The uproar of laughter arrived on cue as tankards of grog clanked together. Finch participated, though with a certain bemused reserve—it was naval tradition for such a toast on Saturdays, Weatherby told him, and so long as he was to remain enslaved in His Majesty’s Navy, Finch promised himself to try to at least be as tolerant as possible, despite the repetition.
“I must disagree with this toast,” Plumb exclaimed after the laughter subsided, “even though it be tradition. For those of you who juggle both sweethearts and wives, I commend you for your energies!” At this, laughter once again ensued. “No, not those energies!” Plumb went on. “That is but a simple thing, and far more pleasurable, compared to all of the letters, the presents, the attention your multiples of women will want! No, gentlemen, you may keep your wives, and your sweethearts if you wish. As for me, I’ll just find a new wife in each port, and be divorced before I set sail again!”
More tankards clanked, and Finch knew the grog had fueled the frankness with which Plumb spoke. Certainly, Finch was no prude, and would be the first to admit as such; he believed he could give any Navy man spirited competition in the ways of debauchery. But he saw Weatherby’s heart was not in the jest, and knew immediately the cause. Unlike the others, Finch included, Weatherby had a poet’s outlook on life and love, and it was quite evident that his thoughts were upon someone far closer than Earth.
Cigar in hand, Finch followed Weatherby to the quarterdeck when the latter man took the evening watch—perhaps the other reason Weatherby had not imbibed as much as his fellow officers, though it seemed such mindfulness was more the exception than the rule in the wardroom. “Looking forward to seeing Earth again, Mr. Weatherby?”
“Perhaps not under these circumstances,” Weatherby said. “I find it hard to believe that we must rely upon the word of a traitor to help us solve this riddle.”
“One man’s traitor is another’s patriot, Mr. Weatherby,” Finch said. “And the captain is correct: Dr. Franklin has a reputation for being quite upstanding and morally sound. I should think you would’ve liked that.”
“Apparently the moral imperative of loyalty to one’s king and country does not enter into your equation, Doctor,” Weatherby replied.
“Oh, I’ve no use for this particular conflict,” Finch said. “Let them go. We can continue trading with them, and without the expense of providing for their defense.” Seeing Weatherby’s deepening scowl, the alchemist tried a different tack. “And how is our Miss Baker faring? I understand you had the watch before dinner.”
“As well as can be expected, Doctor,” Weatherby replied. “I continue to be amazed at her strength. She has held up well under innumerable trials. She tells me her life has not been an easy one.”
Finch nodded as he lit his cigar. “Yes, she’s told me this as well,” he said, then paused for a moment to think. “Lieutenant, perhaps I am overstating things, but I dare say you’ve become quite fond of her.”
Weatherby’s face turned a bright crimson, evident even in the dim light of the lamps, and Finch could not help but chuckle at the young officer’s attempt to maintain his composure.
“Oh, come now. We are men here!” Finch continued. “She’s beautiful and quite intelligent.”
“That she is,” Weatherby murmured while staring straight ahead. “However, the notion is simply not one that I might pursue. We have much demanded of us in the service, Doctor. And whilst my origins are not of the aristocracy, I feel it would do my career no good whatsoever to find myself pursuing a mere household servant.”
Finch raised an eyebrow at this. “Your ambition is a credit to you, Mr. Weatherby, but surely the Royal Navy can be accommodating of a man who follows his heart in such matters. So long as propriety is maintained, such a match would not hinder you, would it?”
“I do not know, to be honest,” Weatherby said. “I am a few years off from having to make such decisions, but I know of very few captains and admirals who achieved such rank without seeking a wife of appropriate station. Social standing and patronage are becoming increasingly more important to an officer’s career, much as we might wish it to be based solely on merit.”
“Well, then, perhaps it’s for the best,” Finch said. “Of course, I’m a mere third son of a relatively minor noble house. I’m rather expected to sully the family name somewhat.” He gave the young officer a wink, which was returned with a small smile. “Her circumstances could be quite an impediment should all come out.”
Weatherby turned to the doctor at this, confused and a little alarmed. “What circumstances are these? You seem to imply more than you’re saying, sir.”
