The Daedalus Incident

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Not according to the manual in your hand, Doctor,” Weatherby said. “These workings are far too vital to be left to anyone other than a learned alchemist like yourself, and it is most important that it be done properly.”

  Finch grimaced back at him. “How do you live like this, in this rotting wooden pestilence?”

  “I don’t live here, Doctor, and I assure you, I will visit far less than you!” Weatherby laughed with a certain satisfaction. “Now off to your working, so that we may both go above decks at our earliest opportunity.”

  Despite his daily barrage of questions to Finch and his own reading, Weatherby could only follow the barest hints of the rituals which Finch enacted. He knew the liquids in Finch’s possession contained quintessence drawn from both plant life and stone, though the exact ingredients eluded his memory. The plant life somehow fed the air, while the weight of the stone symbolized the weight of each man aboard, keeping them firmly on the deck. The recitations were in the form of prayers; Weatherby wondered just how much devotion Finch might have to the Almighty, but he also knew from his own research that the prayers served as mnemonic tools to help the alchemist remember the procedures.

  “Are you sure you’re doing it in the proper order?” Weatherby asked at one point. “I had thought the angelic recognitions came prior.”

  Finch fixed him with a disdainful glare. “Been reading up, have you?”

  “Of course,” Weatherby replied, trying not to take offense.

  “I suppose that’s admirable, but do leave the details to me,” Finch said. “Much of the workings in the official manuals are woefully inefficient.”

  “So you do not fear that your changes will unravel the working?” Weatherby asked. “Our air and gravity are at stake, Doctor.”

  Finch proceeded on to the next lodestone. “Quite sure. It takes far more than an omitted phrase to undo a working.”

  “And what would it take?” Weatherby asked, warming up to the subject.

  Finch sighed, seeming tired of the conversation already, as he picked his way through the muck. “To everything there is an opposite,” he said, seemingly from rote. “What can be done can also be undone, typically by working in reverse.”

  Sensing his displeasure, Weatherby allowed Finch to continue working in silence. There were six stones in all, from bow to stern, and it took Finch at least thirty minutes to attend to them all. When he was done, his breeches were caked with filth up to his thighs, and his arms to his elbows as well.

  “I feel disgusting,” Finch said. “And this is to be done regularly?”

  “The exact timing, as you well know, depends on our position in the Void and the movement of the planets,” Weatherby said, remembering his perusal of the task the night before. “That is, of course, yours to determine. But I urge you to calculate well, as I much prefer the stench of this air to having none at all.”

  Finch shook his arms and legs as they ascended the stairs to the hold once more. “I dare say this experience may prompt a new avenue of research.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed,” Finch said. “I shall make it nothing short of an all-consuming goal to find a way to extend this working so that it may be performed far less frequently.”

  “You would do the service a great good if you were to do so,” Weatherby said, “though I know your reasons are quite self-serving.”

  “Most alchemical innovations are self-serving, Mr. Weatherby,” Finch said as they made their way back above decks. “I am quite certain the Count St. Germain did not fashion the Philosopher’s Stone in order to cure mankind’s poverty—merely his own.”

  Weatherby left Finch to clean up and went above decks to relieve Mr. Forester and resume his watch over Miss Baker. As he walked along the main deck, he saw one of the able seamen of his own division, young Jim Rooney, sketching some of his fellows as they labored on the ropes. Rooney was not on duty, and he kept well out of the way, but Weatherby was curious as to his work.

  “What have you there, Rooney?”

  The young man held up his paper, and Weatherby instantly recognized the faces of the men in his division. “Just something to pass the time, sir, idle hands being the devil’s own work.”

  “Remarkable likenesses,” Weatherby commented. He had endeavored to get to know his new charges as well as he could, while still maintaining the necessary remove that would allow him to command them dispassionately. He gave Rooney a small smile and a nod and began to walk off. Then an idea formed in his head. “Rooney,” he said, turning back. “Can you make a sketch of anyone?”

  “Well, sir, I’ve a bit of trouble with the women, sir. I gets a bit distracted when I try it. But aye, give me a face and I’ll draw it like life itself.”

