Why the carriage upon the road to Passy had been stopped, none within or without could really say, but the gendarmes had stopped it nonetheless. To passers-by, either entering the grand city of Paris or taking their leave of it, it was something best not contemplated. Those therein would certainly either be allowed to go upon their way—or they would be found out and made to pay for whatever slight they had perpetrated against His Majesty, King Louis XVI of France.
Those inside the carriage were, quite surprisingly, not acting against the king whatsoever. But they had reason to be nervous regardless.
“I can’t understand it,” Finch said to his compatriots. “Do we have the mark of Cain upon our brow? Or worse, of England?”
Captain Morrow gave him a harsh shushing. “Be quiet, man!” he whispered. “We managed to avoid the constabulary in Le Havre. This will not be a problem.”
Morrow sat back in the coach seat and pulled down upon his civilian waistcoat, adopting a look of amused perturbation, much as any gentleman would adopt should his coach be stopped by the city’s authorities for no good reason. Miss Baker looked nervous, but took to fluttering her new fan before her; amazing how a new dress and a fan could turn a chambermaid into a gentlewoman, for she fit the part exquisitely. Weatherby, seeing no other valid course of action, tried to adopt Morrow’s countenance. But he could not help but think that Le Havre was quite different from the French capital.
It had seemed easy enough over the past three days. They had rowed ashore under cover of twilight, reaching the small farming village of Heuqueville just as the Moon rose—their timing could not have been better. Pleading a broken-down coach, they arranged a ride into Le Havre upon a farmer’s cart, and enjoyed a fine dinner there. Morrow seemed quite happy to allow Plumb to take Daedalus into Portsmouth to deliver a report to Admiral Sir Thomas Pye—old “Goose Pye,” as he was known to many in the Navy, with all the regard the nickname implied. Indeed, Morrow was quite genial and witty at dinner that night, and Weatherby found himself proud to have been allowed to see this side of his commander.
The next morning found them in a coach bound for Paris, where they arrived the following afternoon. Posing as Ganymedean sympathizers, it took but a few inquiries to determine Dr. Benjamin Franklin’s locale—the village of Passy, on the road to the great Palace of Versailles. They also discovered that Franklin had just been recognized as the United States of Ganymede’s ambassador to France. Ambassador, indeed! Weatherby found the very notion ludicrous.
Thankfully, he was pondering that very thought, with something of a smirk upon his face, when the gendarme commander appeared at the door to the coach once more. “My apologies, gentlemen and lady,” he said in French, which Weatherby was barely able to follow. “But you must understand, we do not allow travelers upon the road to Versailles lightly.”
“I understand completely, monsieur,” Morrow said with a genial smile, his French seeming perfect to Weatherby’s ears. “But we are not bound for Versailles, but for Passy.”
The gendarme frowned. “You are not French,” he said flatly, not sharing Weatherby’s assessment of Morrow’s skill.
“No, we are not, monsieur,” Morrow said. “We are from Boston, on Ganymede, and we have business interests here that we must address with our new ambassador.”
“Do you have papers to that effect?” the gendarme demanded.
“I am afraid not,” Morrow demurred as Finch and Weatherby shot each other a nervous glance. Weatherby had secured a pistol behind him, but he knew that using it would be a last resort and a thin chance of escape. “We were hoping—”
Suddenly, Miss Baker leaned forward, fanning herself, which prompted the very tips of her fan to glow alchemically in the night sky; it was an effect she had added to her fan while upon the road between Le Havre and Paris. “William, darling, what is all this?” she interrupted coquettishly in English, flapping her fan before her. “I am absolutely starving. Can we not go to Franklin’s house tonight?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” Morrow said, unable to keep a smile from his face. “This gentleman seems to think we should not be upon the road.” He turned to address the gendarme in French. “Please, sir, my wife is hungry, and we do not wish to be late to dinner.”
The gendarme looked at Miss Baker, who gave him a winning smile and, to Weatherby’s shock, a wink. “Well,” the gendarme said. “It is not far. But you will stop there, yes? Otherwise, you will be held in the village of Versailles should you go there.”