Finch grew serious. “Mr. Weatherby, there may be nothing to it at all, but I will say this: I spent two months at Elizabeth Mercuris. There are matters I have heard of that should not have been spoken of, and I am loath to repeat them. But there is a saying amongst your sailors, something akin to still waters running fast?”
“Running deep, Doctor,” Weatherby corrected him.
“Oh, fine then. My point is such, and you may consider taking the advice of a self-confessed scoundrel for the half-pence it is worth. You’re an upstanding young man, and I dare say a good one besides, for they say the devil knows good when he sees it.” He leaned in close for a moment. “A fine alchemist once said, ‘A prudent question is one half of wisdom.’ So until you know all, Mr. Weatherby, I suggest you keep asking questions of her.”
“Now you have me quite at a loss, sir.” Weatherby’s gaze was penetrating, and his face grew stern.
Finch straightened up with one of his broad, sometimes infuriating smiles. “Mr. Weatherby, it is merely advice. I find the girl compelling as well, but it has been made plain to me, most embarrassingly I might add, that my feeling is not returned in kind. I have no wish to insert myself where I am not wanted, nor do I wish to imply anything there may not be. So consider it advice from a man older and more experienced than you, though I will say you are likely the wiser. She had undergone much indeed, and it is likely worth your time and effort to determine exactly what her life has been like over the years, should you finally wish to pursue her.”
Weatherby grimaced. “This must be some province of the aristocracy, Doctor, to speak so plainly about such delicate matters.”
“No, merely my own province, nothing more,” Finch replied with a puff of his cigar. “There are few in the Known Worlds whom I may truly call friend, and I have been a true friend to fewer still. Honestly, Mr. Weatherby, I’ve not the faintest idea how to go about it.”
Weatherby pondered this comment for a time before saying, “I do believe your concern is heartfelt, Doctor. Thank you.”
“Not at all,” Finch replied simply as he watched the sun-currents stretch out before the Daedalus.
“So, then,” Weatherby said with the air of a man changing the subject. “How exactly was it made plain to you regarding your feelings toward Miss Baker?”
Finch, surprised, turned to see the younger man smiling broadly. Perhaps he was not such a humorless caricature as Finch had thought.
“Never you mind, Weatherby!” he grinned. “The matter was brought up, discussed briefly and summarily dispensed with, nothing more.”
“Come now, Doctor,” Weatherby said. “Did you use your little charm potion upon her and she found you out?”
“What potion is that?” Finch said, a hint of defensiveness in your voice.
Weatherby was quite pleased to have one over on the doctor. “I saw you place it on your tongue when you spoke to the Venusians. It was some sort of elixir to make your words more amenable to them, was it not?”
“Well done, Mr. Weatherby! That is exactly what it was. You’ve been reading up quite well. And yes, I may have used it for such amorous pursuits in the past. But not with Miss Baker, I promise you.”
“Well, then, your encounter with her must be an even more interesting tale,” Weatherby said, prodding his fellow officer good-naturedly.
“Not even if you returne
d my hookah and my privacy would I tell you,” Finch vowed. “I am wholly unused to such patent rejection, and do not wish it to be attached to my otherwise pristine reputation amongst the ladies!”
Weatherby smiled. After the man’s genuine, if clumsy, expression of concern, Weatherby hadn’t the heart to tell him that his hookah was tossed overboard weeks ago to drift aimlessly in the sun-currents between Mercury and Venus.
July 26, 2132
The little six-wheeled robot seemed to take in its surroundings. It swiveled its head left, then right, then in a complete 360-degree turn in each direction. Its “neck” likewise telescoped from a mere ten centimeters to nearly a full half-meter and back again, and angled itself up and down. Then, the ’bot moved forward about a meter, then back a meter. Ultimately, it did a small donut in each direction.
“I am satisfied,” Stephane pronounced from fifty feet above the cavern floor. “The Dolomieu is ready.”
“The what?” Shaila asked. She looked over at Stephane, guiding the ’bot with a joystick attached to a small portable computer.
