It seemed odd, really, that such a momentous quest should involve such drudgery, but Weatherby figured the reality of such things was never quite the same as the adventures published in London, the ones he perused most assiduously during his days as a midshipman. Treks such as these, across featureless, barren deserts, were written away in a sentence, two at most. “They hiked far, and then they arrived.” If only, he thought, he could author such an easy, fast journey for himself and the men under his command.
His command. Weatherby felt quite torn about leaving Daedalus under Foster’s care. It wasn’t as though the man was somehow unequal to the task. There wasn’t much of a ship left to command, and most of his duty would involve scavenging for lost cargo and fresh water, caring for the now-stable wounded, and securing the ship against intruders. Weatherby did not trust that the pirates would content themselves with Cagliostro’s plans, and a crippled ship would make an easy target without fortification.
But the Count St. Germain had been insistent that they depart quickly, and now led the column of sailors and marines forward, striding confidently into the Martian desert with a map and compass in his hands and a surprisingly heavy pack upon his back, aimed squarely for a massive Martian ruin very near the pole itself. Franklin and St. Germain had determined that they had perhaps 24 hours at most before the planetary alignment would take effect, and that in and of itself would last no more than 24 hours. As their current pace, they would barely make the ruins by sundown.
Anne easily kept pace beside St. Germain. Having exchanged her dress for a spare officer’s uniform—complete with sword—she had made to depart with the rest of the party without so much as a word. Weatherby’s first notion was to order her back to the ship at once, of course, but he barely opened his mouth before her gaze insisted upon his silence in the matter. Never in his time in the service had he seen an officer employ such a withering glare, and he was sure none would quite break his heart and spirit so completely. His stunned silence served as acquiescence enough, and she now seemed to be serving as St. Germain’s adjutant, leaving Weatherby to bring up the rear and encourage the column’s lone straggler.
“Really, Doctor,” Weatherby said, pausing to allow Finch to catch up. “Was there no alternative to bringing such a heavy pack?”
The alchemist grinned wearily from under his burden. “What few curatives we had left were left to tend to the wounded aboard ship,” he said. “Should we suffer further casualties, I will need the resources to craft more.”
Weatherby nodded and called over one of the men. “Smythe! Come trade packs with the doctor. ’Tis either that, or we carry both the pack and the doctor later on.”
Smythe—a full head taller than Weatherby and twice as wide—grinned and lifted the pack off Finch’s back as if it were a pillow. He tossed his own sack at the doctor’s feet and hurried off to catch up with his shipmates.
“Thank you,” Finch said, genuine relief in his voice. “This is my reward for years of vice, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, well, ’tis better to abandon vice sooner rather than later,” Weatherby said, helping Finch to strap on his lighter load. “We may yet make a healthy man of you.”
The two set off once more, serving as a rather ragged rear guard. The column followed no trail, for there was little reason for any of the major powers to establish themselves so far south—or on Mars at all—and thus there were few who traveled this way before them. Yes, the Royal Academy had sent expeditions to the Martian ruins, as did its counterparts among the other European nations. But their investigations yielded painfully few clues as to the nature of the ancient Martians, and there were far more profitable endeavors in the Known Worlds.
With each hour of marching across the wind-swept, dusty plains, Weatherby felt more and more as though he were embarked upon a folly like none other. Yet St. Germain was as sure of their destination as ever, calling it the most logical location considering the materials at hand, the positions of the stars in the Martian sky and what little he was able to glean about the Martians in his studies.
“How fares the Count?” Finch asked, nodding toward the famous alchemist.
“Oh, he marches with the most hale of them,” Weatherby said with a disbelieving shake of his head. “I cannot tell whether his workings have given him such vitality, or if he is merely driven to wring the neck of his errant student.”
“Both, I’d wager,” Finch said, his pace improving substantially. “He told me he plans to strip Cagliostro’s knowledge from his very mind once captured.”
Weatherby raised an eyebrow. “Can he do that? I thought alchemical knowledge was like any other. One can’t simply remove years of study.”
“I am not a great student of the Mentis school, so I cannot say for sure. My focus has been on the Vitalis and Materia schools. But this is the Count St. Germain himself. If he says it can be done, it is likely so.”
The two marched ahead for several minutes before Finch spoke once more. “Have you had a chance to speak with Anne?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” the lieutenant replied quietly. “Before we departed.”
“And?”
“It did not go well.”
“I am most sorry to hear it. Those who have endured great hardship have a far greater pride than others,” Finch said. “And she has endured much indeed.”
Weatherby nodded, looking ahead as Anne and St. Germain consulted their maps and compasses, pointing off to the horizon. “Pride is a sin, is it not? And pride in having sinned to survive? We are taught that the virtuous are duly rewarded by God. If there were some sense of repentance for her past, perhaps things would be different.”
