The Daedalus Incident Revised

by Michael Martinez

  At this point, Worthington asked the girl to continue the story. She nodded quickly, gathering herself, and plunged ahead in a quiet but steady voice. “I could not hear all that was said, but I could tell after a short while that Dr. McDonnell was getting quite angry, and that one of the other men—the gentleman, I presume—was likewise becoming upset. I heard shouting. Something about Mercurium, about not giving it away. The gentleman seemed to be desperate, said something of a ‘great working.’

  “Finally, I heard Dr. McDonnell shout, ‘Get out, all of you!’ I heard an awful scuffle then, and the voice of my master crying out briefly,” the girl continued as she started to tremble. “Then there was naught but silence. I hid in my cupboard, I’m ashamed to say. I was too frightened to move, and I must have fainted within it. When I awoke not a few hours ago, I . . . ”

  At this, Miss Baker again broke down completely, sobbing. Weatherby instinctively moved to console her by offering his kerchief and pouring her a glass of water from the ewer on the table. The girl smiled up at him, which he returned as sympathetically as he could muster without appearing too untoward. Morrow called Midshipman Forester into the room and had him escort the girl outside for air, and the governor resumed the story after she departed.

  “The poor man was stabbed, once, in the heart,” Worthington said. “I’m told it killed him quickly, which is a blessing, I suppose. And the room was ransacked.”

  “A tragedy,” Plumb said, though his mien did not seem particularly sympathetic. “But I still don’t see how we’re to be involved in this when we’ve already orders to go fight ’round Jupiter.”

  Worthington glared at Plumb, but addressed the captain. “Sir William, I must agree that the murder is, sad to say, rather beside the point. Dr. McDonnell’s killer should be brought to justice, but the more important matter here is the Mercurium.”

  The ship’s new alchemist stepped forward. “I agree with the governor, Captain,” Finch said. “Roger’s death pales in comparison to the groundbreaking work he had accomplished, a work now in hands not our own.”

  “What’d I tell you, Finch?” Plumb said, his voice raised.

  Before he could continue, however, the captain silenced his first lieutenant with a gesture. “George, please,” he said quietly before addressing his newest crewman. “All right, Dr. Finch. I think it’s high time we come to some understanding of this Mercurium. Explain what it is, if you would.”

  Finch cleared his throat and looked nervously at the others; Plumb already had a keen effect upon him. “I shall try, sir, though Dr. McDonnell was quite hesitant to discuss his work, except in the broadest of terms, due to its sensitivity. In any event, Mercurium—theoretically—is a liquid metal alloy distilled solely from the ores of Mercury. Of course, the primary component is the liquid metal mercury, or quicksilver as it is known, but a wide variety of other metals are also necessary, and some of these are exceedingly difficult to obtain.

  “Now, the existence of Mercurium had been, until recently, simply theorized. Alchemists believe that each planet among the Known Worlds possesses an alchemical essence; the famed Philosopher’s Stone is widely considered to be Earth’s essence. But it was McDonnell’s goal to see it through, and when last I spoke with him some weeks ago, he was confident of his eventual success.”

  “And what would it do?” Morrow asked. “Do we not hear of new discoveries every day now?”

  “Well, like the Philosopher’s Stone, the applications would be numerous,” Finch said, his voice steady even as his fists clenched. “Mercury itself governs the spheres of rapidity, communication and healing, and McDonnell felt there would be many practical uses for it. Given his work on behalf of the Company, it could possibly become the foundation of a new treatment for sails and hulls, endowing English ships with greater speed and dexterity.”

  “And with this Mercurium in the hands of an unknown party, and its means of production as well, it could shift the balance of power in the Void away from England,” Worthington said, once again slapping the table for effect.

  Finch turned to the governor. “We are absolutely sure, then, that the Mercurium is gone? Was there anything else taken?”

