The Daedalus Incident Revised

by Michael Martinez

  Weatherby saw that LeMaire was now engaged—all too briefly—by a few of the men from Daedalus. Grabbing the hilt of LeMaire’s blade in his free hand, Weatherby pulled with all his might and wrenched the sword from both the mast and his body, screaming in pain as he did so. He cast it away with all his strength and, by a stroke of luck, saw it fly neatly over the side of the ship, into the Void.

  LeMaire saw this and swore in French, his face the picture of rage. Shoving aside two Englishmen, he punched Weatherby in the face once more. The young Englishman felt his cheekbone crack, his teeth threatening to fall from his mouth. His feet failed him and he slumped down to the deck, his back still against the mast.

  Even in his daze, Weatherby saw the electrical cannon being aimed for the main deck. He immediately curled into a ball, as low to the deck as his body would allow.

  “English pig!” LeMaire roared. “Get up so I may kill you on your feet, you . . . ”

  “Daedalans, down!” Finch yelled.

  Immediately, every English sailor aboard dove for the planking. Looking up, Weatherby saw the flash of white lightning, heard the roaring crackle of electricity. Screams joined the smell of ozone in the air.

  And right above him, he saw a lightning bolt quickly pierce the very heart of Jacques LeMaire, who wore a glassy-eyed look of surprise on his face. A moment later, the pirate keeled forward, face-first, onto the deck. Smoke issued from a horrible burn on his back.

  Dizzy and weak, Weatherby struggled to his feet, his sword in hand, and looked about for another opponent. However, the electrical cannon had done its job well, and with their captain dead, the surviving Chance men were rushing back to their ship, cutting the tethering lines as they went.

  Weatherby staggered toward the quarterdeck to report. He only made it about twelve paces before he sank to his knees, his wounds finally overcoming consciousness.

  July 28, 2132

  Alarms layered upon alarms as the quake continued to shake McAuliffe Base, and Shaila was having a hard time keeping track of them all. Seismic monitors were first. Then the reactor alarms chimed in, prompting an automatic shutdown sequence. The sleeping centrifuges also piped up with a klaxon as they crashed to an emergency stop. Finally, the base’s containment alarms were thrown into the shrill mix. Somewhere—probably a couple of somewheres— McAuliffe Base’s atmosphere was leaking out—and Mars’ carbon dioxide and deadly cold was leaking in.

  “We’ve got hull ruptures in the Hub, Billiton corridor two, and right here in the command center!” Shaila reported.

  “Seal off those areas,” Diaz ordered as she gripped her command chair. “All personnel to their emergency suits, now!”

  Shaila raced over to a closet in the back of the command center, ripping the door open. The emergency suits weren’t all that impressive—they only had 20 minutes of 02 in them, and they wouldn’t fight the chill for long—but it was better than nothing. She pulled out three suits and, struggling to keep her feet, started handing them out to Diaz, Washington and Yuna.

  “Reactor is offline,” Washington said as he grabbed his suit. “We’re on battery now. We’ve got 24 hours.”

  Then the floor stopped moving.

  Shaila looked around carefully, stunned, as the quake subsided just as quickly as it started. She took a cautious breath, saw it fog up in front of her as she exhaled.

  “Shaila! Get suited!” Yuna yelled.

  But Shaila took another breath instead. It was cold, yes. But not negative 50 degrees Celsius cold. More like . . . Arctic cold. Survivable. She ran to a workstation and called up sensor data. “Colonel, base oxygen levels remain within tolerances,” she reported.

  “Say again?” Diaz said as she finished strapping herself into her suit.

  “We’re cold, but we’re not losing oxygen,” Shaila reported. “O2 levels are steady in here.” She looked up at the window overlooking the launch pad and EVA staging grounds outside. The window had a massive crack in it—but it was holding. “If we had a real pressure leak, that window should’ve shattered by now.”

  Diaz walked over and looked at Shaila’s screen. “Get your suit on,” she ordered. “Then give me some outside readings.”

  Shaila finished sliding the suit over her shoulders, snapping the airtight cowl over her head. Immediately, the oxygen from the small tank on her back started feeding her lungs, but she wondered whether it was necessary. The outside sensors confirmed her suspicions.