Finch fixed a hard gaze on his commanding officer. “Is pride in one’s virtue not also a sin?”
“I suppose it is,” Weatherby said, frowning.
“The Gospel of John, chapter 8, verse 7—it seems appropriate here,” Finch said.
“Have I been casting stones?” Weatherby said, half to himself. Then he turned to Finch with a wry smile. “And how is a self-confessed scoundrel so familiar with the Holy Bible to begin with?”
“If one is likely to break the rules, one should have a sense of what they are,” Finch replied, his breath still slightly haggard even with the lighter pack. “Makes it easier to ask for forgiveness after the fact. It seems Anne took the same course.”
Giving Finch a small smile and a clap on the shoulder, Weatherby finally understood why captains occasionally relied upon one or two officers—or in some rare cases, seamen—to speak freely in all circumstances. What may have seemed to be favoritism was merely a check against ego and hubris, a sounding board for ideas, and a cautionary voice to ward off potential errors. Weatherby found himself hoping Finch would elect to stay in the service, unlikely as that might be. He promised himself he would speak to the doctor about it, most frankly and forthrightly, should their quest be resolved favorably.
Weatherby was helping Finch over a rocky ridge when a scream and several shots pierced the placid quiet of the Martian landscape. Immediately, with thoughts of naught but Anne in his mind, Weatherby drew his sword and pistol and clambered up the slope ahead, leaving Finch behind. What he saw made his blood run cold.
Two of his men lay upon the red, sandy ground, reduced to bloody ruin under the claws of a beast out of nightmare. It was easily the size of a four-and-carriage, its black, scaly hide glistening in the sun. Its head bore two sets of large, yellow eyes under bony ridges, themselves overshadowed by wicked horns, and its double-hinged mouth gaped wide, revealing three sets of blood-stained, razor sharp-teeth. Its hind legs reminded Weatherby of those of a frog, while two forearms sprouted from each forequarter. Each of its six limbs ended with glistening claws the size of a man’s forearm.
The beast screamed, a high-pitched howl that assaulted the ear with dissonance, even as its forearms continued to rend the bodies of the fallen crewmen.
Anne and St. Germain were nowhere in sight.
“Fall
back!” Weatherby shouted, dashing down the ridge. “Form a line and prepare to fire!”
The Daedalus men scattered back to the ridge. Suddenly, from behind a boulder, St. Germain threw something at the creature, which immediately exploded into a cloud of black smoke, blinding it for the few seconds the men needed to regroup. Weatherby saw Anne there as well, crouching next to the alchemist, and felt relief wash over him. His feverish worry broken, he urged his men to stand fast and aim.
A moment later, a score of muskets and pistols fired as one.
The alchemical smoke dissipated, revealing the monster once more as it shook its head, trying to clear its vision. Blotches of yellow appeared on its body, dripping downward. The shots had hit true, but the creature remained upright.
And it was angry, releasing another screeching howl that echoed through Weatherby’s nerves.
He immediately had the men reload, and prayed the creature would be stunned enough to allow for a second volley before it leapt forward and slew them all.
July 28, 2132
The rovers plowed across the plain, leaving a trail of red dust in their wake. There was little banter between the astronauts after their departure from the Chance. The sensor signals continued unabated, giving them something concrete to focus upon. Otherwise, it all might’ve been too much to handle. It was one thing to see images of a pyramid on a screen, quite another to see a genuine pirate ship on the surface of Mars.
“Rover Two,” Diaz called, breaking the silence. “We’re now getting heat readings to go with the movement. Can you confirm?”
Shaila looked over to Stephane, who immediately started fiddling with his sensor pack, which had been ignored while the geologist was deep in thought. “Yes, Colonel,” he reported. “At least two dozen readings. One of them is . . . large.”
“Roger that. We’re just about there,” Diaz said. “Let’s park behind those rocks and approach on foot.”
A minute later, Shaila pulled Rover Two up next to the others and got out. The gravity seemed to increase as they progressed, and her pressure suit was starting to feel significantly heavier. They all huddled at the base of the rock, staring at the sensor readouts.
“Jesus,” Diaz said. “They’re moving fast.”
A high-pitched noise from over the rocky outcropping immediately drew their attention. “What the hell was that?” Shaila said.
Diaz reached for her zapper, prompting Shaila to do the same. “You three, try to get on top of these rocks and have a look. Greene, go ahead and record whatever you see. Jain, we’re going around. Everyone stay close to each other and don’t do anything stupid.”
As they slowly walked toward the edge of the outcropping, a staccato popping sound filtered through their pressure suits, followed by another high-pitched . . . shriek?
“Not good,” Shaila said, gripping her zapper tightly. She turned back to see the others struggling to get up over the rocks, the weight of their pressure suits making climbing difficult. “I need an environmental reading.”
