The Daedalus Incident Revised

by Michael Martinez

  “Va’hakla?” Plumb repeated, looking over to Finch.

  “A very rare flower, considered sacred by the Venusian people,” Finch said quietly. “The alchemical properties are said to be immense, particularly within the schools of healing and plant life, but there are very, very few flowers that are outside the control of the tribes.”

  The elder’s tearful yellow eyes regarded Finch closely, with a hint of suspicion. “You know something of the va’hakla. It is a gift to us from the world. My people not die if it was still here. It cures us, brings us life.”

  Finch nodded. “Yes it does, sir. And those few of us on Earth who have experimented with it have found numerous other uses as well. But again, when a flower blooms only once every 224 days, and there are so few plants to begin with, it becomes all the more precious.” He turned to his shipmates. “A fraction of an ounce can command hundreds of pounds sterling.”

  “We grow the va’hakla,” the elder said. “We tend its roots, we trim its leaves. We harvest its flowers for the good of all the people. We share much of our world with you. But the va’hakla is for our people. It is not yours. He asked for it. We said no. He kept asking. He offered us other things. He offered gold, guns. We said no. He became angry.” The ancient lizard-creature paused a moment, eyes welling up. “He spoke something in words we did not know. And then they began to kill us.”

  The elder started crying again, but Plumb knelt down next to Weatherby and spoke regardless. “And your flower? Did he take it?”

  This actually prompted more sobs. “All gone. All flowers. Gone. He took the flowers. He burned the plants. No more.”

  “Who?” Weatherby asked urgently. “We must find him. Did he tell you his name?”

  The elder straightened at this. “Yes, he said he was great among your people, a healer and wonder-worker. An alchemist. He calls himself . . . Ka-lee-oh-sto.” The creature stumbled over the unfamiliar name.

  Behind the two lieutenants, Finch breathed in quickly.

  “You know this person?” Weatherby asked him.

  “The name is Cagliostro,” Finch said. “He is an Italian mystic and, it is said, one of the finest alchemists in the Known Worlds.”

  “Might he be responsible?” Plumb asked.

  “I dare say so,” Finch responded, “for I have heard naught but ill of him. His faculty with the Great Work is said to be mighty indeed, but his character is that of a liar and a thief. If the stories I have heard are true, he cares not for civility or morality, only the power that the highest truths of alchemy can provide him.”

  Plumb shook his head sadly, suddenly looking quite tired. “Then we’ve bigger problems on our hands,” he said. “We must return to Daedalus and report.”

  Weatherby saw the remaining Venusians begin to dig holes around the perimeter of the pyramid. Through the undergrowth, he could see a number of salvaged stones, crudely etched with sigils. A handful of other lizard-people were making new etchings on to fresh stones.

  The Venusians were beginning to bury their dead.

  It seemed appropriate, somehow, to allow them some privacy in this, so the men from the Daedalus took this as an appropriate time to take their leave, though in doing so, Mr. Bacon was nowhere to be found. “He probably thought we were to be skinned alive,” Plumb said dismissively, “or didn’t want to be associated with this mess should he truck with other Venusians later on.”

  They were escorted back to the beach by the remaining warriors of the Va’hakri village, who did not seem to mind the growing heat and humidity, even though it left the men staggering and panting before the trek was complete. When they arrived on the beach, they were surprised to find Captain Morrow had come ashore.

  “We were considering a search party,” Morrow said, failing to keep his consternation from his voice. Weatherby saw his crisp uniform and ramrod posture and wondered whether the captain would even allow himself to perspire. “I do hope you spent your time productively.”

  Plumb’s report, however, assuaged the captain of time well spent, and Weatherby was surprised to hear commendable words about himself and Finch from the first lieutenant. Morrow was heartened to see that they had made friendly contact with the Venusians, for, as it turned out, he had some plans for them—and for their captives from the Chance.

  A few minutes later, the officers of the Daedalus lined up on the beach as Captain Morrow formally presented himself to the Va’hakri warrior and the few remaining members of the tribe, with Finch’s linguistic assistance. Morrow spoke words of condolence, and swore justice on the perpetrators and friendship between His Majesty King George III and the Va’hakri people. Through this, of course, the Va’hakri looked confused and, truth be told, slightly bored.

