The Daedalus Incident Revised

by Michael Martinez

  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.”

  Kaczynski wiggled his eyebrows at Shaila once the geologist left. “You could do worse, you know.”

  Shaila smirked and shook her head. “French playboys aren’t my type,” she said. “Anything else you can think of on this?”

  “Eh, you’ll probably think it’s bullshit,” Kaczynski said.

  “Try me.”

  “All right, what the hell,” he said. “Right before the quake hit, I saw this blue flash for a second there, out of the corner of my eye. I thought it was some sort of refraction off the laser, maybe, but that was turned off. Maybe some light hitting a smooth part of the core sample. Anyway, no idea what it was, but you asked.”

  “Blue flash, huh? You sure you didn’t hit the bottle before you came out with us?” Shaila asked with a smile.

  “You poured it all down the can last week, Lieutenant,” Kaczynski groused. And he was right—Shaila had found a rather large stash of contraband “Scotch” on her last inspection. That was strictly against JSC operating procedures, of course, so it went down the septic system. Well, most of it. Shaila felt that contemplating one’s dwindling career from a backwater mining outpost on Mars warranted a drink now and then.

  “All right, all right. Blue flash. We’ll check it out. Colonel says to get better fast,” Shaila said.

  She walked out of the medical berth and headed for the lab, thoughts of career and love—or lack thereof—shunted aside in favor of the puzzle of the Martian earthquake. The quake would at least be easier to solve.

  CHAPTER 3

  February 20, 1779

  Father,

  It seems fortune is with us, for there is indeed an alchemist available to us on Elizabeth Mercuris. This is most timely, for we have found that Deacon, the late Dr. Ashton’s alchemist’s mate, is no match for the occult workings needed to tether the Essences of Earth and Air to our lodestones. The man tried, of course, but the result of his efforts was an area below decks in which everything not bolted down crashed suddenly into the ceiling.

  The commandant of the Royal Navy shipyard here has recommended one Andrew Finch to us. He is already in the employ of His Majesty, having been detailed to the workings necessary to keep the outpost—one of England’s most lucrative and important holdings, dating to the time of Charles I—afloat over the dark side of Mercury. Of course, we immediately assumed that this Dr. Finch was someone the shipyard commander would be happy to be rid of, but we cannot afford to be choosy in this matter. Thus, Captain Morrow ordered me to go collect our new alchemist, which was a most interesting experience.

  Weatherby quickly hurried along the wooden footpaths of the Elizabeth Mercuris outpost. Looking down, he couldn’t help but note the appalling gaps in the walkway, with nothing but black Void and the rocky, hard surface of Mercury below. When he first sighted the settlement the previous day, as Daedalus came up alongside, he couldn’t help but think how precarious it looked, hanging above the heat-blasted world, hidden from the burning Sun by Mercury’s bulk.

  Yes, Elizabeth Mercuris was a wonderful feat of engineering—an entire town, made of dozens of old ships lashed together with rope and planking, held above the planet by hundreds of carefully deployed sails and lodestones. From that distance, it seemed quaintly cobbled-together and altogether marvelous, belying its reputation as a run-down shanty-town of miners and those who would give them the rudiments of comfort. Even the hodge-podge of sails poking forth in every direction seemed inventive and charming.

  But as Weatherby walked through the outpost, it now appeared that only a bare handful of rusty nails and worn rope kept the entire assemblage from crashing down upon the surface of Mercury or floating off into the Void. In addition to the gaps in the walkway, ranging from a few inches to a hole two feet wide, the “buildings” on either side were covered in scavenged planking and poorly constructed add-ons, so that only the barest hint of the ships they once were remained.

  To the inhabitants of Elizabeth Mercuris, however, this must seem like paradise compared to the surface. There, miners labored in either bone-chilling cold or oppressive heat, depending upon where their tunnels were situated, to bring up valuable ores from inside the rocky husk of a world. Unlike the Void, there was air upon Mercury, but it was a dusty, sooty stew that demanded kerchiefs to be worn around the miners’ faces. Ingenious mechanical contrivances, powered by rope, pulley and the muscle of many men, brought the minerals from the depths of Mercury to towering wooden platforms, where ships could safely dock and thus ferry the goods to the outpost above. There, in addition to the foremen and traders, the other denizens of Elizabeth Mercuris eagerly served the miners; there seemed to be a drinking establishment every ten paces and a house of ill repute every twenty.