  “Ma’am, I’m reading a massive increase in both nitrogen and oxygen outside,” Shaila reported. “CO2 levels are still beyond Earth norms, but O2 levels are within tolerances. We can breathe out there.”

  “Bullshit,” Diaz whispered. Yet she was looking over Shaila’s shoulder at the exact same data. “Sensor malfunction?”

  Shaila ran a quick diagnostic. “Negative, ma’am. All sensors systems nominal, except for the ones that fried yesterday.”

  Diaz stared at the screen a moment longer, then activated the base comm. “All personnel, remain in your emergency suits for the time being. Damage control teams, repair all hull breaches immediately. Seal off all unnecessary areas, including all Billiton corridors. Stand by for further orders.”

  The colonel turned to walk away—and tripped. She staggered a few feet before recovering herself, then turned to Shaila with a look of confusion on her face. “What the hell was that?”

  “Um . . . you tripped, ma’am.”

  Diaz shook her head angrily. “No, dammit. I need a gravity reading.”

  Shaila frowned as she turned back to her station. That was the only thing that the base sensors couldn’t measure— nobody really expected Mars’ gravity to change. Shaila thought a moment, then started to access the computer that ran the emergency transports; it was a standard-issue plugin module used on the Moon and on space stations as well as on Mars, and it had a gravity sensor in order to calculate proper escape velocities. It took a few creative subroutines and one outright hack, but she managed to get the sensor to play ball.

  What she found was nothing short of impossible.

  “Ma’am, the transport computer sensors are reading 59 percent Earth gravity,” Shaila said quietly.

  Washington stood up and, crouching down low, leapt as high as he could, his arm raised high. His fingers barely brushed the ceiling. “Wow. If I did that normally, I’d plant my face up there,” he said.

  Yuna, meanwhile, slowly walked toward a chair and gingerly sat down. “I wondered why I felt so tired,” she said.

  Shaila suddenly remembered—Yuna hadn’t been in anything stronger than Mars gravity for years. “Oh, shit. What can we do?” Shaila asked as she clambered over to Yuna’s side.

  “There’s a case in my day room, bright yellow—a powered exoskeleton I use for physical therapy,” Yuna said, suddenly looking years older. “If someone could get it for me, I should be OK.”

  Shaila nodded and jabbed a button on the comm. “Jain to Durand, over.”

  “Durand here,” Stephane responded a moment later. “What is going on?” He sounded amazed, worried, concerned—all of it.

  “Shut up and listen,” Shaila snapped. “I need you to go to Yuna’s day room. There’s a case in there, bright yellow. Has a suit in it. Get it and get your ass up to the command center now.”

  “I will,” Stephane responded. “Durand out.”

  Shaila gave Yuna a pat on the arm. “It’s coming. Just try not to move until he gets here.”

  She turned to Diaz, who was sitting at the ops station, looking dazed. “Orders, ma’am?”

  The colonel shook her head as if to clear it, gathering herself as best she could. “Washington, get a report out to Houston ASAP. Let them know where we stand, remind them evac is not an option at this time, and ask for recommendations, for what it’s worth. Jain, coordinate damage control. Get the place buttoned up again.”

  Shaila nodded and headed for the door, but stopped to regard Diaz again. “Ma’am, if I may?”

  Diaz turned an
d gave her a weak smile. “Sure. Why not?”

  Shaila straightened up. “Once we’re buttoned up, recommend we EVA to the pyramid site, ma’am.”

  “Really,” Diaz said, the smile fading. “Why?”

  “For one, unless we get the reactor back up, we’ve got less than 24 hours before we lose battery power and start to freeze. If we’re going to investigate this thing, we don’t have much time left. And honestly, I still think that whatever’s causing this crap is there.”

  “The guys in Weatherby’s journal,” Diaz said.

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  Diaz looked at Shaila closely for a moment, seeming to take her measure. “All right. Recommendation noted and officially under advisement. Seal the base, then we’ll talk.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Shaila turned to leave, but Diaz spoke again. “Why’d you call Durand instead of Levin?”

  Shaila stopped in her tracks. She hadn’t even thought about it. There was a crisis, and she knew he’d be nearby. Of course, everyone else was down there, too, including the base doctor.

