The Daedalus Incident Revised

by Michael Martinez

  Then, out of the fog, he saw a number of lines being thrown from the Chance, grappling hooks attached. Whatever damage Daedalus may have inflicted on the enemy crew, it was not enough to deter them greatly.

  Weatherby quickly drew his sword with his right hand, his pistol with his left. “They’re coming!” he shouted. “Prepare to repel boarders!”

  July 28, 2132

  “Never ceases to amaze me just how much crap has a microchip in it,” Shaila mused as she waved a sensor pack around over Harry Yu’s spare datapad. “This is a total needle in the haystack.”

  Yuna Hiyashi was busy carefully folding Harry’s clothes, wrenched from his closet two hours earlier. “I admit, I didn’t think we’d find much here. But I suppose it was worth looking.”

  Apparently, Diaz had thought the same thing. The colonel was still up at oh-one-hundred, going back and forth with Houston about the dizzying array of strangeness that had plagued them over the past few days. When Shaila presented her discovery of the radio waves before each tremor, Diaz ordered a complete base-wise sensor sweep for the radio signal, which turned up nothing. After that, she told Shaila to search Harry’s office and day room thoroughly, and to bring Yuna along as a Billiton representative. The idea was not only to find a “smoking gun” with which to seal the case against Harry, but also to prevent more tremors and problems on the Martian surface—in theory. It was a wild goose chase, but Diaz apparently felt Harry was just as much a suspect as Shaila did.

  And so they combed through his office carefully, with sensors and by hand. The sensor was able to detect anything with a battery or microchip in it, and Shaila had gone through every wristwatch, datapad, alarm clock, gizmo and gadget, looking for signs that it might double as a radio transmitter. Shaila was much less respectful of the mining exec’s possessions than Yuna, but at least she didn’t break anything.

  “Would’ve been bloody easier if it was a nice big box with a button on it labeled ‘evil,’” Shaila said, chucking aside the datapad and going over a set of electronic styluses.

  “Harry’s not evil, Shaila,” Yuna said, sounding like a grandmother chiding a toddler. “I don’t think anybody’s evil, really. Even if he is responsible, somehow, for what’s going on, I’m sure he’s not acting out of malice.”

  “Seriously?” Shaila said, tossing the datapad aside. “We’ve got one miner dead, two others injured along with Kaczynski and me, and you and Steve were totally endangered in those quakes. Plus we nearly lost an entire transport. But hey, he didn’t mean it, right?” Shaila gathered up the electronics and shoved them into a desk drawer. They had initially agreed that they’d put everything back in its place, but at this point, Shaila didn’t care. “And why are you defending him?”

  Yuna sat down on Harry’s daybed and smiled. “Harry’s not all that bad. He’s ambitious, and his successes here are pretty tenuous. A hitch here, a delay there, and his bottom line collapses. You’d be skittish, too.”

  Shaila got up from Harry’s desk. “And you still don’t believe Weatherby’s journal is involved.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I simply don’t know,” Yuna said, concern plainly written on her face. “There’s so much going on, so many unusual things—your book, the tremors, the pyramid. As a scientist, I want to exhaust every avenue of inquiry before creating a theory. Facts first. Now, let’s get this place looking decent.”

  Twenty minutes later, they left Harry’s office and headed back toward the Hub. It was nearly oh-five-hundred, and low-G sleep wasn’t much of an option, so they made their way to the galley to whip up something. Sadly, Billiton not only provided miners, but the base cook as well, so the JSC crew would have to fend for themselves—for however long they were stranded on Mars.

  “I hope engineering can fix up the Giffords,” Shaila said as she attempted to figure out the coffee maker. “I want an exit strategy if it really starts going to hell.”

  “Certainly a good use of our time,” Yuna agreed as she whipped up some “eggs” and “bacon”—or, rather, their soy-based, preservative-laden substitutes. “I’m not sure what more we can do out there anyway.”

  Shaila smiled slightly. “Oh, I don’t know about that. If Houston actually lets us, I wouldn’t mind going out for a look.”

  “Outside?” Yuna asked as she slid a plate of food toward Shaila.

