time.

  As Weatherby delivered Morrow’s orders and began overseeing repairs, his thoughts drifted to the kindly Ashton—the old puffer had called Weatherby his fellow “bookworm”—and, more importantly, what he meant to Daedalus. Other than the captain himself, a ship’s alchemist was the most important person aboard ship. He conducted the occult operations necessary to keep the ship aloft in the Void, made air and gravity possible and, on small ships like Daedalus, also acted as ship’s surgeon. While officers sometimes made a study of the Great Work, their knowledge was typically quite limited compared to those who devoted their entire lives to the Art of Transformation.

  I despair of finding an alchemist worth his Salt at the Elizabeth Mercuris mining colony, now mere hours away. There is little in the way of order there, let alone learning, and from what my shipmates have told me, the stories told in the London taverns are true, in that it is an altogether rough and ill-fortuned place. Yet the ores mined there, used in alchemical shot and shipbuilding alike, are critical to England’s supremacy in the Void. So the Royal Navy keeps Elizabeth Mercuris afloat above that sun-blasted rock of a planet—and because of that, I doubt they have an alchemist to spare, as it is no mean feat to keep a wooden outpost hanging in the Void above that woebegone cinder of a world.

  And while we might press men into service there to replace those lost, I am certain no one of alchemical learning would find themselves in such a place without ill tidings having befallen them, despite the outpost’s importance to England. So even if there be an alchemist available to us, what sort of man would he be?

  But we have little alternative, Father. Without someone to tend to the ship’s lodestones and sails, we would be adrift in the Void, perhaps forever lost to Earth, England and home. So I must hope that Elizabeth Mercuris may give us something of a miracle—in the form of a suitable alchemist.

  July 24, 2132

  “OK, let me get this straight. There’s never been a recorded earthquake on Mars. Or…Mars-quake. Whatever,” said Col. Maria Diaz, U.S.A.F., commander of McAuliffe Base. “So logically, what you experienced can’t actually be a quake, right?”

  Shaila looked straight ahead, in her best “at-ease” pose, staying out of the conversation while idly regarding the holopicture of Diaz, posing with her old F-334 Lighting VII fighter in some jungle somewhere, hanging on the wall behind the colonel’s desk. Stephane, meanwhile, was growing more and more flustered as he tried to explain what happened in the lava tube—or, more precisely, explain why there was no explanation.

  “I have been in earthquakes, Colonel,” he said. “I was in San Francisco in ‘27. I know what they feel like. This was to me a seismic event equal to an earthquake.”

  Diaz leaned back in her chair, stretching out her compact, muscular frame. “I’m not doubting what you experienced, Dr. Durand. What I’m saying is that we generally agree, you and me, that it couldn’t have been a real earthquake, right?”

  “There has never been a recorded earthquake on Mars, no. And we are certain that while Mars has tectonic plates and the like, it has been geologically dormant for a million years. This should not have been an earthquake in the traditional sense, but it is, technically, possible. And there may be other causes that might result in the same effect. I cannot imagine the mining operations were responsible, but I suppose that if we go through the data—”

  “Fine. Here’s my problem, Doctor,” Diaz interrupted, leaning forward and brushing a strand of black-gray hair from her face. “In about five minutes, Harry Yu is going to come barging through my door demanding to know what happened and whether it’s going to impact his mining ops. What do you recommend I tell him?”

  Harry Yu was the vice-president in charge of Martian exploitation operations for Billiton Minmetals. Unlike his predecessors, Harry actually moved out to Mars for the job—a move most JSC astronauts felt was solely to make their lives miserable. Yet he turned a marginally profitable enterprise into a steady money maker, and while the miners didn’t exactly love the guy, they did like the paychecks he produced.

  Stephane sighed. “The lava tube was in an area not set aside for mining yet. Most of the company’s operations should be far enough away. Right now, I do not see any danger to the miners. However,” he added, just as Diaz was about to respond, “they should be very, very careful. I recommend putting in more sensors, more finely tuned to seismic activity, so that if there is something larger going on, they may have some warning. Meanwhile, I will comb through the data their sensors generate to be sure.”

  “Nice ass covering,” Diaz said, jotting down Stephane’s recommendation. “Jain, how’s Ed doing?”

  “Last I heard he was bugging Levin for a drink, ma’am,” Shaila said. “Broken leg, a few busted ribs. Should be up and about by morning.”

  “Too bad we can’t ship him home, the cranky bastard,” Diaz said, the ghost of a smile flickering across her face. “You able to question him yet?”

