The Daedalus Incident Revised

by Michael Martinez

  “If we can get down there in the next day or two, I’d make sure you were in on it regardless. Something to think about. It’d be a pretty good chunk of change. Plus, I’ll leave you out of the report if we’re able to get down there and get that ore out.” He pressed a button on his own gauntlet, severing the private link. “Durand told me you need one of our robotic probes,” he continued. “Tell him he can pick it up out of storage whenever.”

  “Fine,” Shaila said, still not quite believing what she just heard. “Meantime, you and yours are ten clicks away from that cave—anywhere along the length of it—until we sort it out. Got it?”

  With a nod, Harry walked off, leaving Shaila staring at the ravine. The past 24 hours was quickly filling up with firsts, which now included her first official bribe offer.

  The ride back to base was, thankfully, far more uneventful. Stephane and Yuna immediately made for the labs in order to huddle over the latest data, leaving Shaila to give the colonel a woefully incomplete report. Diaz took it in stride, thankfully, and seemed content to wait for the science geeks to come up with answers. Shaila omitted the part about Harry’s bribe, however—her thoughts were jumbled enough as it stood, and she wanted to get her head straight. Plus, she was hungry. So she decided to head up to the mess hall, hoping to grab some food, sit quietly in a corner, make a to-do list—and then think about whether she really wanted to even be in JSC anymore.

  She never got the chance.

  “Stop with the excuses!” boomed a gruff, angry voice from the mess hall, prompting Shaila to vault down the stairwell from the command center in a single leap.

  When she rounded the corner and entered the mess hall, she was greeted with the sight of Lt. Enrico Finelli, an Italian air force officer seconded to JSC, flying across one of the dining tables on his back. On the other end were three miners, all muscles, stubble and indignation.

  “Stand down!” Shaila barked, striding toward the miners.

  “Bullshit!” growled one of the miners, a hard case named Mike Alvarez who was one of McAuliffe’s most notorious boozers. “We need answers, and you guys aren’t telling us shit!”

  “So you gonna beat it out of us?” she retorted. “You’re this close to getting busted back to Earth, Alvarez.”

  The miner strode toward her with the look of a very unsatisfied man, and one who’d been spending part of the evening hitting the bottle besides. Shaila stopped and adjusted her stance minutely. She hadn’t come to blows with anyone on base during her tenure there, but this was a first she could easily handle.

  “Mikey, let it go,” one of the other miners said. Shaila couldn’t place his name, couldn’t care less. Her focus was oddly soothing after everything that had happened.

  “Shut it,” Alvarez growled. “I lost a day’s wage today, probably more tomorrow, and someone’s gotta pay for that.”

  He took his swing, and Shaila couldn’t help but smile.

  It was a big, meaty right cross, full of drunken frustration. For Shaila, it was child’s play to simply step back out of the way. “And now you’re going home,” she quipped.

  As she expected, Alvarez’ left came back the other way as he moved forward in pursuit. This she stepped into, jabbing her left knuckles into his trachea while grabbing his forearm with her right. Another spin for leverage, and Alvarez was flipped end over end, his back slamming into the table where Finelli had slid past a few moments before.

  Low Martian gravity combined well with combat training.

  “Anyone else?” Shaila shouted, perhaps a touch too forcefully, as Alvarez coughed and clutched as his throat.

  The other two miners stared at her mutely. The response came from behind her.

  “Get him out of here,” Kaczynski grumbled at his colleagues. Shaila whirled around, only to find the old digger with his hands up, palms open. “Easy, tiger.”

  She allowed herself to relax and glance over at Finelli, who was picking himself up off the floor and sporting a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. “You OK, ’Rico?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” he said, face turning red as he approached. “They thought I wasn’t telling them what’s going on.”

  She clapped him on the shoulder. “Go see Levin about your face. It’s OK. Ed and I are gonna have a little chat.”

  Finelli filed out of the mess hall behind Alvarez, who had a miner on either side supporting him. To his credit, the Italian didn’t hesitate following them; of course, the other two knew that Alvarez was on the next ship home, and probably out of a job with Billiton altogether, and they didn’t want to be next.