  “Yep.”

  Yuna thought about this a moment. “I see one problem right off the bat. The last time something major happened, it took all our sensors and MarsSats offline and nearly brought down a transport. What if it does the same to our electronics? Our pressure suits? I can only hold my breath for so long.”

  Shaila smiled. “Way ahead of you. We get a piece of rad-hard equipment with some kind of visual marker that lets us know it’s working. Maybe a sensor pack that we can have transmit back to our datapads. Then we toss it inside the EM ring and see if it still works or not.”

  “Interesting,” Yuna allowed. “If it doesn’t?”

  “Well, then, we’re properly screwed, then, aren’t we?” Shaila said. “But if it works, then we go check out that pyramid. I mean, Christ, it’s a pyramid, Yuna. How can we not go and see it?”

  The two continued debating the merits of an EVA to the pyramid over breakfast, the largest concern being a reprise of Mars’ new penchant for earthquakes. Nobody wanted to get caught in another quake, but Shaila didn’t see an alternative. She wanted to get out there and see the damn thing with her own two eyes. They were finally interrupted by the base intercom.

  “Col. Diaz, Lt. Jain, report to the command center. Col. Diaz, Lt. Jain to the command center,” Washington said.

  Shaila glanced at her watch—not even oh-six-hundred yet. Way too early for the next crisis, wasn’t it? “Come on,” she said to Yuna. “Figure you should be in on this, too.”

  Moments later, they strode into the command center just as Diaz was coming out of her office, looking as if she had slept in there. “What’cha got?” Shaila asked.

  “JSC just sent this over and asked me to forward to you two ASAP,” Washington said, looking wide-eyed and nervous. “Single image packet.”

  “I send them a freakin’ novel and they send over an image?” Diaz groused. “Put it up, Washington.”

  A moment later, the command center’s main screen flared to life. It was an overhead image of . . . Mars?

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Shaila said.

  The image showed roughly the same area as the sensor outage from yesterday. Inside the affected area, things had changed. Considerably.

  The pyramid was in full view now. Six tiers, casting a long southern shadow. Some kind of ditch—or moat?— had formed around the base, with the previously spotted canal leading away from it to the south, toward McAuliffe. Something glimmered in the sunlight in that canal, possibly some form of ice. The canals were not only straight and true, but they looked as though they were well and truly placed there, with care and workmanship evident along the length. In some places, the canals seemed to fade into the Martian landscape. In others, they ended abruptly—right at the edge of the apparent EM field.

  One of the canals leading to the pyramid seemed to have something darker in it, like it was filled with something—water, perhaps? It seemed apt, though there was no way of knowing. The canal bisected the surrounding area cleanly, so much so that a couple of sensor poles protruded from the canal itself, as if the earth had been dug out from around the sensors.

  Finally, to the north east of the base, there was a small dark patch on the image, roughly oblong in shape, but they couldn’t make it out—all they knew was that it wasn’t there before. It was situated in some sort of shallow ravine or gully of some kind—one that wasn’t on anybody’s maps.

  “Can we get any better resolution?” Diaz asked.

  “No, ma’am. This is the best they’ve got,” Washington said. “Attached message says they actually fired up the old Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter to grab this.”

&n
bsp; “Really?” Diaz said. “All right. Get this image downloaded to Greene and Durand and the rest of us. Anything else in the message?”

  Before Washington could respond, his board lit up with red warning lights. “Sensors picking up something,” he said, pressing keys quickly. “Looks like we’ve got—”

  He never finished his sentence.

  Shaila grabbed the console in front of her as she felt the ground beneath her feet buck wildly. The whole base suddenly seemed to be built on springs—and someone, somewhere just gave it a shove.

  “Report!” Diaz shouted over the klaxon alarms that started shrilling throughout the base.

  “Seismic activity!” Washington replied. “Every sensor we’ve got is lit up. Can’t pin down the source.”

  One of the displays mounted on the wall suddenly tumbled to the floor, shattering despite the low gravity.

  As Shaila hung onto the workstation in front of her, watching the base start to fall apart, there was no doubt in her mind where the damn quake was coming from.