  “Don’t know, ma’am,” Shaila answered stiffly as she hustled out the door.

  Diaz smiled after her.

  CHAPTER 22

  June 19, 1779

  The first thing Weatherby saw when he opened his eyes was Anne, looking intently at his shoulder and dabbing it with some kind of solution that sent stinging sensations through his entire arm.

  “There are far worse things to awaken to,” he murmured, not fully realizing he spoke out loud.

  “Finally, a candid thought out of you,” Anne said, the sharpness of her words dulled by the half-grin she bore. “Just stay still while this takes effect.”

  Weatherby saw Finch standing nearby. “How long?”

  “You? An hour. You were the least of our worries, I’m afraid.” Finch looked exhausted, and his once-fine clothes were stained with blood and a variety of viscous elixirs.

  “The butcher’s bill?” Weatherby asked him.

  Finch shook his head sadly. “Too high. Thirty-four dead, including Forester. Mr. Plumb is missing, as are three others. I’ve not bothered to count the wounded.”

  Weatherby winced. “All too high. The ship?”

  “Half the hull’s been shot away, it seems. We should sink straight away if we splash down anywhere. The wardroom, galley, the men’s berths—all a perfect wreck.” Finch shrugged. “We are here, and for that I am most grateful. I understand you were quite the swordsman out there, Mr. Weatherby.”

  The young man shivered slightly at the memories of battle. “It was more the sword than the man,” he said, turning to Anne. “Your work is truly a wonder. Thank you.”

  Her smile grew brighter. “I can’t say the same about your face. I’m afraid you’ll bear a scar on your cheek. We’ve not the curatives to fix it.”

  Weatherby turned toward the wall, where a looking glass hung. There was a two-inch scar trailing from under his right eye down to his cheek. “LeMaire’s damnable jewelry,” he muttered.

  Anne stood up, wiping her hands. “And that’s that. Your shoulder will be sore for a few days, but you should have full use of it.”

  Weatherby swung his feet off the cot and made to sit up, but had to steady himself with his hands, prompting both Anne and Finch to gently grab his shoulders. “Lie back down, Tom,” Finch said. “You’ve lost quite a bit of blood. You need rest.”

  “I need to report,” Weatherby insisted, waving their hands away. “Any man who can get on his feet will be needed.” And with that Weatherby stood . . . and swayed . . . and ultimately steadied himself. He gave the two alchemists a winning smile, which was greeted by frowns. “My effects?” he said.

  Anne glowered at him, but cocked her head over to the corner, where his hat, sword and slashed coat lay upon a chair. He gingerly walked over, put the coat and hat on with only a few winces, and then buckled his sword to his belt.

  “Thank you both,” Weatherby said, giving them a salute. He plowed his good shoulder into the doorway as he left, but otherwise made it out onto the main deck with only a little stumbling.

  The ship looked horrible. There were gaping holes in the planking beneath Weatherby’s feet; he peered through one to see a jumble of lumber where the men’s berths once were, and he could even see the Void beneath. Other areas of the deck were cordoned off with rope, likely due to the loss of one or more lodestones affecting the air and gravity in those spots. There was blood spattered everywhere, though at least the bodies of the dead had been removed. Funerals would have to wait.

  The masts were in relatively decent shape, as were the main sails. But the larboard side plane was in ruins, and he could see half a dozen men preparing to affix a new spar to it. Other crewmen ran to and fro, carrying lumber or tools or rigging.

  One of the men of his division—Weatherby’s fogged mind could not place the name—spotted Weatherby and gave him a sharp salute. “Mr. Weatherby’s back!” the man yelled. This prompted a chorus of huzzahs amongst the crew on deck, which Weatherby found most gratifying and highly embarrassing. He smiled and returned salutes as he picked his way over to the quarterdeck, where Captain Morrow stood talking with Dr. Franklin and the Count St. Germain.

  “Ah, Mr. Weatherby!” Morrow said. “About time you stopped dallying about.” Weatherby’s heart froze for a moment, until Morrow extended his hand. “Well done in the boarding action, sir.”

  Weatherby took the captain’s hand gratefully. “Thank you, sir. I am most sorry to hear about Mr. Plumb and Mr. Forester.”