  A squadron of red-jacketed soldiers trotted past as Weatherby neared his destination. They seemed to be in an awful hurry, and the young Navy man assumed they were on their way to break up the latest tavern brawl or some such. Around the next corner, another group hustled past, led by a worried-looking officer not much older than Weatherby himself.

  For a moment, he wondered if there was some sort of riot going on. Perhaps there was a sudden deficit of libations.

  Weatherby finally arrived at the boarding house where Dr. Finch was said to have taken a room. What was once a proud sloop fifty years ago was now generously called a lodging. The gunports were turned into windows, though few had glass within them. A door was hewn from the side, and various chimneys and holes were cut into the hull, the purpose of some of which remained elusive. Taking a deep breath, Weatherby entered.

  The parlor consisted of a very small room, a desk, and an ancient crone of a woman sitting there. “Aye? Needs a room?” she barked preemptively without looking up.

  “No, ma’am, thank you,” Weatherby said, doffing his hat. “I’m here to inquire about Dr. Andrew Finch. I am to understand he lodges here?”

  The woman opened a ledger on the rough-hewn desk. “Finch . . . Finch . . . aye! That blighter owes me eight shillings!” She eyed Weatherby warily. “You’ll not be taking him before he’s paid up, I’ll tell you that!”

  Weatherby frowned. “I assure you, madam, he will make good on his charges before he leaves. Pray, what room?”

  The woman directed him up a flight of rickety stairs and down a hall toward what was once the stern of the vessel. If anything, the ceilings were lower than that of Daedalus, and the once-ship was in a worse state of repair inside than out. Finally, he came to a door and rapped upon it. “Dr. Finch?”

  There was no reply. A second knock and a second request garnered only a low moan, the kind of groan that a man in some distress or stupor might make. Weatherby tried the door but found it locked. “Dr. Finch, I am Lt. Thomas Weatherby of His Majesty’s Ship Daedalus. You are required to report for duty,” he called out.

  “Go away,” came a sullen, tired voice from inside.

  This was going to be considerably more difficult than Weatherby had wished, and his stomach began to feel slightly ill—whether from nerves or foul odor remained to be seen. Orders being orders, however, and noting that the door shared the same general disrepair as the rest of the lodging, Weatherby put his shoulder to it and shoved.

  The door gave way easily, but struck something hard not two feet inside and stopped. It opened barely enough for Weatherby to squeeze his way through, which he did, only to discover a large crate blocking the way. He shoved the crate further aside and entered the room.

  He was imm
ediately appalled—and frightened for the future of his ship.

  The room was in complete disarray, with books and papers strewn haphazardly across the chamber’s lone table and chair, as well as most of the floor. Another crate was along one of the walls, and upon it was a neatly tailored Royal Navy uniform that had been casually flung aside. The bed was a crudely wrought affair, the linens in desperate need of washing.

  The man upon the bed was similarly composed. He was in his nightclothes, his long dark hair disheveled and unkempt. He held a water-pipe to his lips, and Weatherby could see it was attached to a smallish device upon the floor that reminded him of a hookah from India. A most noxious fume permeated the room, with the hookah the apparent cause. Weatherby quickly surmised that it was some sort of plant, probably Venusian in nature, designed to addle the mind and senses. It seemed to be working quite admirably.

  The man on the bed lolled his head toward Weatherby and looked up at him. “Who the hell are you?” he slurred quietly.

  Weatherby straightened up and adopted his most stern demeanor. “I am Lt. Thomas Weatherby of His Majesty’s Ship Daedalus, as I have already announced, and I am here to collect one Dr. Andrew Finch. I pray God you are not that man, for you, sir, are most unbecoming of an alchemist in the Royal Navy.”