“Of course, monsieur. We are staying at Passy tonight. Merci!” Morrow said. He quickly closed the door, then rapped on the roof of the coach. The driver immediately snapped the reins, and the coach lurched forward out of Paris, with Miss Baker giving the gendarme a little wave of her fan as they passed.
“Well played, mademoiselle,” Morrow said, his grin growing broader. “If I weren’t mistaken, I’d say you were born and bred a gentlewoman.”
Miss Baker snapped the fan shut, extinguishing the lights at its tips. “I’ve seen my share of them,” she said, her affected airs extinguished just as quickly. “I can manage witless privilege well enough.”
They all had a laugh at this—even Morrow was a commoner by birth, while Finch seemed to delight in this stab at the aristocracy regardless of his own lineage. And Weatherby could not help but allow his gaze to linger on Miss Baker, even as hers took in the scenery of the French countryside.
The village of Passy, but a short distance from Paris, was quite handsome, having a number of noble homes therein. They learned in Paris that Franklin was staying at the Hotel de Valentinois, a palatial home offered to the Ganymedean commissioners by a sympathetic and successful French merchant. It was a fine house with many windows, situated on a hill with a splendid view of the river, surrounded by gardens and trees.
Franklin was staying in one of the smaller buildings adjacent to the mansion proper, a pavilion called Basse Cour. Weatherby was surprised at how easy it seemed to gain access to the place, though they had learned in Paris that Franklin was a very welcoming sort, and saw many of his countrymen and French supporters at all hours. What if they were assassins, hoping to remove one of the rebels’ greatest leaders? Now there was a thought. But Weatherby quickly put it out his mind, reminding himself that he was a Royal Navy officer under orders, not some dishonorable ruffian.
They were greeted at the door of Basse Cour by one Edward Bancroft, who identified himself as secretary to the Ganymedean commissioners. Unfortunately, Bancroft reported that the ambassador was not feeling well and, at any rate, was about to sit down to dinner. Morrow stressed the importance of their meeting the ambassador, even going so far as to claim they had messages of importance from Philadelphia, the Ganymedean capital, but Bancroft still put them off.
Finally, Morrow gave the man a hard stare and said, “It is most unfortunate, sir. You should know that the weather in Boston bodes ill for the harvest this year, especially the tobacco.”
This caused Bancroft to visibly start. “Ah. I see,” the man said. “This visit of yours, then, is something of an embassage?”
“Of a sort,” Morrow said simply. “Our request for an audience does not encompass the current political situation.”
Bancroft looked uncomfortable, but finally relented. “Come in, and if you would, please wait here.”
The secretary bustled off into the house while the party from the Daedalus stood waiting in a marble entry hall with a fine staircase.
“Captain,” Finch said, “if memory serves, tobacco is not grown in or around Boston.”
The captain merely smiled and said, “It is a bit of game-craft, Doctor. This Bancroft is our man, and has been for some time.”
“A spy?” Weatherby asked, perhaps a little too loudly, earning a stern glare and a shushing from Morrow. A few minutes later, Bancroft returned and, despite the look of worry on his face, ushered them into a beautifully decorated salon that boasted tapestries, gilt and a warm fire. Therein, they were intr
oduced to Dr. Benjamin Franklin.
He was an elderly man, looking at least sixty to Weatherby’s eyes, with a balding pate and long graying hair upon the sides. His girth bespoke of a love of dining and drink, and while he moved slowly as he rose to greet his guests, there was fluidity to his movements that hinted of dexterity and grace that yet remained to him. His eyes were bright between his rectangular spectacles, and his smile had a bit of mischief to it. For an ambassador, he was dressed most plainly, in but a simple waistcoat, linen and breeches, though the fabrics appeared to be of fine quality. He also wore an evening robe to ward off the chill.