  Then Morrow made an offer.

  “These men have committed grievous crimes against your people,” Morrow said, nodding toward the bound pirates who remained prisoner on the beach since they were taken captive. “Their lives are forfeit should we bring them to justice on Earth. However, their crimes against you are far greater.”

  The warrior nodded, a quizzical look in his reptilian eye, as Finch translated, then responded with a series of croaks and grunts. “He agrees that the men are evil and should be killed for destroying their village and taking their sacred flower,” Finch reported. “But he says they are your people, and yours to deal with.”

  Morrow stood up taller. “No, sir. I hereby remand them to your custody, so that you may carry out justice as you see fit.”

  Finch turned from the captain with a slight smile and translated. The reptilian looked surprised, but nodded quickly at Morrow, then let forth a staccato barrage of chirps, croaks and grunts to his fellow Venusians. The surviving Va’hakri whooped and shook their spears—and the captives from the Chance paled considerably.

  “You can’t do that!” one of them yelled, his Irish brogue coming through. “They’ll skin us alive, they will!”

  Any further attempts at pleading for clemency were overrun by the swarming Va’hakri warriors, who immediately grabbed the prisoners and began dragging them away toward the village, the smoke from which was still visible in the sky above the jungle. Weatherby closed his eyes against the sight, but could not close his ears against their screams.

  “Jupiter!” the Irishman called as he was pulled into the dense trees. “They make for Jupiter! Save me and I’ll take ye there!” A few moments later, the screams had faded into the distance, and the Daedalans prepared to return to the ship.

  “’Tis a rough justice, sir,” Plumb said, though the first lieutenant didn’t seem to be harboring any question about Morrow’s decision; it was more an observation.

  Morrow frowned. “Most certainly. But it sounded as though the Venusians were quite ready to make war upon mankind anyway. If these pirates serve as their example, then so be it, and relations between the tribes and our fellow men may yet be salvaged.”

  A half-hour later, they reassembled in Morrow’s cabin to plot their next course of action. Whilst they were indeed scheduled to make for the Jovian system, Morrow was quite alarmed at the Chance’s newfound ability to make the Void from anywhere upon a planet’s seas. The tactical gains by any party possessing such a secret of the Great Work would be nigh insurmountable, and Morrow was keen on hearing Finch’s learned opinion of the matter.

  Yet Finch had little to add. “We witnessed a stunning display of high alchemy in their escape, sir,” the alchemist said, looking at his feet awkwardly. “And yet they seem to seek more. The va’hakla plant is said to have prodigious properties, and yet I cannot fathom how the va’hakla plant and Mercurium might be used together. Indeed, they would seem to cancel each other out, as they are from different worlds and governed by different houses of the zodiac and differing humours besides. If Cagliostro is indeed planning a great working of some kind with these two materials, I cannot see what it would be. They are both quite rare, and both still very theoretical in their uses. Whatever he is planning, it is on a scale I�
��ve not even heard of.”

  “So who can help us?” Morrow asked. “What of your teachers, Doctor?”

  Finch smiled slightly. “In alchemical circles, Captain, we have a saying: Those who cannot Work, teach. Without boasting, I am more a master of the Great Work than they, and if this problem escapes me, I hold no hope for even the chair at Oxford. The greatest alchemists do not deign to teach publicly, but are often private individuals, like the late Dr. McDonnell.”

  The captain turned to Miss Baker, who was invited to join them due to her familiarity with the late Dr. McDonnell’s work. “Did your late master have any correspondence with other alchemists? Perhaps one might be able to answer our questions and, in doing so, help thwart this criminal.”

  “There is but one that comes to my mind, sir,” she said quietly, “but I wonder whether he will be disposed to help us, for I am sorry to say that he is no friend of His Majesty.”

  Morrow raised an eyebrow. “Is he French, then?”