  “And what if you hadn’t a face, but a description instead?”

  The young man pondered this. “Like, if you told me what someone looked like, and I worked it up as you said it? I don’t know, sir. Never tried.”

  “On your feet, man. Come with me.” Weatherby stalked off and made for Forester and Miss Baker, who were peering over the side of the quarterdeck.

  “Thank you, Forester. You’re relieved,” Weatherby said. “Miss Baker, this is our Jim Rooney, whom I’ve seen is a quite talented artist.” Rooney blushed heavily and bowed, while Miss Baker smiled at him uncertainly.

  Weatherby laid out his plan, and soon both Rooney and Miss Baker grew quite excited. The lieutenant sequestered them in the wardroom as they worked—under marine guard, of course. Two hours later, he had what he had hoped for—a sketch of each of the three men Miss Baker had admitted to her master’s rooms the night of his murder.

  Shortly after that, all three stood before Captain Morrow with great anticipation as he looked over the sketches. “You believe these to be accurate likenesses, Miss Baker?” the captain asked.

  “Yes, Captain, I do. As very close to perfect as can be done, I believe.”

  Morrow gave Rooney a hard look, and Weatherby began to wonder if they would be in trouble for shirking their duties. He had thought the idea was sound, but had yet to determine how hard a captain Morrow might be.

  He needn’t have worried. “Mr. Weatherby, please inform the steward that Rooney here is to receive a double ration of grog for the next three days—one for each of these drawings. Dismissed, Rooney.”

  The young seaman’s face blossomed into a wide grin as he saluted and took his leave.

  “This solves a problem that had vexed me of late, Mr. Weatherby, and that was how to allow Miss Baker here to identify the culprits while trying to protect her in port. Some of the Venusian towns are difficult for proper Englishmen to navigate, and Puerto Verde is the worst sort of pirate’s nest,” Morrow said. “With any luck this shall make our investigations all the more rapid, and we may appease that bombastic Worthington as well. Neatly done, Mr. Weatherby, neatly done indeed.”

  Weatherby’s chest swelled with pride as he escorted Miss Baker back to the quarterdeck. To have impressed his new captain within the first few weeks of service was no small thing for a freshly minted second lieutenant.

  It was almost enough to allow him to forget the absence of Miss Baker’s genial company that day.

  Almost.

  July 25, 2132

  The first thing Shaila did when she emerged from the skylight above the lava tube was to slap an immediate quarantine on the area. Given that there were less than a hundred souls stationed at McAuliffe—all of whom wore location beacons on their pressure suits when outside—it was easy enough to keep tabs on anybody who got too close to the cave. With two quakes recorded, it might have been coincidence that both occurred while people were in the cave, but Shaila wasn’t keen on taking chances.

  Shaila ordered all Billiton personnel to stay at least a kilometer away from the cave, which was at least 15 kilometers from the nearest mining site anyway. Once Shaila had shown Harry the sensor video of the moving rocks, any protest he may have lodged was quickly silenced. She also ordered him to
increase his operational safety level, which included new sensor screens of all the ops sites, and to report any unusual seismic or radiation activity.

  Reporting rocks rolling uphill went without saying.

  Stephane and Yuna spent the ride back poring over the data the sensors continued to churn out. The rise in radiation and seismic activity was very modest, but still climbing slightly—no more than a hundredth of a percent every ten minutes or so. If things kept going the way they were, the lava tube would be a collapsed pile of glowing-blue rubble in three days.

  Of course, less than 24 hours ago, there was nothing going on in that cave. That we know of, Shaila reminded herself. The uncertainty gnawed at her and, frankly, scared the hell out of her. And that…vision?…or whatever landed in her head back there, it was bothering her, probably more so than she’d care to admit. Mars was supposed to be lifeless. Boring. Shaila didn’t realize just how much she had come to rely on that. Or how complacent she had gotten.

  As she pulled the rover up to the base, she figured her days of complacency were done. Even though most of the Billiton people were still checking things out at the dig sites, it was obvious that word traveled fast—the few miners and JSC personnel outside the base stared as she herded Stephane and Yuna toward the airlocks.