“Edward tells me this is most important,” Franklin said as he extended his hand. “You’ll forgive me, however, if I must make this an abbreviated visit, as I am not entirely well.” The man’s congenial smile hid something, Weatherby thought, though he was not at all sure what that might be.
“Of course, Ambassador,” Morrow said. “I am Captain Sir William Morrow of His Majesty’s Ship Daedalus. May I present Lt. Thomas Weatherby, Dr. Andrew Finch and Miss Anne Baker?”
Franklin nodded, his smile disappearing quickly, as he sank back into his chair. “I see. I thought I knew your face, Captain. We have met before, in London, I should say. You were naught but a midshipman, if memory serves.”
“A mere fourth lieutenant,” Morrow said, trying to brighten matters with a smile. “I found you to be a most gracious person then, and I hope to impose upon your good graces now with a most vexing issue.”
“A vexing issue, is it?” Franklin said, looking at each of their faces in turn. “Well, I should think that you are not here on behalf of King George or his government, at least in any official capacity. With the utmost respect, Sir William, you are all far too young to be negotiators on his behalf.”
“Indeed so,” Morrow replied.
At this Franklin nodded and sighed, looking down at his waistcoat. “Very well, then. Where will you be taking me?”
Morrow started. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Please, Sir William, let us not hide behind decorum now,” Franklin said. “It is well that you introduced yourself so plainly, but do not stop there. I must assume by your dress and your late arrival, under the cover of darkness and with few people at my house, I will be leaving here your prisoner.”
Morrow took a small step backward, and raised his hands upward slightly—in surrender or placation, it seemed. “Dr. Franklin, I can assure you that our intentions are both peaceful and honorable.”
The old man shifted in his chair. “You’ll forgive me, sir, if this is not as reassuring as you might wish. If you are not here to bring me to England, or otherwise mishandle me, then please state your purpose here plainly.”
“Our mission does not fall within the realm of the current political situation,” Morrow said, “but instead involves the investigation of terrible crimes, the murderous person who perpetrated them, and matters pertaining to the workings of alchemy.”
“I see. And this young man here,” Franklin said, nodding at Finch, “is insufficient to the task? I see his hands, quite literally, in the Great Work as much as mine.”
Weatherby glanced down at Finch’s hands and, for the first time, noticed the light stains and marks upon them, likely the product of dealing with alchemical solvents. “You honor me, Dr. Franklin,” Finch said, genuine modesty in his voice, “but my small knowledge is not up to the task at ferreting out the motives of our quarry, the man who calls himself Cagliostro.”
This remark seemed to finally penetrate Franklin’s mien of imperturbable skepticism. “I know that name, and it is one I had hoped never to hear again!” he grimaced. “He was recommended to me upon my arrival here as an alchemist and physician, for my knowledge in the Humanis school is not what it should be. Yet soon after he arrived for an interview with me, I found he had secured a few of my books upon his person. Needless to say I had him summarily dismissed from my presence! So what has this cad done now?”
At this, Miss Baker spoke. “I am sorry to say, good sir, that he is the murderer of my master, and your friend, Dr. McDonnell.”
The last shred of Franklin’s reserve dissipated, and he became visibly distraught at this news. “Oh, God in Heaven! Poor Roger dead? At Cagliostro’s hand?” He spent a few moments gathering his composure. “And you must be the one of whom my dear friend Roger wrote most ardently and favorably.” She smiled at this, and Franklin extended his condolences to her, prompting Weatherby to wonder as to the nature of the relationship between Miss Baker and the deceased, and Finch’s veiled allusions as well. His musings were cut short as Franklin, sitting up suddenly, asked: “The Mercurium?”
“Gone, sir,” Morrow answered, seemingly unperturbed that Franklin knew of McDonnell’s efforts on behalf of the Crown.
“And what else?” Franklin demanded.
“Books on the topics of Venus, Jupiter and the Xan,” Finch replied. “Furthermore, the foul criminal slaughtered an innocent village of Venusians in order to obtain the rare va’hakla flower.”