  “Not yet, ma’am.”

  “Well, give him my official get-well-soon when you do. Meantime, Durand, I want you in the lab to gather as much data as
possible and write me a preliminary report to send to Houston and the suits at Billiton. Jain, talk to Kaczynski, then clear your schedule for tomorrow. Unless Steve can come up with something new in the lab, you’re taking him back to the lava tube in the morning. You’re both relieved of all other duty until this thing is solved. If Billiton can’t mine here, we’re all out of a job. Dismissed.”

  Stephane and Shaila turned to go. “Hang on, Jain,” Diaz said. Shaila nodded to Stephane, then turned to face her commander as the geologist left the office.

  “You think he’s up for this?” Diaz asked once Stephane was gone.

  “Steve?” Shaila said with a slight smile. “He’s smart enough. I think he’s genuinely curious about it. Just gotta keep him motivated—and away from the floating poker games.”

  Diaz nodded. “All right. Make sure he stays on track.” She then handed Shaila a datapad. “Latest from Houston on your request,” she said simply. “Sorry.”

  Shaila took the little tablet, already knowing what it would say. Sure enough, her application to be the pilot for the Armstrong’s next mission to Jupiter was denied. She read it through a few times, but there was very little in the official-ese to give her any hope. It was a real shame; Armstrong was a new ship, with all the bells and whistles a pilot could hope for.

  She handed the pad back. “Thanks, ma’am.”

  “Hang in there. I think JSC’s finally ready to get a Saturn mission put together in the next few years. Could be huge.”

  “If I can’t get another survey mission to Jupiter, I doubt I’ll get Saturn,” Jain said, trying to sound level-headed and practical. “Not after what happened on Atlantis.”

  “Atlantis wasn’t your fault. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Diaz said. “What about the XO position here? It’s still open. You’ve been acting number-two now for a month. I’ll put in a good word for you. Probably mean a promotion, too.”

  Shaila smiled. “Thanks. That means a lot. But I’m a pilot, ma’am.” She nodded toward the picture over Diaz’ shoulder. “You know what it’s like. I want to be out there.”

  “I know, believe me. Like I said, hang in there. Maybe check out some of the other JSC postings, do a Venus survey or something.”

  “Thanks, ma’am. I will,” she said, a hint of determination breaking through her voice, though mostly for show. She doubted she’d even get to do a Mercury trip—not that there was anything there worth visiting. Her dream of returning to long-duration space flight had just taken a big hit.

  Diaz and Shaila regarded each other for a brief moment. “All right,” Diaz finally said. “Go figure out that earthquake. Dismissed.”

  Shaila walked out of the office and into McAuliffe’s command center. Thankfully, the two officers on duty in the cramped space were busy looking at the multitude of monitors before them, not at the look on Shaila’s face. She paused, took a deep breath, and then headed down the stairs toward the medical berth.

  The command center, along with Diaz’ office and a conference room, sat atop a three-level dome, the base’s original structure dating back to 2079. The second level consisted of the galley, mess hall and other multi-purpose rooms that, originally, served as crew quarters. Beneath that was the Hub—a gigantic warehouse-sized room that now served as the main EVA staging area. From the Hub, six corridors—new additions funded by Billiton—stretched out away from the dome. Four of these housed Billiton’s mining operations, the fifth served as day-rooms for JSC officers, and the sixth contained various laboratories and the medical berth, with the base reactor housed at the very end—away from everything else, just in case.

  As Shaila made her way down to medical, she didn’t make her usual mental scan of the condition of the hallways. The once gleaming white walls were dull and slightly dirty, and the electricity would occasionally flicker randomly in places. McAuliffe held up well for a 53-year-old base, but it couldn’t help but show its age. Engineering would be thankful for Shaila’s lack of attention today—ever since she became acting executive officer, she had them frantically combing the base making repairs, large and small.

  She moved through the mess hall and down into the Hub, perpetually bustling with miners coming in and out of the airlocks and JSC personnel scurrying about with their duties. Shaila didn’t even bother issuing her usual glare at the Billiton miners. Women were rare enough at McAuliffe, and Shaila’s mostly Indian ancestry—dusky skin combining with the curves granted by a hint of Anglo-Saxon blood—was quite kind to her, in the miners’ estimation. It was mostly harmless; they usually stared just a little too long at her standard-issue red coverall—why someone thought more red was needed on Mars eluded Shaila—and a harsh look in return would put their eyes back on whatever they were doing.