  CHAPTER 21

  June 19, 1779

  The line of men waited in silence on the main deck of the Daedalus, pistols and swords at the ready, looking into the smoke from the two ships’ guns as they waited for the men of the Chance to swarm aboard. The old hands waited calmly, having made peace with fate long ago in other battles, or in the swells of storms at sea and Void. The young ones shifted from foot to foot, gripped their weapons tight and stared wide-eyed into the fog.

  Yet instead of dissipating, the fog grew thicker. “Steady, men,” Weatherby said quietly. “Let them come to us.” He was as nervous as anyone, but refused to show it.

  At least until the Count St. Germain strolled casually across the deck toward him, as if taking a morning constitutional.

  “My lord!” Weatherby hissed. “You should seek shelter!”

  St. Germain simply walked right up to him. “In a moment. Franklin asked that I make you this.” He handed over a small glass vial.

  “What is it?” Weatherby asked, eyeing the vial and the clear liquid therein most suspiciously.

  “This smoke is alchemical in nature, a simple measure designed to confound matters when the pirates attack,” St. Germain said. “When you first see them about to board, simply throw this down upon the deck, and the air will clear immediately, granting us a moment of surprise. But do not press your attack. I believe we are prepared to aid you from the forecastle first.”

  Weatherby looked at the little cylinder with appreciation. “Very well, milord. We will wait to advance. Now take cover, if you would, please.”

  St. Germain nodded and strolled on toward the fo’c’sle, leaving Weatherby to wonder just what the man had seen in life to be so blasé about such imminent danger.

  Weatherby turned back to the railing, where he saw some of the ropes thrown by the Chance crew begin to move and vibrate as the pirates pulled Daedalus closer to their ship. “All right,” he whispered to his men. “Wait for whatever comes from the fo’c’sle. When I give the word, first rank fires, then retreats to reload and the second rank fires. Then pikes and swords.”

  The crewmen nodded and murmured in affirmation as Weatherby watched the ropes carefully, peering into the dark cloud for the sign he needed, whatever form it may take.

  It was a grubby hand on a rope, barely visible in the fog, that did the trick.

  Weatherby hurled the glass vial to the deck near the railing, where it shattered. Immediately, the smoky fog lifted, revealing several dozen men not twenty feet away, preparing to board Daedalus and, at the moment, looking very surprised.

  Weatherby turned to the fo’c’sle, where he saw Finch and St. Germain pointing what appeared to be an odd-looking brass cannon at the main deck of the Chance. It had numerous protuberances upon it, some of which looked to be made of glass, of all things.

  A moment later, Finch furiously turned a crank upon the side of the device—and lightning spit forth from the barrel, cascading through the pirates with a thunderous crackle.

  “My God,” Weatherby breathed as he saw at least two dozen men fall. The acrid smell of ozone and burnt flesh assaulted his nose.

  The flash ended only after two seconds, but its worth had been proven. Weatherby turned back to his men, who were all staring elsewhere—either at the fo’c’sle or the other ship. “Make ready!” Weatherby called.

  He saw more pirates move forward to take the place of their fellows. They would still try to board.

  “Fire!”

  Two dozen pistols fired as one, and another dozen muskets released from the tops, where a number of marine snipers were stationed. Immediately, another score of men on the Chance fell to the volley in a chorus of blood and screams, while the rest could barely raise their own weapons.

  “Second rank! Fire!” Weatherby shouted, aiming his second pistol as the first rank fell back to reload.

  Another score of shots echoed in the Void, releasing more carnage upon the boarders. Several more fell—with some of them careening off into the Void— but there were plenty remaining, and several began to return fire to support those who made it aboard.

  “Reload and fire at will!” Weatherby ordered as he scrambled to reload his own weapons. “Pikes at the ready! Prepare to repel boarders!”

  With the weapons silenced for the moment, the pirates heaved one last time and immediately began swarming aboard, cutlasses in hand. Without thinking, Weatherby took his unloaded pistol and hurtled it at one of the first to board Daedalus, hitting him squarely in the face and knocking him back. His hand thus freed, Weatherby drew his sword and leapt forward into the growing fray.

