The Daedalus Incident Revised

by Michael Martinez

  “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.

  The young officer didn’t bother looking up. “Billiton reports two surveyors down in some sort of rover crash, roughly 1.5 clicks from that cave.”

  “How do you crash a rover on Mars?” Shaila asked. “It’s not like there’s traffic!”

  Adams finally looked up at his superior officers. “They say they ran it into a ditch and, um, well, they said it wasn’t there before.”

  Diaz and Shaila looked at each other for a moment in disbelief. “Get out there,” the colonel finally ordered. “Take Durand and Yuna with you.”

  Stephane scowled at the entryway to the command center. “They told me six months on Mars would be fun. Liars.”

  Shaila grabbed his arm and literally pulled him down the stairs, Yuna quickly following behind.

  CHAPTER 6

  March 5, 1779

  Father,

  We are upon the seas of Venus, where ships of His Majesty’s Navy are rare, as England’s holdings here are few indeed. The massive Spanish presence upon the Green Planet is the legacy of De Soto, Cortez and Pizarro, among many others. So we must tread carefully. Whilst we are not at war with the Spanish, our relations with them are not entirely cordial, either.

  We make for Puerto Verde, the largest port on the planet. Here, the Spanish export sugar cane, the strange Venusian tobacco plants and the bounty of both harvest and mines. They also engage in a hearty slave trade as well, as the small Venusian lizard-people, while strong and hale enough, cannot match mankind’s advances in weaponry.

  As we prepare to row one of our boats onto shore, I find myself envious of the duties of our men. They have but a handful of serious tasks aboard ship, whether they be topsmen or gunners. They learn through repetition and rote, through methods passed down by generations of seamen before them. They are the wheels of our great machine, and I am proud to lead such fine men.

  As an officer, however, there are times when one is called upon to do far more than sail a ship, and our time upon Venus will be one such occasion . . .

  Weatherby walked uncertainly over the cobblestoned streets of Puerto Verde, his shoes sending pangs of ache into his feet with each step. It did not help matters one whit that the clothes he now wore were thickly woven and embroidered, for the close, humid Venusian air was unforgiving.

  It had been Finch’s idea, naturally, that they pose as gentlemen adventurers during their investigations on Venus. Morrow had initially suggested they be disguised as common seamen in order to inquire about the Groene Draeck, but it was fairly evident that Finch was wholly unsuited to the task. Weatherby had considered leaving him aboard the Daedalus, but there were already precious few aboard who spoke Spanish, and among Finch’s talents was a facility for languages.

  They alit upon the seas of Venus two days prior, swooping in from the southern pole and riding the aurorae—that mystical gathering of sun-current and alchemical essence— down onto the waters with a surprisingly gentle crest. From there, it was a relatively simple matter of sailing toward the port whilst staying undetected for as long as possible. Venus’ clouds, fog and humid gloom served as an effective camouflage in that regard.

  Daedalus dropped anchor well north of the town, discharging the search parties ashore for a more subtle entrance into the Spanish holding. Lts. Plumb and Foster did indeed adopt the guise of sailors, while it fell to Weatherby to become an aristocratic gentleman alongside Finch. The clothes he now wore were borrowed from the doctor, and Weatherby had to order Finch to stop demanding promises they be returned intact.

  Plumb and Foster, each accompanied by a Spanish speaker from among the crew, kept to the docks and warehouses in their search. Weatherby and Finch, meanwhile, climbed up the cobbled streets toward the better section of town. “Better” was a relative term, of course, for Weatherby was sure he had never seen such a hive of wretched excess and sinful villainy in his life. And having just come from Elizabeth Mercuris, this was a bold statement indeed.

  Yet this was not the simple excess of the British mining outpost. No, the Spanish, laden with gold and slaves from the Venusian mountains, took their debauchery to a more sublime height. Even the lowliest sailors put on their finest garb, such as it was, to go into port. There were no bordellos that Weatherby could see. Instead, it seemed every so-called lady upon the streets was more than welcoming to any proposition, whether she wore a scullery maid’s dress or the finery of a noblewoman.