  “Actually, yes. Miss Baker has been most helpful in that regard,” Worthington said. “I had no idea she could even read, and yet she was well informed and quite knowledgeable. She identified a number of items, including a handful of treatises on the alchemical and medicinal value of Venusian plant life, and another on the mysterious Xan peoples of Saturn. Of course, all the doctor’s stores of Mercurium are gone, as well as his notebooks on the processes involved in creating it. As you can imagine, the Sunward Trading Company is quite up in arms about the whole matter. They had funded his research through the years, and seemed finally ready to capitalize upon it when this happens!”

  “What of the girl, then?” Morrow asked quietly. “How is it that a simple housemaid would be so well acquainted with the deceased’s work? Might she be an accomplice, or even the guilty party?”

  Weatherby was stunned to hear such an accusation, but had to remind himself that this was not England, nor even Earth itself. At home, women upheld their responsibilities to hearth and home, and some had proven to be canny in the ways of business and the arts as well. This outpost seemed to be another matter entirely.

  “Anne Baker is no murderer, Captain, I can assure you,” Worthington said. “McDonnell took her in a year ago, straightened her out quite nicely. And she comported herself quite well under our examinations.”

  “I’d have to agree, sir,” Plumb said quietly. “Women are not murderers. And it’s a low man indeed to kill a woman outright, so it’s not a surprise she’s still alive. If anything, I’d say those that did this would’ve left Mercury immediately. Any ship that went off between the murder and now is suspect. I doubt we’d catch her at this point.”

  “Perhaps you might,” Worthington said. “We have conducted a complete search of the outpost, and Miss Baker could not identify any of the killers among our residents. And only one ship has left since the event—the Groene Draeck, a Dutch merchantman, sailed that very evening, before the murder became common knowledge. One of her crew was heard in the taverns saying he was next bound for Venus.”

  Weatherby gasped—was the ship under attack by the Ganymedean the one that carried the killer? He opened his mouth to speak, but caught a glare from Morrow, and quickly demurred. Instead, in part to cover his lapse, he said: “Perhaps this talk of Venus was a ruse, designed to cast us off the trail. Why would one advertise one’s next destination?”

  “Aye, and what if these bastards used this Mercurium on their own ship? They could be halfway to Jupiter by now!” Plumb added.

  Morrow looked to Worthington. “It may be that they’re bound for Venus, but even that world is quite large, and held by the Spanish no less. And if they are not there, then there’s no telling where they might have gone.”

  “You must try,” Worthington said. “I must report this to both the Navy and the Company, and it should go over well for both of us if I can say that you’ve at least stopped in at Venus en route to Jupiter in order to make inquiries. And I promise you, Sir William, I would not ask if the need weren’t great.”

  Morrow appeared to consider this. Weatherby knew the calculations well; Venus was indeed positioned well for a course to Jupiter, so that they might lose less than a week if they detoured. And they were but a day behind the merchantman, strange alchemy or not. Plus no captain wanted to find himself on the wrong side of a colonial governor— even from a colony so small as this one.

  “We cannot linger there, Governor,” Morrow said, sounding slightly defeated. “Our duty to England in the Jovian system must take precedence, until the Admiralty itself tells me otherwise. But we will stop, and hopefully luck will be on our side. Is that amenable to you, sir?”

  Worthington agreed, and was soon taking his leave of the officers, his broad smile quite annoying to the tired, battle-weary officers.
Before the governor left, however, Finch asked him: “Governor, what will become of Miss Baker herself? I should think that with her employer dead, she may have a hard time of it.”

  Worthington snorted. “True enough, I suppose. But how is that your concern?”

  “She is the only person alive to have seen the faces of the murderer and his accomplices,” Finch said, turning to the captain. “Sir, with that knowledge, as well as her insight into the deceased’s work, I would suggest she join us as we make our enquiries upon Venus. If we cannot find the killers, then we may at least take her to Earth, or Ganymede. She may yet help us recreate the formulae necessary to duplicate Dr. McDonnell’s work.”