  He lashed out at all and sundry, cutting down pirates otherwise engaged with the Daedalus crew. But it only took a few moments for one of the pirates to attack him personally, lunging forward with a scream. Weatherby quickly parried the blade . . .

  . . . and hewed it cleanly in two.

  Both Weatherby and his opponent were stunned, but the pirate recovered a moment faster, tossing his sundered hilt aside and throwing a desperate punch at Weatherby. By reflex alone, Weatherby parried the man’s arm with his blade, which had the same effect on the pirate’s limb as it did upon his cutlass. In a spray of blood, the man collapsed on the deck, screaming.

  “Well done, Anne,” he muttered, looking at the blade as the blood oozed off it completely, leaving it shining silver once again. A strategy quickly formed in his head.

  He quickly dashed across the deck, hewing through the pirates at will, aiming for weapons first so that his compatriots could handle the disarmed boarders more easily, though at least a half-dozen men fell to his blade as well. A part of him thrilled at the effect his sword had upon the engagement, even as something in the back of his mind rebelled at the bloody carnage he was causing.

  A sudden clang of steel on steel drew his awareness back fully, as his blade finally met resistance in the form of another. And before he could react further, a large boot kicked him squarely in the chest—right where he had been shot on Callisto—pushing him backward and prompting him to gasp for air.

  A massive man stood before him, dressed in an outlandish red silk jacket and numerous golden baubles. His disheveled hair and unkempt beard could not hide the sneer he offered Weatherby, who quickly recognized the man from Venus and Callisto. It could be none other than LeMaire himself—and it appeared his blade was a match for Weatherby’s.

  Weatherby assumed the en garde position, but the pirate just stood there, regarding him with the Devil’s own smile. “Your sword is better than you are, yes?” he growled in passable English. “Surrender and I may let you live.”

  Weatherby shook his head. “I decline, sir.” And with that, he lunged.

  LeMaire swatted Weatherby’s blade aside with a deft parry, not even bothering to adjust his stance. Weatherby tried again, and again, but LeMaire was a canny swordsman, and met every riposte with one of his own. Desperately parrying the pirate captain’s blows, Weatherby was di
smayed to see he was backing up with each move, until he felt the wood of the mainmast behind him.

  LeMaire stepped up his attacks, slapping past Weatherby’s parries again and again. Weatherby felt his coat rip, felt a trickle of blood on his rib cage—a very close cut that would have been far worse if not for his last-minute parry. Weatherby riposted quickly, catching LeMaire’s sword arm with a quick slash. Instead of stopping him, however, the wound only seemed to infuriate the man, who lashed out and punched Weatherby in the face with his free hand.

  Dazed, Weatherby could barely make out LeMaire in front of him, sword raised to surely cut him in two. But the pirate was tackled in a blurry flash of blue, leaving Weatherby to shake his head and regain his wits.

  It was Lt. Plumb.

  LeMaire roared in anger and hit Plumb with the hilt of his sword, sending the first lieutenant reeling and stumbling to the railing, whereupon he was swarmed by a mob of pirates, most of whom had surged aboard Daedalus while their captain occupied Weatherby and his alchemical blade. Weatherby regained his senses and moved to help Plumb, but his way was blocked by LeMaire once more, who lashed out with his sword.

  Weatherby parried the blow and prepared to riposte, but LeMaire’s massive hand was on his face in an instant, pushing him into the mainmast once more. A second later, blinding pain shot through his shoulder, prompting a scream. Looking down, he saw LeMaire’s blade sticking out of his body, pinning him to the mast. He heard his blade clatter to the deck, the nerve and muscle damage in his shoulder too much for him to hold on to it.

  “So!” LeMaire exulted, standing back to admire his handiwork. “You should have surrendered.”

  Anguished and in overwhelming pain, Weatherby cast about for help, but his fellows were occupied with the seemingly endless stream of boarders pouring onto the ship from Chance. Yet out of the corner of his eye, just over LeMaire’s shoulder, he saw Finch and St. Germain upon the fo’c’sle, laboring over their device. It was pointed at the main deck.

  Hopefully, they would not labor much longer.