  And yes, public drunkenness was common; it seemed almost fashionable to be drunk at midday, and those so indisposed had an air of sodden satisfaction about them. Of course, despite the clouds and humidity, Puerto Verde was indeed quite green and verdant, and there was a certain lush warmth to the place that appeared to lull its inhabitants into a state of happy stupor.

  Then there were the slave markets, one of which they had to pass through en route to the town’s better inns. There, the diminutive Venusian lizard-people were chained to the wall by the dozens, and kept in large metal cages by scores. The Spanish, who first colonized Venus in the 1500s, had quickly developed a burgeoning trade in Venusian slave labor, for these primitives were easily subdued by the superior stature and technology of Men. In mere decades, the various tribes among the Venusians—and there were many such clans stretching across the green planet’s three continents—had taken to warring amongst each other simply to provide the losing side to the slavers. The Spanish, understandably, were quite content with this arrangement.

  The Venusians that Weatherby and Finch spied were barely a yard tall, all long gangly limbs covered in tiny green and blue scales, with cats’ eyes and beak-like snouts and a plethora of frills and horns upon their heads that looked quite similar to ladies’ fans. As the two Daedalus officers walked past, the creatures’ odd croaking voices begged for release in various Venusian dialects as well as a few human tongues besides. Weatherby wondered where they would end up—on Earth? The horrible Spanish gold mines on the moons of Mars? Perhaps the Ganymedean plantation farms or the blistering iron mines of Io?

  Thankfully, Weatherby’s aching feet and heat-stoked exhaustion took his mind off such distasteful thoughts. By the time the duo reached the first of what would be many taverns and inns, Weatherby was drenched in sweat, and Finch looked at his loaned clothing with barely veiled dismay. They both hoped they would find their quarry quickly. Morrow had consulted the ship’s orrery and determined they could stay but three days. Weatherby was sure he would melt completely away before then; no doubt Finch would consider his outfit lost entirely at that point.

  While it was moderately cooler in the taverns, their investigations took time. Finch was quite adept with his Spanish, and Weatherby could see that, despite his vices, the doctor had a natural affinity for personal interactions that, at times, escaped the young lieutenant. He surmised this was a byproduct of his aristocratic upbringing, and said as much to the doctor in between establishments.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Finch said as they walked to the fourth tavern of the afternoon. “I have known many so-called noblemen who regularly make themselves fools with but the slightest utterance. It is intelligence and confidence, Mr. Weatherby, which make a man personable, though this must be well balanced, as too much of either makes him most tedious indeed.”

  Weatherby had a good laugh at this quip, though he wondered whether the humid air, combined with an afternoon of frequenting taverns, contributed to his finding humor in it. Weatherby had policed both their intakes assiduously, but they still had a part to play, and the roles included
buying, and consuming, drinks. He had forgotten to ask whether Finch could produce a bit of alchemy that would lessen the effects of alcohol, and in hindsight was not surprised that the doctor hadn’t volunteered one himself.

  This fourth establishment, called Casa Moncada, was much like the others, built of clay brick and tiled roofing in the Spanish style. The courtyard was all but abandoned in the afternoon heat—even hidden by the constant cloud cover, the Sun still warmed Venus considerably—and Weatherby wondered if they would soon run up against the traditional siesta. It seemed the Spanish needed the nap after a long morning of debauchery.

  Inside, the tavern remained crowded, the bricks providing cool shelter against the large disk of the sun. Long tables held a broad array of Puerto Verde’s inhabitants, from prosperous merchants and shippers to lowly sailors and scalawags, all joined together in proper drunken camaraderie. There were women of all stripes as well, from seemingly proper ladies (who ought not to be in such a place to begin with) to obvious prostitutes with their petticoats and décolletage exposed to an alarming degree. The din of loud conversation and raucous laughter permeated the room, overcoming the valiant efforts of a guitarist in the corner, busy plucking out a sprightly tune.