  “Not good, Ed,” Shaila remarked as she took a seat at the table. “Your people are losing their shit.”

  Kaczynski, still hobbled by his injuries the day before, eased himself down across from her. “You blame them? First I get laid up, now we got two more down because of some ditch that came out of nowhere. These guys spent the day shoring up tunnels, laying more sensors and not making any money. Tomorrow, this keeps up, more of the same, right?”

  Shaila shrugged. “Don’t know yet. I know Harry’s going to press to keep digging no matter what, though.”

  “Like he gives a shit about us,” he snorted. “We’re bottom of the barrel here, and we’re gonna be the ones grabbing our ankles in the end.”

  “Really, Ed? I didn’t know you swung that way,” Shaila said with a smirk, trying to defuse the situation.

  It didn’t work. “Don’t start with me, Lieutenant. This shit’s gotta get fixed. We need to be out there digging, but if it can’t be fixed, then you gotta get us off this rock. We’ve got families. And nobody’s telling us a goddamn thing.”

  Shaila had to admit the point. The miners were contractors—Billiton charged them for the round-trip from Earth, as well as room and board. They had to earn it back from mining. Yes, most of them walked away with a nice fat paycheck at the end, but a bad dig or a delay in ops could really hurt them.

  “I read you, Ed. I really do,” she said finally. “We really are working on this, both Houston and Billiton. It’s barely been 24 hours, and I need you guys to understand this’ll take time. Yeah, you have to stay ten clicks from that cave, but that still leaves a lot of Mars left to dig. We just needed you to take a day and make sure your shit’s in one sock, that’s all. So long as you stay away from that cave, I figure you’ll be back digging tomorrow.

  “Yeah, sure, but what’s this shit about rocks rolling up hill?” Kaczynski asked, leaning in toward her with a hushed voice. “That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard of, and I tell ya, that can’t be good for business.”

  “I know,” she said. “Really, we’re working on it. You can go and dig tomorrow. Should be fine.”

  “Better be,” Kaczynski said, standing up and making for the door. “We need to be digging, but we need to be alive to count the money. Fix this shit.”

  “Roger that,” Shaila said, trying to sound authoritative and reassuring at the same time. She figured she probably failed on both counts, but she stood and gave the table a little nod as she went to get her dinner. She loaded up her tray with something resembling pasta, then headed up to the command center, careful not to spill red sauce—calling it marinara would’ve been generous—all over herself.

  “Evening, ma’am.” The watch officer on duty, Ensign Pete Washington, U.S. Navy, was manning the second shift— worse than the overnight, really, because he had to miss out on what little socializing McAuliffe Base had to offer. Shaila was thus duly surprised at his chipper grin.

  “Heya, Washington. Just a sensor add-on before I rack out,” she said, taking a seat next to him and putting her tray on the console. She started typing, pausing only to inhale dinner, and within twenty minutes, the base sensors were updated with the mysterious rad signature.

  “Heard you got caught in an earthquake?” Washington said as Shaila packed up to go. “I thought Mars wasn’t supposed to have earthquakes.”

  Shaila was getting pretty tir
ed of answering questions. Then again, it stood to reason that the JSC kids would be just as nervous as the miners. “Yeah, well, tell it to Mars,” Shaila replied.

  “What about the mining ops?” the young man asked.

  “Don’t know,” she said, piling the detritus of her dinner on her tray. “It’s isolated, and pretty far out from the sites. We’ll see.”

  She grabbed the tray and said her goodnights to Washington, but barely managed to get out the door before she heard the ops monitors ping.

  “Ummm . . . ma’am?” Washington said.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re getting a hit on that signature you downloaded.”

  Shaila covered the distance back to the ops station in a single jump. “Show me.”

  The young American pointed at his screen, where a map of the base showed a distinct blotch.

  Right in the middle of the base’s fusion reactor room.

  “That signature is coming from the reactor?” Shaila asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, ma’am. Looks like it.” Washington’s fingers flew over his keyboard. “I can’t pin it down exactly, though. Could be outside the reactor, too.”