  Weatherby gave Finch a slight smile and a nod at this, which he returned wanly, while Morrow considered the doctor’s proposal. “I do not like the thought of a woman aboard,” the captain finally said. “However, you have a good point, Doctor. She may speed our investigation considerably, and we may offer her a kindness that requires little in the way of effort on our part. You will, of course, surrender the alchemical lab for her use and make berth in the wardroom.”

  Finch frowned, caught in a trap of generosity. “Of course, sir.”

  “Mr. Plumb,” Morrow said. “Arrange a watch among the officers, the mids and the doctor, and ensure that a sentry is posted at the door to her quarters. Miss Baker is to be under guard at all times, either locked in her quarters or accompanied on deck by a fully armed officer. A lone woman aboard a ship with two hundred and fifty men deserves no less consideration that that.”

  That was a point upon which all present could readily agree, and it was upon that note the discussion concluded. However, Morrow asked Weatherby to tarry a moment. He remained, standing as tall has he could before the captain until everyone else had left. “Sir?”

  “What is your opinion of Dr. Finch?” the captain asked when they were alone.

  Weatherby would rather have been asked to sleep in the bilges. “I am sure he is quite knowledgeable in matters of alchemy and physic, sir,” he said tentatively. It seemed plausible enough—Finch sounded the part when he spoke. He had a great many books as well.

  Morrow gave a faint smile. “Come, Weatherby. We have no cause for unnecessary discretion here. I ask because I want to know your mind.”

  Weatherby cleared his throat. The day was quickly being filled with decisions of politic. “Very well, sir. I find him to be a drug-addled wastrel of a man, and I fear for the lives of our crew should he be required to actually perform any kind of alchemical or medicinal duties under duress. Sir.”

  “Your opinion, once drawn from you, is most certainly unstinting,” Morrow said with amusement. “But you are quite correct. The port commander tells me Dr. Finch is a hard case. But he is also brilliant. His studies at Oxford were exemplary, and I am told he left his teachers confused and embarrassed by his rapid advancement in the occult and scientific arts. However, he is most undisciplined, as you have no doubt seen. I know his father, who has always despaired of Andrew’s ways. I have already posted a letter to His Lordship promising to help turn Dr. Finch into a proper officer.”

  Weatherby simply nodded, his worst fears about the evils of the aristocracy confirmed.

  “I am assigning Finch to you, Weatherby,” Morrow continued. “What you lack in formal education, you more than make up for in a keen mind and natural awareness, so do not let the mysteries of alchemy daunt you. You are, after all, a prodigious reader, I’m told. You will make sure Dr. Finch performs his duties, and discipline him when he does not.”

  “Yes, sir,” Weatherby said, hoping his reply sufficiently masked his extreme discomfort with the notion.

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I shan’t ever give you an assignment I do not think you can perform,” Morrow said. “Your record is exemplary, but it is in these special cases that we truly attain new heights. Finch is a challenge, but it will go very well for you if you are able to turn him about. After all, as you advance in the service, you may be required to command far more noble, and more difficult, men than he.”

  Weatherby nodded in understanding. “Thank you, sir. I will not disappoint, and neither will Dr. Finch.”

  “I will inform Finch of your supervision,” Morrow said. “In addition, with the unfortunate death of Major Denning, we are without an officer to oversee the marines. Mr. Plumb will take over that duty, and I am assigning you to run the midshipmen’s classes that he would normally teach.”

  “Of course, sir,” Weatherby replied. At least teaching the mids would be easier than minding Finch. “Good man. Dismissed.”

  Weatherby managed to catch up with Finch as the latter man made his way back across the main deck; apparently, his lack of sailing experience was such that he needed directions to his lab in the forecastle. “A moment, Doctor?”

  Finch turned. “Only if you don’t intend to hit me again,” he said with a wan smile.

  Weatherby flushed uncomfortably at that. “Not at all, Doctor. I was impressed with the way you acquitted yourself in our gathering. I was merely curious as to any theories you may have in mind.” Weatherby had already determined that if he were to indeed supervise an alchemist, he had best educate himself as best he could.