  But nothing prepared her for what she saw when the familiar hiss-whoosh of the airlock gave way to the base entrance…and she walked right into the middle of a holovision shoot.

  A burly man with a professional holocamera rig and a bright klieg light was filming a tall, lanky, silver-haired man as he pointed around the Hub and talked into the camera.

  “Christ,” Shaila said, yanking her helmet off. “I bloody well forgot he was shooting in here today. Damn him.”

  Him was Dr. Evan Greene, host of the critically acclaimed holoshow SpaceScience. Greene, with producer and cameraman in tow, had arrived three days ago to do a piece on McAuliffe and the Billiton mining ops. As always, JSC granted him all-access, all the time. She figured that would probably include the cave-in, given that it was the biggest news within the nearest 100 million kilometers.

  Greene was as big a celebrity one could be for someone with a Ph.D. in astrophysics. His show was on in 52 countries on Earth and was regularly fed to all JCS commands in the Solar System. In it, he breathlessly described the wonders of space and in the intricacies of exploration, usually by putting himself smack-dab in the middle of where people were trying to work. Yet apparently, the viewers at home ate it up; it was the highest rated science program of all time. The show’s Web site even offered posters for sale featuring the handsome Dr. Greene, perfect for pinning up in some geek-girl’s room back home.

  Shaila quickly strode away from the shoot, aiming for the equipment lockers on the other side of the Hub and hoping Greene wouldn’t notice her. Stephane, however, seemed far more enamored of the pop scientist. “I am to be interviewed in two days,” Stephane said. “It should be fun, yes?”

  “Oh, heaps,” Shaila said, tossing her helmet into a locker. Then a warning light flickered in her head and she quickly turned on Stephane. “You do not say a word about this cave-in to him, whatsoever. We clear?”

  “Well, yes, but he will ask about it, no?” Stephane wore a perfect deer-in-headlights look in the face of Shaila’s grimace and pointed finger.

  “Not. A. Word. Steve,” she repeated. “He beams this stuff back to Earth and we’ll be second-guessed from here to hell and back.”

  “Shaila,” Yuna said gently, putting a maternal hand on Stephane’s shoulder, “you realize that Col. Diaz has already sent all our data back to Houston already. And Billiton is in close contact with their home office, too.”

  Shaila wrestled out of the top half of her suit. “I know. Don’t care. This thing needs to be solved and wrapped up with a bow before the public finds out about it. Unless you two managed to solve this thing on the ride back.”

  “Ummm…not yet,” Stephane said. He struggled with his own suit until Shaila, seeing his futile attempts, reached over, undid the pressure seals and yanked the top half of the suit over his head for him. “Thanks for that,” he said.

  “No problem,” she replied, tsking. “When this thing is over, you’re gonna go in for remedial training, though.” They shared a brief smile. Stephane was turning out to be far more competent than she had first thought. What was more, when he dropped the playboy shtick, he was actually pleasant to be around.

  “Lt. Jain! A moment, please!”

  She looked up to see Greene, his shoot complete, hop-skipping over to her in the low gravity. “Shit,” she muttered before putting on her best faux smile. “Dr. Greene. What can I do for you?”

  The scientist fixed her with his own grin, full of brightly polished teeth and holovision charm. “I was hoping I could borrow you for a few minutes to talk about the cave-ins. I hear some strange stuff happened out there, but the information’s pretty conflicting right now.”

  “No can do, Doctor,” Shaila said, stepping out of the rest of her suit. “I’m due in command in about 15 minutes to brief Col. Diaz. And we’re still gathering facts ourselves.”

  A bright flare of light made Shaila jump—but it was merely the holocamera light shining on her. Two hundred million kilometers from Earth, and she was in the middle of a paparazzi scrum? “I totally respect that, but I’m hearing some pretty interesting stuff from the folks who were out there with you,” Greene said.