The geologist looked up at her and grinned; she was a bit relieved to see a smile after last night. “The Dolomieu. Named for the French geologist Deodat Dolomieu. He discovered dolomite, you know.”
“What a lovely name!” Yuna said, shooting Shaila a wink and a grin. “I never thought to name it.”
“You are not French,” Stephane said. “We name everything. I am sending you images from the main full-spectrum camera. You two may watch as we go.”
“Send it my way, too,” Greene said. “I can feed it directly onto the recording.”
Shaila watched as the little ‘bot headed between the sensor suites, and noted that its camera-head was pointing forward—not down—and that Stephane opted to fully extend the probe’s neck, so that it could approximate the height of a person. It didn’t seem to be much of a show, though Greene was glued to his camera’s flip-screen regardless.
Then the ’bot shook slightly. Stephane stopped the probe and swiveled the camera head around to focus on the ground next to the ’bot.
The rocks in the cave were still rolling.
“Thought so,” Stephane said. “At least we are still going in the right direction. And the rocks are not too big.” He swiveled the camera to look behind the ’bot, but saw no major impediments—like large boulders bearing down from the recesses of the lava tube. “All right. Moving forward now.”
Shaila watched the cave roll past as the Dolomieu progressed. “Tough to get my bearings here,” she said over the comm. “Is it me, or does it look different again?”
“The low levels of seismic activity continued overnight,” Yuna said. “I imagine we’ve had a bunch of rocks rolling around in there for hours how.”
The Dolomieu continued down the cave, with Stephane pausing to swivel its head left and right at regular intervals. Yuna kept tabs on the radiation and EM readings, both of which were increasing slightly as the ’bot went deeper inside. Within a few minutes, the little probe had gone past the furthest point the astronauts had explored in person, and the lights from the sensor suites began to dim.
“Here there are dragons,” Stephane intoned with fake seriousness. Everyone else ignored him.
Ten minutes later, the probe was nearly a kilometer further along, and despite the ebbing light, the scenery was little changed—rubble on the floor of the cave, the rock strata visible along the walls, elevated levels of Cherenkov radiation, ambient electromagnetic fields and seismic activity that increased with every rotation of the Dolomieu‘s wheels. Yuna noted a slight rise in atmospheric pressure, but there were no real problems to contend with—yet.
Suddenly, it seemed, the video feed showed a near-vertical pile of stones in front of the probe. “What’s that?” Shaila asked.
“It is something in our way, obviously,” Stephane responded, sounding peevish. “One moment. We will go around.”
The Dolomieu’s head-camera pivoted to the left. And the obstruction stretched off into the dark. Stephane swore in French into the comm, then swiveled the camera around to the other side.
Same thing. Stephane tilted the camera upward, toward the ceiling of the cave. The rocks were at least two meters high, if not more so, as it was difficult to discern the top of the wall from the darkness of the cave beyond.
“OK, what the hell is that?” Shaila asked.
“It is…a wall,” Stephane answered.
“Bullshit,” Greene muttered. Shaila looked over at him; he was holding his datapad in both hands, staring intently at it with a stunned look on his face.
“Confirmed,” Yuna said, her voice quiet. “The rocks are piled up at an angle of roughly 89 degrees, and there is very little deviation along the length of this…structure.”
Shaila turned to Yuna suddenly. “I swear, Yuna, if this is some miner’s idea of a joke, I’m kicking all their asses off this rock.”
“Oh, Shaila, I don’t think that’s the case,” Yuna said, a chiding tone in her voice. “I mean, who would take the time to build a wall down there, of all things?”
“Somebody built this,” Shaila said. “Rocks just don’t pile up into a goddamn wall on their own, now do they?”
“Yes, they do,” Stephane interrupted.
“Dammit, Steve,” Shaila barked, turning to face him. “Now’s not the…” She stopped when she saw him furiously tapping at his datapad.
“I just sent you the video,” he said simply, a few moments later.
Both Shaila and Yuna looked down on their datapads. Dolomieu had been looking off to its right, toward the ground. The camera tracked a rock, about twenty centimeters in diameter, as it rolled—uphill, Shaila reminded herself—toward the wall.