  This time, though, their looks were more questioning. Word traveled fast, and one of their own was laid up in the medical berth after a cave-in. Unlike most of the JSC crew, the miners had a very personal, very financial stake in the base’s success. And she was slightly more sympathetic to those stares.

  Putting the miners out of her mind, Shaila walked into the cramped medical berth to find Stephane already talking with Kaczynski, who was in a perfectly foul mood. A few feet away, Harry Yu was leaning up against a cabinet, arms folded, scowling.

  “I’m telling you, kid, there’s no goddamn way a four-meter-long, five-centimeter-diameter core sample from a laser drill is going to bring the fucking roof down!” Kaczynski yelled.

  “I believe you, I believe you!” Stephane said, hands up in supplication. “I do not doubt you did everything right. But something had to trigger that quake. I need to find it.”

  “Yes, you do,” Harry said. He ran a hand over his perfectly coiffed black hair, which matched his perfectly pressed grey coverall. His normal intensity, fueled by caffeine and spreadsheets, was amplified by nerves and frustration. “And none of this, repeat none of this, can jeopardize my ops here.”

  Stephane opened his mouth to reply, but Shaila walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, boys. How you feeling, Ed?”

  “Like I’ve been through a meat grinder,” the old digger grumped, his permanent scowl deeper than usual. “I’ve been digging longer than you’ve been alive, and I’ve never seen anything like that. Not on Earth, not on the Moon, and definitely not here.”

  “You and me both,” Shaila said. “You were taking a core sample at the time?”

  “Just finished it up when it hit,” Kaczynski said. “And yes, I tested the strata before I bored. Everything came back stable. Too bad, too. I think there’s some decent platinum and uranium down there, maybe even a nice vein of gold.”

  Shaila smiled. The big money on Mars was deuterium, a hydrogen isotope distilled from the “heavy” water found at the ice caps for use in fusion reactors. That was a big part of why Billiton agreed to help keep McAuliffe running ten years ago, since the base was only 50 kilometers from the southern cap in winter. But the company was also interested in the wide variety of other mineral wealth Mars had to offer, especially during the year-long Martian summer.

  That’s why they were in that lava tube in the first place. Kaczynski had requested a survey, and Durand—the JSC geologist assigned to the base—had to go with him, along with someone from JSC’s operations department. It had simply been Shaila’s turn to draw that duty.

  “I don’t think anybody’s heading back down there any time soon, Ed. Not until we figured out what caused it,” Shaila said.

  “Not good enough,” Harry interjected. “Who’s running the investigation?”

  “Me and Steve,” Shaila said. “That a problem?”

  “Don’t you have anybody else?” Harry asked.

  “Why? The base executive officer and our resident planetologist not good enough for you, Harry?” While she’d never concede it, Harry did have a point—while she and Stephane were the best qualified JSC personnel on site to investigate the quakes, it was only because there were just 17 JSC astronauts on base. An
d if Houston wanted to send out a full survey team, it would take at least four weeks to arrive.

  “I want my own investigation,” Harry said. “If Ed’s right, we need to be down in that cave exploiting it.”

  Shaila regarded the executive sternly. “You know damn well that JSC takes the lead on all potential hazards. You can chip in, but this is our show.”

  Harry stood straight and headed for the door. “Fine. We’ll chip in. But we only have a couple of weeks until our latest dig is tapped, so this gets figured out stat.” He nodded to Kaczynski and swooped out the door, looking terribly busy.

  “Charmer, isn’t he,” Shaila said.

  “Total bastard, but he writes the checks,” Kaczynski grinned. “I agree with him, though. Once I’m healed up, I want to get back down there.”

  “Only after I have explored every inch of that lava tube,” Stephane said.

  “One step at a time, Steve. First we see what the data says. I’m not exactly thrilled about going back into a potentially unstable cave.”

  Kaczynski snorted. “It’s fine, believe me. One of the best looking lava tubes I’ve seen anywhere. No goddamn reason it should’ve done that.”

  “And yet it did,” Stephane countered. “I wonder if there was a stratum of some sort of crystalline lattice behind the wall you drilled into. That could have caused a wave? A cascade? Something like that.”

  Kaczynski shook his head with a grin. “You’re the one with the Ph.D., kid, but I ain’t never seen anything like you’re saying.”

  Stephane shrugged. “It is the only theory I have right now. Otherwise, we are left with an earthquake that should not have happened.” He jabbed a few buttons on his datapad. “I should go to the lab. I have a report to write for the colonel.”

  “Go on ahead. I’ll join you there in a bit,” Shaila said.

  Stephane winked and headed for the door. “It’s a date, chere.”