  The man upon the bed smiled, and rather stupidly at that. “Ah, good. My chariot awaits, then, and I shall be off this decrepit wooden piss-pot. Be a good lad and collect my things while I attend to my toilet, will you?”

  Weatherby had expected a variety of responses, but this one had eluded his imagination. How much leeway should he offer to such a man in this state? And what would Morrow say should Weatherby fail to return with him?

  Such questions were most assuredly not on the Admiralty Board’s lieutenants’ exam.

  Weatherby opted for controlled wrath, hoping it would mask his nerves. “I am not your valet, Finch. I am a representative of His Majesty’s Navy, and you will put down that infernal device, get yourself out of bed and get yourself together. And you will address me as ‘Mr. Weatherby’ or ‘sir.’”

  “Actually,” Finch said, swinging his legs off the bed and pushing himself up to a sitting position, “I think it is you who should address me as sir. You see, my father is the Earl of Winchilsea. So he is to be addressed as His Lordship, while I . . .” Finch’s voice trailed off a moment. “Well, I dare say I warrant at least a sir . . . or something . . . don’t you think?”

  Weatherby had no inkling of Finch’s aristocratic lineage. Thankfully, the Royal Navy put rank before birthright, and Finch’s actual ranking aboard Daedalus was generally on par with the officers of the wardroom. Given the circumstances, Weatherby felt justified in grabbing Finch by his gown and hauling him to his feet.

  “You will listen to me most carefully, Dr. Finch,” Weatherby said, tamping down his nerves and summoning as much cold fury as he could. “You are in service to the Royal Navy, and you will do well to remember your place. Now, I will give you five minutes to assemble your effects and make yourself presentable. If you fail to do so, I will have you thrown in the brig for insubordination and laxity of duty. The inevitable court martial likely will result in a short but difficult prison term on Europa. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  Finch could only nod, a terrified look on his face that put Weatherby’s own fears at ease somewhat. Weatherby let go of the man’s clothes and stalked back out the door, closing it behind him and pulling out his pocketwatch to mark the time. A shout down the stairs brought the ill-tempered matron to Finch’s door, whereupon Weatherby prevailed upon her to bring some coffee. It cost him a half-crown for her to comply, but that at least settled Finch’s debt in the bargain.

  Five minutes and fourteen seconds later, a mug of foul-smelling coffee in hand, Weatherby prepared to do battle once more. Too soft, and Morrow might criticize him for bringing such a wastrel aboard. Too harsh, and Finch could very well create problems for him. Feeling ill-prepared and altogether too inexperienced, Weatherby took a deep breath and reentered the squalid little chamber.

  To his very great surprise, Finch was actually dressed in his uniform, though it remained askew, and was hastily throwing books, papers and unidentifiable chemical apparatuses into the crates. Despite this marked improvement in dress and surroundings, Finch looked altogether horrible—glassy-eyed and sweating, his thin face all too pale for someone residing so close to the Sun. Weatherby thought the man would keel over at any moment, but he continued to work steadily, and even apologized for keeping the officer waiting. Weatherby allowed him the few extra minutes, feeling that a good effort was worth at least that much.

  Finally, Finch stood before Weatherby in something approximating attention. Weatherby checked his uniform fastidiously, commenting on a loose neckerchief and fixing a button here or there. Despite his pallor and overall ill-cast look, Finch at least resembled an officer.

  Weatherby regarded him a moment longer, gauging how best to proceed. If Finch were simply a crewman or a midshipman under Weatherby’s command, his next move would be obvious. Finch’s posting and lineage complicated things somewhat.

  Or perhaps not. In for a pence . ..

  Weatherby reached back and slapped the doctor in the face.

  Finch cried out in pain, forgetting his meager attempts at decorum. “Damn you! What in blazes was that for?”

  “To help you find your wits, man,” Weatherby said coldly, feeling a touch more confident. “I will not have you appear before Captain Morrow in such a state. You have your coffee here. Drink it up before we are off. I will send some of the men for your effects.”