  “Shit.” Shaila jabbed a button to open the base-wide comm system. “Alert Level Two. Repeat, Alert Level Two. All JSC personnel report for duty immediately. All civilian personnel to their staging areas for possible evac. This is not a drill.”

  She switched channels as the base alarm system started blaring. “Ops to engineering. Start emergency diagnostics and prepare for immediate reactor shutdown. We may have a leak.”

  It took less than a minute before the command center started to fill up. Washington was joined by two other ops officers to help start the alert checklists, while an engineer immediately went to work on the sensors. Shaila watched with a certain amount of pride; they were taking this one in stride, doing their jobs, handling it well.

  Diaz walked in, managing to look crisp and in-control despite the chaos around her. That didn’t make her any happier, though. “Report,” she said curtly.

  “The radiation signature we detected in the lava tube is present inside the reactor room,” Shaila said.

  Diaz’ demeanor changed immediately. “Where’s engineering?”

  “Checking on leaks and prepping emergency shutdown, just in case.”

  “Did you track down what the hell this radiation is?”

  “It looks non-ionized, but it’s more than just visible light. Nothing more yet.” Shaila grew uncomfortable suddenly, wondering if her reaction had been overboard.

  “Let’s see the signature again,” Diaz said. Shaila gave her a datapad with the information on it. “This looks familiar somehow. Can’t place it. Anybody grab a look besides you?”

  “Yuna did. She didn’t know, either.”

  “All right. You did the right thing for now. If it’s outside, then we probably don’t want it inside,” Diaz said. “Tell engineering to go for immediate shutdown. Put us on battery power.”

  Shaila turned to issue the order, only to see Evan Greene standing at the entrance to the command center, his producer behind him with a holocam—one that was up and running. “What the hell are you doing here?” Shaila demanded.

  Greene walked right past her. “Colonel, let me see the radiation signature you were talking about.”

  Diaz regarded the pop scientist harshly for a second, before thrusting the datapad at him. He looked for a moment, then started laughing.

  “Care to tell me what’s so funny, Dr. Greene?” Diaz said, ice in her voice.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel, but in about 30 seconds, your engineering staff will be calling to ask whether this is some kind of joke.” Greene handed the datapad back. “You don’t need to shut down the reactor.”

  CHAPTER 7

  March 6, 1779

  Father,

  I fear we have been thrown into a most dangerous intrigue. I write this knowing that I have survived great peril, whereas others have not. It is with a most serious and humble mind that I record what has transpired of late. I fear there is now much more to our quest than the mere apprehension of a murderer . . .

  The green murky waters of Venus’ Pinzon Sea lapped against the hull of the Daedalus as she dropped anchor a quarter mile away from the bay and beachhead leading to the Va’hakri village. A small spit of land, jutting out from the coastline and covered in tall palm-like trees, kept the Royal Navy ship hidden from the bay beyond, just in case the murderers’ business had kept them there.

  Weatherby kept his glass trained upon the coast before him as his men rowed their small boat toward shore. A second boat was to their starboard side, carrying Mr. Plumb, their new guide Mr. Bacon and more sailors and marines. Their goal was the beachhead, but they would take a very different route.

  Looking back, Weatherby already had a difficult time making out Daedalus in the dark, foggy distance. The air on Venus seemed as thick as the water, and the water thicker than stew. But Mr. Bacon seemed to know his way, thankfully, and Weatherby’s boat followed Plumb’s safely to shore. It didn’t surprise Weatherby, given his bumbling, that Bacon had found himself right at home upon a ship of His Majesty’s Navy. At least he had proven to be a competent guide, guiding the ship through the shoals and reefs to the Va’hakri village, some twelve hours south of Puerto Verde. To Captain Morrow’s happy surprise, Bacon hadn’t even demanded too exorbitant a fee.