This prompted more silence and deep thought from Franklin. “Very well,” he said finally, before turning to shout out the doorway. “Edward?”
The secretary entered the room once more. “Yes, sir?”
“We’re having guests for dinner,” Franklin said. “Please see to the arrangements. Oh, and tell those outside that they may stand down for the time being.”
“Very good, sir,” Bancroft said, hurrying out of the room.
“Those outside?” Weatherby said.
The Ganymedean smiled. “There are old men, and there are revolutionaries, sir, but there are few old revolutionaries. And one does not become such without knowing when to take precautions.”
Finch nudged Weatherby and nodded toward the window, whereupon the young officer spied two men in the shrubbery—aiming muskets through the window at the Englishmen.
His attention was drawn back to the seated Franklin, who uncocked a pistol pulled seemingly from nowhere and set it upon the table.
“Well then,” Franklin said, rising slowly from his seat. “Before we dine, there is something I would like to show you, for your unfortunate news fits all too well into some of my alchemical inquiries of late. If you please?” He waved his hand toward a door into the rest of the house before tottering off.
With an arched eyebrow, Morrow motioned his officers and Miss Baker to follow.
July 26, 2132
This is amazingly stupid, Shaila thought as she lowered herself into the lava tube for the third time. The first two times she was in here, she was in an earthquake. She wasn’t feeling particularly lucky about the third.
Yet seeing the wall at the end of the cavern drove her to climb down that rope. She thought back to her training, the holovids and, in some cases, 2-D videos of exploration on a dozen planets and moons. Nothing—nothing—came close to what she saw on the ’bot’s video feed.
Yes, it was stupid. As her boots crunched down on the cavern floor, she fully expected the cave to fall down on her head at any moment. But she had to see it. Had to record it. Had to know what was going on. It was why she went into space. For the first time since all this craziness started she felt certain of things, and it was no use denying the impulse. Moreover, she knew the answers were down here. Somehow. If she had paused to take stock of that certainty, it would’ve scared the hell out of her how logically baseless it was. But she was in no mood to contemplate.
With Yuna reporting no increase in seismic activity or radiation levels, Shaila set off into the cave as fast as caution allowed, which resulted in a kind of shuffling hop-walk, her feet staying close to the cavern floor. She would’ve loved to just bounce her way to the sensor—it would’ve taken only a minute—but there were still plenty of rocks rolling around in the cave, and it was hard to see them in the dim light. She paused a moment to take a sensor reading on one of them as it languidly rolled past her feet, but there was no discernible difference between the rock and the rest
of the cave.
Except, of course, that the rock was moving to begin with.
“Give me an update,” Shaila said, continuing her shuffle.
“Nothing material,” Yuna replied. “Then again, we’re using the existing sensors, not the ’bot, so it’s hard to determine what you might experience when you get closer. But for now, you’re in good shape.”
“Roger that.”
Shaila arrived at the last sensor suite in the array. A quick scan of the sensor’s touch screen revealed all was in working order. She wrestled the sensor into her arms, cursing as she did so; on Earth, it would’ve weighed 50 kilograms, but on Mars, it was a mere 17 kilos. Still, it was bulky as hell. She took a few tentative steps forward—and slipped on a rock rolling out under her foot, barely catching herself.
“Shit!” she swore reflexively.
“What? What is it?” Stephane asked.
“Easy, Steve. I’m good, all’s well,” she replied. “Can’t see my feet carrying this thing. Got caught up with a roller underfoot, that’s all.”
“Be careful, will you?” Stephane replied, sounding peeved.
“Didn’t know you cared,” Shaila said, smiling despite herself. “Just going to have to take it slower, that’s all.”
Shifting the sensor in her hands, Shaila started forward once more, carefully sweeping her feet in front of her with each step as she proceeded into the darkest part of the cave, her helmet lights the only illumination. The wall was still a couple hundred meters ahead of her, making for very slow going. At least the light from the previous day’s cave-in was giving her a better sense of location within the cavern.
The Daedalus Incident Page 16