And then it rolled right up the wall toward the top.
“Christ,” Shaila breathed.
Stephane switched the video feed back to live, and immediately found two other rocks to track. They, too, rolled up the wall, disappearing over the edge.
Nobody spoke for several minutes. They watched the rocks, one every thirty seconds or so, roll past, roll up, roll out of sight.
“OK,” Shaila said, struggling to resume some kind—any kind—of control of the situation. “Double check and be sure we can’t get around this thing. Go to either edge.”
Stephane dutifully guided Dolomieu to the left, where the wall of rock tightly abutted the lava tube. It was the same on the other side. He also tried to look over the wall, but it was too high, even with the ’bot’s “neck” fully extended.
Meanwhile, the ambient electromagnetic energy, Cherenkov radiation, seismic activity and atmospheric pressure continued to rise, albeit by scant fractions.
It took a solid half hour before they ran out of ideas. “All right, bring her in,” Shaila ordered. “Let’s get the ’bot up here.”
“Should we not leave it there?” Stephane asked. “We can tie the video feed into the base computer.”
Shaila pondered this. “Tempting. But that’s an active cave down there. You think the lifting arms are strong enough carry a sensor down to the wall?”
Stephane grinned. “This I like. It is worth trying.”
They watched as Dolomieu turned and made its way back toward the skylight, which appeared as a small, pale shaft of light piercing the darkness in the distance. It took several minutes before they could pick out the sensors in the darkness, and Stephane piloted the ’bot to the nearest one.
And then the screen went blank.
“Merde,” Stephane muttered.
Shaila walked over and peered over his shoulder. “What happened?”
“I do not know,” he said, pressing icons frantically on the screen. “I have nothing. She is dead.”
“Dead?” Yuna asked.
“Dead. No communications, no control, nothing.” He threw his hands up. “Gone. Poof.”
Shaila dialed up the remaining sensors in the cave—none of them were able to penetrate the darkness far enough to clearly se
e the wall off in the distance. Likewise, the sensor range wasn’t where it needed to be, either. “All our existing assets are in the wrong place,” she said.
She started walking over to the skylight, peering down into it. “Seismic?” she asked.
“Steady,” Yuna replied. “Shaila, you’re not thinking of going down there, are you?”
Shaila tested the ropes that remained tethered around the skylight. “Maybe.”
Yuna hop-skipped over, a worried look on her face. “I know you want to get a camera back on down there, but the colonel said nobody should risk it.”
Shaila turned to address Yuna, whose maternal-worried look immediately consoled and angered her all at once. “Look. There is a wall down there. A wall. Rocks rolling uphill, building a wall all by themselves. And our only chance of getting eyes on it just went dead.”
Shaila looked toward the others. Stephane looked worried, but she could tell he’d back her up. Greene looked hopeful; Shaila figured he wanted more footage.
“I’m heading down there,” she said finally. “Anyone who objects can bring it up with the colonel. And nobody follows me down there, no matter what. That’s an order.” She grabbed one of the ropes and hooked it to her suit. “Yuna, give me whatever readings you can from the sensors already down there. Especially seismic.”
Taking a deep breath, she started lowering herself back into the darkness.
CHAPTER 10
March 24, 1779
Father,
Like many of those who sail the Void, I have often dreamed of visiting the fabled ring-cities of those Saturnine aliens who call themselves the Xan. Of course, they are also a most insular and un-welcoming breed, and with the journey to Saturn long and arduous, it is unlikely that I should ever cast my eyes upon them. Yet I imagine I would feel more welcome and much less different than I felt walking amongst the French on the streets of Paris.
I am surprised to find so many English speakers here, many of whom possess unmistakable London accents. I certainly expected a handful of Ganymedeans and other colonists sympathetic to the rebel cause, for the French king has made no secret of his desire to see our colonies parted from us. Yet there are gentlemen and ladies from England as well, and they peruse the shops and cafes here freely, as if without care for the politics of the day. Another province of the aristocracy, undoubtedly. I, for one, would never have come willingly, but such is the increasing strangeness of our quest that I find myself here regardless.
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