  By now, their approach had become routine. Weatherby and Finch settled in at the most crowded table, exchanging pleasantries with those around them. Finch had concocted a story about the two of them seeking passage to the Jovian moons as part of a lucrative business arrangement involving Ionian sulfur-iron. Eventually, the name Groene Draeck would come up and, ultimately, the sketches Rooney drew would be produced. Thus far, their efforts had resulted in nothing but spent coin and a hint of tipsy dizziness.

  Here too, at Casa Moncada, there was little in the way of progress. Nobody had heard of the Groene Draeck, and the sketches were passed about the table to no avail. Thankfully, the drink here was of a higher quality than in the other establishments, and there was something approaching edible food as well, for which Weatherby found himself immensely grateful

  It was near sunset when Weatherby was about to give up on Casa Moncada. However, a man sat down next to Finch and asked, in Liverpool-accented English, to see the sketches. He was dressed as something of an explorer, with sturdy leather boots and the kind of loose linen clothing that withstood the heat well. His beard was shaggy and his demeanor was rough, but there was intelligence in his eyes as he scanned the drawings.

  “I’ve not seen the gentleman in the fancy clothes, I’ll tell you that. I’d have known it if I had,” he told them. “But this one,” he added, holding up the image of one of the two ruffians, “was in just this morning, looking for a guide.”

  Weatherby leaned in close. “A guide? To where?”

  The man smiled. “Well, sir, I’m not sure I should say. I’ve no reason to cause trouble. You’re not working for some constabulary, are ye?”

  Finch smiled winningly and deftly produced a few coins, sliding them across the table toward the newcomer. “I assure you, my friend, we are nothing of the sort. We simply heard that these men had an excellent ship for hire.”

  “Well, he said nothing of a ship, though I wager he’d need one. This fellow here, he says he’s hoping to trade with the Va’hakri tribe. They’ve a trading post that’s a good ways down the coast, about a half day by ship, and a hike through dangerous jungle after that.”

  Weatherby looked questioningly at Finch, who said, “The Va’hakri are considered the lore-keepers of the Venusian people. They stand apart from the usual inter-tribal bickering of the rest of their kind, and are typically the ones who handle any dealings with Men.”

  “Aye, any guide worth his salt knows this,” the other man said. “Not a month goes by that one of us isn’t off down that way. Not surprising at all to have someone come in asking.”

  Weatherby pondered a moment. “I do not recall seeing any kind of native settlement on our charts. But then, this is primarily a Spanish holding to begin with.”

  The other man smiled broadly and stroked his dirty beard. “Aye, it is, lad. And you’re not a couple of gentlemen traders either, I’ll wager.”

  Finch glared at Weatherby briefly for his ill-advised comment before sliding a full crown toward the stranger. “Forgive my companion, sir. He is young and most loquacious when he shouldn’t be.”

  “Oh, I don’t care,” the man grinned as he pocketed the coin. “But seeing as I missed a chance this morning with the other fellow, I’d be willing to show you down to the Va’hakri village if ye wish.”

  Weatherby nodded. “I think that would be most welcome, sir. May I have your name, and your word as a loyal subject of King George that our dealings be kept private?”

  “The name is Bacon, and I’ve been no subject of king nor nation for many a year. But ye have my word. It’s not the first time my silence been bought. And they’ve got the tide and a head start, so best we go back to your ship before long.”

  The three rose from their drinks. “You’re distressingly transparent, Mr. Weatherby,” Finch muttered.

  “At least the job is done. We’re well upon the trail,” Weatherby said, somewhat embarrassed. “Come, Mr. Bacon. You’re quite right—we must be on our way quickly.”

  July 25, 2132

  The rover hadn’t simply crashed into a ditch—it had fallen into a rocky ravine two meters wide. About a half kilometer away, the access road snaked back to McAuliffe, and the lava tube was on the other side. It was as if a giant trench had been dug into the Martian crust between the two.