  Morrow was quite surprised to learn the potential whereabouts of their quarry, as making a deal with the Spanish authorities made far more sense than braving the jungles to meet with the Venusians. Finch, for his part, was at a loss as well, as the Venusians’ alchemy did not appear to have need of Mercurium; they were too primitive to have ever wandered off-world. Many scholars suspected the numerous ruins found upon the planet’s surface were the legacy of the insular Saturn-dwellers known as the Xan, or even the fabled race of Martians from ages past, rather than that of an ancient, more advanced Venusian civilization. In any event, the goals of these murderers remained as clouded as the Venusian skies.

  Weatherby guided his rowers to a spot on the shore next to Plumb’s boat, and he disembarked his men as quickly and quietly as circumstance would allow. It was an hour before dawn, give or take, and despite the darkness, Plumb insisted on inspecting his troops prior to embarking on the trek into the wilderness. All was as it should be, of course, and while Weatherby might have found it laudable to be so thorough in any other instance, time was a factor. Finally, Plumb ordered young Rooney—one of the most nimble men aboard—to scout ahead while the rest began an orderly march to the promontory which shielded the bay and beach from the currents. Everyone kept pace, though Finch remained a laggard to a degree, huffing under his pack as he progressed into the Venusian jungle; the doctor had been brought along for his medical knowledge, in case a firefight erupted, and also for the signal rocket he carried, so that they might alert Daedalus should their quarry be found.

  It was a straightforward plan—an assault on the beach, with Daedalus ready to assist if need be—when hatched in the warm comfort of Morrow’s cabin. Now that Weatherby was on shore, with the strange Venusian plant life seeming to latch on to his shoes as he walked and the humid air once again drowning him in sweat, the short distance to the bay might as well have been a voyage to the fabled ring-cities of Saturn.

  Weatherby was surrounded by flora of all shapes and sizes, from towering trees to creeping vines. Even in the darkness, there seemed to be dozens of shades of green around him, punctuated by some of the most vibrant flowers he’d ever laid eyes upon. And the life around him seemed very much alive—he swore he could see some of the vines moving of their own accord . . . toward him. The rest of the crew ashore had taken to slashing at the plants with their cutlasses before Plumb ordered them to desist. The only two of their party not discomfited by the aggressive undergrowth were Finch, who had to be reminded he was not to stop to take samples, and Mr. Bacon, who of course was likely quite familiar with the sur
prisingly aggressive Venusian flora.

  Plumb held his hand up as a rustling sound was heard ahead. It was Rooney.

  “Ship moored ahead in the bay, Mr. Plumb. She’s a frigate, forty guns, maybe more. Couldn’t make the name, sir, but she’s not the Groene Draeck—one word, and smaller.”

  Weatherby and Plumb exchanged looks; it was all too easy to forget that most of the crew was quite illiterate. “Does she appear ready to make sail?” Weatherby asked.

  “Aye,” Rooney said. “There’s three boats on the beach, and one was preparing to cast off as I watched.”

  Weatherby smiled. “Then we have them!”

  “We still don’t know who we have,” Plumb countered. “It’s not the ship we’re looking for, after all.”

  “But sir,” Weatherby said, “what other ship might it be? It is exactly where Mr. Bacon said it would be, and he did identify one of the drawings.”

  Plumb fixed the younger man with a stare that could crack stone. “So you wish to start shooting, do you? What if they’re English merchants, then?”

  Weatherby felt himself shrink under the first lieutenant’s gaze. He had always been told, in his training as a midshipman, that he should respectfully stand his ground should he feel a wiser course was available, though he found it took all his courage to do so under Plumb’s weathering glare. “Perhaps, sir, you might allow me to scout forward with Rooney?”

  “Fine, but you better be damned sure before we attack, Mr. Weatherby,” Plumb warned.

  Taking his leave silently, Weatherby followed the young sailor through the undergrowth, trying his best to ignore the luminescent insects and slithering things under the verdant leaves. After five minutes of walking and sweating, the two came to a small bluff overlooking the cove. There, two small boats were being loaded, a third already upon the water. The men loading the boats looked to be in sorry shape, dressed in naught but castoff rags and looking ill-shaven and ill-intentioned. They were also heavily armed, with swords, pistols and muskets each.