  “Doctor, please,” she said, her smile disappearing in the face of the rolling holocam. “We’re not going to talk about this until we have some answers. That goes for Dr. Durand, myself and all of JSC.”

  “Are you heading up to command now? I’d love to get a shot.” Greene started motioning his cameraman to take up a better angle.

  Shaila straightened up. “Doctor, we have jobs to do.”

  “Lieutenant, I have JSC all-access. That includes this,” Greene parried. “I’ll be well out of your way.”

  “Dr. Greene, when Col. Diaz herself invites you into a private briefing, then you can come along. But right now, I would…strongly suggest…that you let us do our jobs and figure this thing out,” Shaila said, trying to keep herself from lashing out. “We’re under enough pressure from everyone else without worrying about the home viewers. OK?”

  That actually took the smile off Greene’s face. “OK,” he said, nodding gravely. “Just let me know when you’re ready to talk about it.”

  Surprised at how quickly Greene relented, Shaila managed a curt nod. “All right, then. Thank you.”

  Greene smiled once more, then turned and headed off down the Billiton corridor, his crew in tow. Shaila knew he had a reputation for not backing down; on Venus, he famously insisted on four different angles on a survey crew’s work, which involved three JSC astronauts sweating out declining oxygen levels and rising suit temperatures for over an hour, despite the mission commander’s protests.

  For now, at least, she didn’t have to worry about him. Briefing Diaz, however, was another matter. It took a half hour just to recap their adventures in the cave, followed by the colonel quizzing them on their theories. Shaila, of course, was way out of her league, while Stephane went on about possible deposits of radioactive or magnetized ores beneath the surface. But they were just that: theories. And the live video feed from the sensors still showed rocks rolling uphill into the darkness.

  Shaila peered closely at the video feed. “They’re moving out of range,” she said. “We need more lights at that end of the cave. Maybe another camera.”

  “Unless there’s another quake, of course,” Yuna said. “I’m not sure we ought to be going down there again. Shaila was almost killed.”

  Shaila shot the older woman a look. “Please. I’m fine.”

  “Oh, I know you are, Shaila,” Yuna said with a smile. “You remind me of me forty years ago. Ready to brave the great unknown! But even so, I do think we should move a little more cautiously.”

  “Agreed,” Diaz said. “
Nobody’s going back down there today, at the very least. That thing rattles again, we’ll know about it anyway. So what’s your next step?”

  “I want to get better images out of that cave,” Shaila said immediately. “And I want to see where those rocks are going.”

  “So do I,” Diaz said. “So how do we get there without risking bodies again?”

  Stephane cleared his throat. “We work with Billiton,” he said tentatively. “I think they have a robotic probe.”

  “Not bad, Durand,” Diaz said. “Yuna, can you liaise with Billiton, see what you can get out of them?”

  Yuna grinned. “I’ll pull whatever strings I have.”

  “Good. Now, meantime, we have a mystery rad signature and higher EM levels. Any progress?”

  Shaila shrugged. “I ran another search before I came in here. The signature doesn’t show up in the database.”

  “Odd,” Diaz frowned. “Well, I want that signature loaded up onto every sensor we got on Mars, inside and outside. If it pops up elsewhere, I want to know about it. Same with any unusual EM readings. Anything else?”

  The three astronauts merely shrugged uncomfortably.

  “All right,” Diaz said, standing. “Right about now, everybody on this base knows we got rocks rolling uphill in a cave that’s had at least two earthquakes in as many days. They’re gonna get antsy, scared or both. And need I remind you, they outnumber us more than three to one. So we keep this investigation close to the vest, and we give them answers, not theories. I’m going to go tell Harry the same thing right now.

  “Between Houston, Billiton, and Evan Greene, we’re gonna have enough people crawling up our ass on this one. So let’s put our heads down and get it done. Now—”

  Diaz was cut off by a blaring claxon. A moment later, Adams’ voice came over the base intercom. “Crash team assemble. We have two miners down. Repeat, crash team to EVA staging. Two miners down.”

  Diaz jumped out of her seat and dashed into the command center, Shaila right behind her. “Report, Adams,” Diaz barked.