  “As are we all,” Morrow said, nodding grimly. “However, it falls to us to carry on without them. So as of this moment, you shall take his place as acting first lieutenant. Mr. Foster shall be acting second, and young Mr. O’Brian shall grow up quickly and be our third.”

  “Understood, sir,” Weatherby said. It seemed ill-mannered to thank the captain for the promotion given its unfortunate circumstances. “Your orders?”

  Morrow nodded to Franklin and St. Germain. “Our quarry broke off the engagement in order to make for Mars once more, and these fellows would have me understand that time remains critically short. Thus, we must pursue Chance to Mars.”

  “How will we land, sir? Even if we make the canals intact, we would sink immediately,” Weatherby said.

  Morrow’s face was sorrowful, yet determined. “Dr. Franklin and the Count have determined a possible destination for Cagliostro, based upon his last-seen course. There is an ancient, ruined city in the southern hemisphere, near the pole, that would be something of the ideal place for his working, if I understand correctly, and there are others in that area that might equally suit his needs. Sadly, this locale is still too far north to provide a safe transit through the aurora. And there are indeed few canals there—ones with water, at any rate. Yet given the Chance’s head start, we have no choice but to either make for one of the few canals left, or to attempt a dry landing upon the surface. Either way, it must be as close to this temple as we can manage.”

  Weatherby nodded grimly. Between Chance’s advantage and the Daedalus’ condition, their only option was to attempt a controlled crash landing in either a half-dry canal or upon the the deserts of Mars. “Aye, sir. We shall focus our efforts on repairing the sails, first and foremost.”

  Morrow nodded. “Lt. Foster has the men at it now. Please relieve him and oversee the work.”

  Weatherby saluted and hurried back down the stairs to the main deck, pausing to catch himself midway down as he fought a wave of dizziness. Soon, however, he was directing the men in their efforts alongside James, perhaps the most experienced tar any officer could be fortunate enough to sail with.

  “She’ll hold,” James said as he tested the repaired planesail an hour later. “Not sure about the ruddersail, though. Then again, we won’t need them for very long, will we, sir?”

  Weatherby cleared his throat. “They’ll suffice,” he said simply.

  “I ne’er dry-landed
a ship before,” James remarked. “Dangerous work, that. Sure ’tis necessary, Mr. Weatherby?”

  Weatherby looked to see a number of the crewmen, who had just spent their labors in repairs, nodding along with James, looking worried. Rightly so, Weatherby thought. These souls escaped boarding by a notorious pirate, only to be asked to sail their ship directly into a bloody planet.

  “I’m afraid so, James,” Weatherby responded. “We cannot often choose our course so readily.”

  James looked down at the deck, nodding but unwilling to meet Weatherby’s eyes. The other men looked on, seemingly wanting more. Weatherby took a deep breath, turning to address them. “I know you have fought hard, and fought well. But there is a fight left to us still,” he said. “What’s more, there’s likely little glory, and no rich prize.”

  Weatherby raised his voice as he continued. “But it is still a fight, nonetheless, perhaps the most important of our lives. There is a madman loose, one who would see an ancient terror awakened upon us all. And so it falls to us, to we simple men, to step forward as one, to stand tall against whatever darkness this sorcerer may conjure. So we must try, and if Daedalus must fall from the skies at last . . . we shall try to land her squarely upon whatever evil we find!”

  To Weatherby’s great surprise, the men cheered as one, and resumed their work with renewed vigor. Upon the quarterdeck, Weatherby spotted Morrow looking down on him, a small, satisfied smile creeping across his lined face.

  “That was pretty damned good,” came a voice behind him. Weatherby turned to see Finch there, leaning against the capstan with his hands folded across his chest. “Hell, I’d even follow you.”

  Weatherby lifted his hat with trembling hands to wipe the sweat that had gathered upon his brow, his shoulder throbbing even with that modest effort. “Thank you, Doctor. How are our stores of curatives?”

  Finch’s smile quickly vanished. “Do not play with me. You know well the bill from our engagement.”

  “Set to work, then, for our plan will cost lives regardless,” Weatherby said. “Icarus did not survive his fall. We can only hope Daedalus fares better.”