  “Yes, fine, but I assure you Mister . . . Weatherby, is it? I assure you that such handling is completely unnecessary,” Finch said as he reached for the coffee.

  “And I assure you, Dr. Finch, it is. Whatever lax discipline you enjoyed here, you will adhere to Royal Navy standards and become an officer worthy of that uniform. Fail to do so, and I will beat your poisons out of you one by one. Is that understood?”

  Finch stared hard for a moment, while Weatherby tried to keep his nervousness out of his eyes. It was a bold gambit, but one his superiors had often recommended when dealing with new recruits. There would be time for bonhomie later.

  The doctor relented. “Quite so,” he said simply, gulping down his coffee with a grimace. “Shall we, then?”

  The two quickly strode out of the hovel—with the matron giving Finch one final, withering stare—and made for the Daedalus, moored at the Navy shipyard on the other side of the outpost. Weatherby kept a close eye on Finch; despite his modest improvement in dress and demeanor, the doctor seemed somewhat unsure of his feet as he followed along, and a thin sheen of sweat began to cover his pallid countenance.

  Yet when they turned a corner in the middle of the outpost, Finch’s face managed to get paler still. Before them was the troop of soldiers Weatherby had earlier spied, standing guard in front of what likely passed for an upper-class home on Elizabeth Mercuris. It likely was once the windowed aft section of a first-rate warship, commissioned before the reign of William and Mary.

  Finch made a surprisingly rapid beeline for one of the soldiers. “What has happened here?” he demanded. “Is Dr. McDonnell all right?”

  The soldier demurred, nodding toward the entry of the home. Without further ado, Finch stepped inside, leaving a confused and annoyed Weatherby to follow quickly in his wake.

  “Doctor,” Weatherby protested, “we must report to Captain Morrow in all haste. Otherwise, I daresay . . . ”

  Weatherby’s sentence was left hanging as he spied the interior of the home, which was ransacked to a near total degree. Furniture was overturned, while books and papers were spilled out across every available surface. A number of soldiers and official-seeming personages had just made way for two men carrying a stretcher—with a dead man upon it, the dagger which caused his demise still protruding from his chest.

  A wail erupted from a corner of the room. Ther
e sat a young woman, in the garb of a house servant, her blonde hair disheveled and her face—pretty in the simple way of the lower classes—profusely streaked with tears. A gentlewoman sitting next to her on the low sofa pulled the girl’s face away from the scene, holding her close and whispering comfort to her.

  “My God! It’s Roger!” cried Finch. “What happened?”

  A rather portly, older man, dressed in faded finery and a slightly askew wig, approached them. “’Tis murder, Finch, and far more than that!” The gentleman looked over to Weatherby. “You’re from the Daedalus, yes?”

  “Lt. Weatherby, at your service,” he replied, stunned, still looking at the corpse as it was removed from the home. “And unfortunately, I must take Dr. Finch here—”

  “I hope you are indeed at my service, for I may have need of you and your ship,” the gentleman interrupted. “These are fell events indeed!”

  Finch drew his own gaze away from the body as it left sight. “Governor, what of his work? Tell me it is still intact!”

  “I am afraid not,” the gentleman replied. “’Tis gone, all of it. Notes, materials, everything!”

  Finch pressed a hand to his head and leaned up against the wall. “I told him to pay mind to his security,” he bemoaned. “He was as stubborn a Scotsman as there ever was.”

  Weatherby cleared his throat. “Finch, terrible as this is, we have duties to attend to.”

  Finch shot him a hard look. “None so great as unraveling this,” the alchemist said disdainfully. “You’ve no notion of this matter.”

  “I suppose I don’t, but ’tis not our issue, Finch, and you’ll mind your place,” Weatherby snapped before turning to the gentleman. “So . . . Governor, is it?”

  The gentleman turned and drew himself up to his full height, still several inches shorter than the young officer. “Sir Alastair Worthington, governor-general of Elizabeth Mercuris.”

  Weatherby immediately felt uncomfortable as he continued. “Of course. My apologies, Governor. You have my condolences for your loss here, but Dr. Finch and I—”