  “This is at least 200 meters long,” Stephane reported over the comm, looking at his sensor pack. “And just like the cave, there are no pressure cracks in the matrix. Aside from the fact there is no erosion, this looks as though it has always been here.”

  Shaila listened to her breathing inside the pressure suit— inhale, exhale, slowly and carefully—and looked on as the emergency crash team carried the miners away from the rover’s wreckage on stretchers. The whole situation was getting stranger by the minute. The injuries were relatively minor—a few broken bones and concussions—and their suits remained blessedly intact. “And this trench wasn’t here before,” she said to Stephane. It wasn’t a question.

  The planetologist clumsily holstered his sensor and pulled out a datapad, nearly dropping it in his gauntleted hands before managing to call up satellite maps of the area. “No, this is new. We have good resolution here, and this is not on our images.”

  Shaila nodded, though inside her thoughts were roiling. Mars was breaking every law of geophysics and they had no idea why. “This related to the quakes in the cave?”

  “I have no evidence yet, one way or another, but yes, that would make sense,” Stephane said. “If any of this were going to make sense.”

  “What about our permanent sensors? Any trace on there?”

  Stephane tapped again on his datapad. “About the same as the earthquake in the cave. A few minute readings on a handful of sensors, but nothing that would trigger the alarms.”

  “Fuck,” she said suddenly, feeling the desire to stop standing there and move about. “Have the base get us some new satellite imagery of this entire area and run a comparison. This is getting too weird.”

  Before Stephane could respond, Shaila was already shuffling off toward the trench. Harry Yu was standing at the precipice, overseeing the rescue efforts of his people. She keyed into his suit frequency. “Get anything out of them?” she asked.

  “The miners? Not really. They were driving back from the site when they just fell into this.” He sounded unusually sedate and cautious to Shaila. Perhaps this stuff was getting to him, too.

  “Any sense of when it showed up?” She pointed to a set of rover tracks about 10 meters away. “I think those were our tracks when we went back to base earlier. If they weren’t, there’d be another rover down there.”

  Harry shrugged within his suit. “No idea. Probably some kind of side effect from the quake.”

  “We’re going t
o have to expand the quarantine area around this thing,” Shaila said, half to herself. “At least five clicks, maybe ten.”

  That got Harry’s attention. “For how long?” he asked.

  “For the duration, I imagine.”

  Harry turned to look her square in the visor. “Jain, there’s a shit-ton of gold and uranium in there. The sensor data backs it up, and it’s our job to go and get it.”

  “No matter how many bodies pile up?” Shaila asked, focusing her nervous energy on him. “What happens when this whole area collapses and your guys are busy digging holes?”

  “Listen, Jain,” he said, his voice returning to an approximation of calm. “I’ll send you the data. It’s huge down there. Really huge. This could secure funding for McAuliffe for the next twenty years, all by itself.”

  Shaila just shook her head as she watched the crash team pull the stretchers out of the ravine—a new ravine. On Mars. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less, Harry. You bring people in here, and you’ll endanger their lives—and ours too if we have to go and save their sorry asses. So don’t you go telling your bosses and Houston that we’re being unreasonable about this.”

  “Doesn’t have to be that way, Jain.”

  Shaila turned to back to Harry to find him wearing a slight smile and an inscrutable look on his face. “And how is that, exactly?” she asked.

  Harry grabbed her wrist and punched a few keys on her gauntlet. They were now talking on a private channel. “Look. Our ops here are profitable, but barely. It’s a huge amount of resource for a handful of basis points. This cave could change that in a matter of weeks. We need to get down there, no matter what. And I’d appreciate it if you could make that happen as soon as you can.”

  Shaila glanced at him sidelong. “I bet you would.”

  The mining exec shrugged. “The company pays a pretty nice discovery bonus. You were part of the discovery team. You and Kaczynski. Even Durand, if you want.”

  “I’m JSC, Harry,” Shaila warned. “So’s Steve. You know that’s against the rules.”