  “Oh, I think it’s quite early to have theories, Lieutenant. But I will go have a smoke and consult some of my texts. A bit of research should help.”

  “Research indeed, but you will have to go without your smoke,” Weatherby said, trying not to sound apologetic. “I’m having your hookah locked up with the grog for the duration of our mission.”

  Finch wheeled about and gave Weatherby a frustrated look. “Really, Mr. Weatherby. Is there neither time nor space to call my own?”

  “No, actually, there is not,” the young officer responded, straightening up and fixing Finch with his best officer’s glare. “We may be beset by the French or Ganymedeans at any time. You will do us no good if your vices render you incapacitated at a critical moment.”

  Finch sighed and looked down at the decking, apparently allowing Weatherby’s words to sink in. “I had no idea the deprivations under which you suffer aboard ship,” he said quietly. “I do believe I shall have words with my father when next I see him.”

  “You may do as you wish, of course,” Weatherby said sternly. “However, you will perform your duties in the interim, lest the captain have words with him as well. I will expect a report on your research, Doctor.”

  Weatherby turned and headed back to the quarterdeck, leaving Finch to his duties—and little else, hopefully.

  July 25, 2132

  As she hurtled toward the cavern floor, Shaila Jain could only think that this, of all possible outcomes, was not the way she wanted to go out.

  Any further thoughts on the subject were halted as abruptly as her fall. She cried out as the rope snapped taut, feeling her body rattle inside her pressure suit and her stomach threaten to release its contents.

  Shaila opened her eyes to find that she was now dangling some ten meters above the surface of the cave, having fallen at least twenty-five meters in a split second.

  Rocks continued to crash down around her, the rumble of the quake permeating her pressure suit and creating a vibrating echo all around her. She tried to look around, but the rope was tangled around her arms and her suit, making it impossible for her to see anything except the cavern floor beneath her. Thankfully, it wasn’t getting any closer to her.

  On the other hand, the rope’s motor was dead, leaving her hanging, literally, and hoping a massive rock wouldn’t fall on her, or that she wouldn’t vomit inside her suit. If she had to choose, the former would’ve been preferable.

  “Durand, report!” she managed to bark out.

  “Quake!” he said simply, his voice cracking.

  “No shit. Take cover!”

  “We’re coming up right below you,” Yuna said just as she and Stephane appeared directly under her, seeking out the relative safety of the skylight as rocks continued to tumble down fro
m the walls and ceiling of the lava tube.

  A stab of worry hit Shaila. “You sure you want to be under me? This rope isn’t secure.”

  “Better you than a rock, Shaila,” Yuna said, her voice remaining cool under the circumstances. And Shaila had to admit, the old-timer had a point.

  Shaila felt something large and heavy strike her right foot—the reinforced boot took much of the blow, but the impact also sent her spinning wildly on the rope. She saw the sensor the Billiton folks had suspended in the cave crash to the floor and break into several large metal and glass shards.

  “Shit!” Shaila cried as the room swirled and spun around her. She could see both Yuna and Stephane reaching up toward her as they flashed past her field of vision, but she knew it was pure folly. “Get your asses down!” she ordered.

  She then closed her eyes once more and hoped she’d get to open them again. If nothing else, it helped with the nausea.

  Finally, after what seemed like an hour but was probably no more than 30 seconds, the thrumming sound of the quake stopped. Shaila ventured a look around, only to see that she was still spinning around in the air like a glorified circus act.

  “All hands, report,” she said curtly.

  “We’re all right down here,” Yuna said. “Shaken up, that’s all.”

  From the surface, Harry chimed in through a short burst of static. “We’re OK out here. No injuries.”

  Shaila released the breath she had been holding. “Good. Keep your people away from the skylight, Harry. Now let’s see if I can get my ass down from here.”

  It took some doing, but Shaila slowly managed to untangle herself from the rope so that she was at least hanging vertically once more. She gently lowered herself down the rope until she was hanging on only by one hand. From there it was a three-meter drop—a mere hop in Martian gravity.