  “No, sir, although his latest letter came from Paris, where he is assigned as a commissioner of the Ganymedean cause.”

  “Surely,” Plumb said with recognition, “such a man won’t help us. Even if we were to gain audience, he’s a revolutionary of the worst sort. He’ll laugh us back to the Channel.” At this, Weatherby and Foster looked at each other and shrugged, though it seemed most of the others in the room knew of the man in question.

  Morrow seemed to consider Plumb’s words, but said: “I met him once, years ago, before the war broke out. Whatever his politics, I found him to be most kind, genial and upright. His charity on Ganymede is well known, and his scientific and alchemical knowledge is impressive. What say you, Doctor?”

  “The man’s reputation is impeccable, both in character and in knowledge of the Great Work,” Finch replied. “And of the handful of alchemists I would consider capable of aiding us, he is the only one we might easily track down. His personal interest in the matter can only help as well. And if I may, I would stress that such powerful and rare materials in the hands of someone of Cagliostro’s reputation should be seen as a dire threat. He may yet sell his secrets to an enemy power, or his purpose may be even more disturbing.”

  Morrow nodded at Finch, taking it in for a moment. “Mr. Weatherby, what is our distance to Earth? And to Jupiter?” he finally asked.

  “The planets are well aligned, sir. We could make the Channel in less than three weeks,” he responded, thankful he remembered to check the orrery prior to coming to the cabin. “Jupiter would be three months from here. However, I believe that if we tarry on Earth a few weeks, her path would take us within a mere five weeks of Jupiter.”

  “And thus we may detour and save a few weeks in the process,” Morrow said as he rose from his chair. “It’s your watch, Mr. Weatherby. We shall make for Earth, and the Channel. While Mr. Plumb takes Daedalus into Portsmouth to report, we shall attempt to visit Paris, God help us. Dismissed.”

  Weatherby caught up with Finch outside the great cabin. “Doctor, who is this alchemist to whom you referred?”

  Finch smiled. “Why, Mr. Weatherby, do you not read the London papers?”

  “Apparently not closely enough,” Weatherby grumbled. He was much more interested in news of battles and war than politics. “Who is he?”

  “Benjamin Franklin,” Finch replied, “certainly the most skilled alchemist to ever come out of the colonies. It’s really quite a shame he’s thrown in his lot with the rebels. They’ve sent him to France to negotiate for aid on their behalf.”

  And so now we are on to Earth, and to France. I admit, I’ve had little truck with alchemists, and find their ways most peculiar. Yes, of course, every ship in His Majesty’s Navy has an alchemist on board, and those of third-rate or higher often have two: one to maintain the ship and another to act as surgeon. Yet despite my interactions with these—and my recent oversight of Dr. Finch—I am lost quickly where the greater mysteries of alchemy are concerned.

  In my limited experience, there seems to be two types of workers in the Great Art. There are those who treat it as simply another science to master, much like the mathematics used in navigation or shipbuilding. And there are those who seem more akin to mystics than men of Reason. I would number Dr. Finch a rarity in that he seems to be an amalgamation of the two, when he is inclined to give an opinion.

  This Cagliostro seems to be of the mystical bent, and a wonder-worker of his caliber, I am told, could do much with the powerful items he now possesses. With Dr. Finch at a loss as to his aims, I am truly concerned that we have taken a truly dangerous quest. Why in Heaven would men meddle in such matters to begin with?

  And, furthermore, to have our hopes hinge on the knowledge of a traitor to the Crown? There may be worse fates, but none come to me at the moment. Is this what we must resort to?

  July 26, 2132

  The staring was really getting to Shaila.

  It started the previous night, with her JSC colleagues and subordinates at the sleeping centrifuges. They looked to her—chief ops officer, acting number two—with the obvious questions in their eyes. Why the reactor alert? What’s going on? She refused to meet their gazes, sealing herself in her pod as she looked forward to the heavy press of increased gravity lulling her to sleep.

  It resumed in the morning, from the moment she got out of the pod, through her morning shower routine, and all the way through the entire JSC wing. It wasn’t entirely bad—they were looking to her for answers, much like any junior officer would when regarding a senior officer. But given that her answer to last night’s fiasco would be “I fucked up,” and the larger answers regarding the cave and ravine weren’t there, Shaila opted for silence.

  It got worse in the Hub, where the overnight smelting shift was coming off duty and the morning diggers were getting ready to head out. That was at least thirty pairs of eyes, all fixed on her. Conversation stopped, fingers were pointed—literally in a few cases. The questioning stares were supplemented and obscured with harsher overtones: fear, anger, doubt, derision. She was sending Alvarez home, after all, and most of them didn’t care to mull over the fact that she was the one who was physically attacked first.

  She had hoped to see Stephane at breakfast, as usual, but a quick scan of her inbox told her that he and Yuna would be in the lab this morning, and would rendezvous with her at the cave. From the timestamp on his message, it was quite possible he was up all night trying to figure out what was going on, but all he could say thus far was that the ravine hadn’t changed since yesterday afternoon, which was a positive sign.

  Despite Stephane’s not-quite-perfect English, his e-mail had a very distinct tone to Shaila’s eyes: strictly business. Of course, he could still be pissed, or he could just be giving her space. What’s worse, she found herself caring which it might be, which only irked her further. Sure, he was charming, and was one of the few people on base who could make her laugh regularly. But still . . . he was a dilettante, nothing more, even if he was shaping up to be a pretty good geologist.

  Over a particularly bland tofu scramble, Shaila quickly finished scanning her morning messages—status reports, shift-change requests, a note from her mother in Birmingham, all unanswered for now. She dumped her tray and headed over to the lab where Stephane and Yuna had set up shop.

  He wasn’t there, and neither was Yuna. Evan Greene was, however. “Morning, Lieutenant. Durand and Hiyashi told me to tell you they were heading to the cave,” Greene said as he slowly panned a portable holocam around a six-wheeled robotic probe, the one Harry had offered.

  “Looks just like the old Opportunity,” Shaila said, trying to make small talk. And to be fair, it really did indeed look like the early 21st century rover, now gathering dust some 2,500 kilometers to the north of McAuliffe.

  The little six-wheeled robot on the table was roughly a meter long and a half-meter wide, with various probes and cameras tucked into its chassis. The six wheels were individually articulated, to make it easier for the ’bo
t to scoot through rocky terrain—perfect for the lava tube. It also had two strong lifting arms, for moving and storing rock samples.

  “Well, it’s lighter,” Greene said. “Only about 65 kilos, and runs on battery instead of solar—kind of important for a mining probe.”

  “Why didn’t they just take this with them?” Shaila said.

  Greene gave one of his gleaming smiles. “Because I wanted to get holo of it getting loaded up, the trip to the cave—all of it.”

  “Right. Of course.” Shaila said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Just about. We’re going call out each of the features of this probe on the holovid—graphics, description, the works,” Greene said.

  “Lovely,” Shaila said, grabbing a work cart from the storage area of the lab.

  To his credit, Greene offered to help load the ’bot onto a transfer cart, but in the Martian gravity, it wasn’t really necessary. Besides, Shaila was determined to accept as little help as possible from him. Together, they rolled the probe down the JSC-only corridor and into the Hub, where the ops officer on duty—Adams this time—had their pressure suits ready to go and their rover on standby.

  “Thanks for agreeing to do this,” Greene beamed as he prepared to suit up. “I’m excited about our little trek.”

  She grabbed her suit and pulled it over to the bench next to his. “Just following orders, Dr. Greene. You need a hand with that?”

  He deftly pulled the top half of the suit over his chest and expertly flipped the seals closed. “I’ve logged 200 hours of EVA time, Lieutenant. Earth-orbit spacewalks, Europan ice, you name it.”

  Shaila shrugged into her own suit. “Fair enough, doc. Let’s get out of here, then,” Shaila said, sealing her helmet. Out of habit, she checked Greene’s suit as well; it was in perfect order. “Comm channel three, radio check, over,” she said absently, the routine engraved in her brain. “Sorry, I mean, we’ll be on channel—”