A pause. “Gravity now 85 percent that of Earth. Atmospheric pressure and oxygen levels approaching Earth nominal,” Yuna said, her voice thin and tremulous. “Temperature 10 degrees Celsius.”
“Roger that.” Shaila followed Diaz, crouching down as the rocks sloped toward the ground. Diaz held her hand up and stopped, then stuck her head tentatively above the outcropping.
“Holy shit,” Diaz whispered.
Shaila followed suit, then ducked back down, her heart racing. “That’s probably what happened to Chance,” she ventured. “Those uniforms . . . .”
“I see it,” Diaz snapped. “As per JSC regs, I’m officially confirming the big-ass creature is hostile. You ready?” The colonel held up her zapper.
“Roger,” Shaila said. “Over the top?”
Diaz nodded. “On my mark. Three . . . two . . . one . . . mark!”
The two stood up and turned, firing in the direction of the chaos—and the six-legged monster from hell that was busy tearing up a bunch of guys with pop guns.
The creature roared again, rearing up in pain, tossing aside two men with its flailing forearms. Immediately, it turned, looking for the source of the agony.
“Shit,” Diaz said. “Hit it again.”
They fired their zappers once more, sending intense microwaves into the creature’s scaly body. It screamed and howled, its yellow eyes bugging out, its body rearing up to a height of nearly six meters. Finally, after a full eight seconds of lashing pain, it toppled over, its eyes closed.
“Now!” came a voice from the other side of the creature.
Shaila saw a group of haggard-looking men in grubby clothes rush forward, wielding muskets topped with bayonets. They were led by a way-too-young man in the dress of an 18th century Royal Navy officer, a gleaming sword in his hand. They pounced upon the creature, stabbing it over and over with their weapons. Yellow blood pooled from the wounds and dripped to the ground. Finally, the officer raised the sword high above his head, sending it swooping down across the creature’s neck.
It took three swings, but the head soon rolled a half-meter away, severed.
A cheer erupted from the men, but the officer took no part. Instead, he scanned the area for more foes.
And spotted Shaila and Diaz.
“Form a line!” he shouted, pointing his sword at them. The men quickly lined up in front of their officer, getting onto one knee and reloading their weapons.
“What’s the plan?” Shaila said nervously.
“Pocket the zapper,” Diaz said. “And put your hands up.”
Slowly, Diaz walked out from around the rocks, her hands raised, with Shaila following suit. They approached slowly, until they heard the officer’s voice filter through their suits once more. “That’s far enough. Identify yourselves.”
“Go for it,” Diaz said through the comm. “You’re Royal Navy. Air shouldn’t be a problem by now.”
“Gee thanks,” Shaila muttered. Slowly, so as not to alarm the dozen or so men—and one woman, she saw—with guns aimed at her, Shaila released her helmet seals and, ignoring the alarms on her suit, slowly lifted it off her head.
The fact that the moisture in her body immediately didn’t begin boiling off was the first good sign—the breathable atmosphere hadn’t gone anywhere. And it wasn’t even all that cold.
The officer continued to look at her, perplexed. She latched her helmet to the fastener on the back of her suit— carefully, so as to not cause any alarm.
“Lt. Thomas Weatherby, I presume?” she called out.
Diaz looked over at her in disbelief. “A simple hello would’ve done it,” she said over the comm, the headset of which was still in Shaila’s ear.
The man lowered his sword slightly. He was short, no more than 170 centimeters tall, with long brown hair kept back in a ponytail. He looked barely old enough to shave. “I do not know you,” he said.
“No, sir. You don’t. I’m Lt. Shaila Jain, British Royal Navy.”
The confused look on the man’s face grew more intense, before giving way to a smile, even as his men, to Shaila’s surprise, erupted in laughter. “Please, miss, do not take offense, but I would think I would have heard of it if the Royal Navy had begun making women into officers. Are you a Hindu? What in God’s name are you wearing?”
Right. 1779. Try again. “It’s a long story. But not as interesting as the one you’ve written, Lieutenant. We’ve read your journal. We know about Cagliostro.”
Diaz reached out with her gauntleted hand to give Shaila a hard whack on the arm. “Dammit, Jain, we don’t know what’s going on!” Shaila heard her say in her comm earpiece.
The officer didn’t see this, however, as he was talking quietly with two other men, both of whom were dressed as late 18th Century gentlemen, and the lone woman, who was wearing an ill-fitting officer’s uniform.
The standoff continued for a few moments longer, until the officer turned back to the astronauts. “Let us say, for a moment,
that you have read my journal, even though it remains secured upon my very person,” the man said. “Tell me how much of it you have read.”
Shaila cleared her throat. “I know about your descent to the surface,” she said, prompting a surprised look from the entire group before her. “I know you lost Lt. Plumb in the battle earlier today, and that Capt. Morrow was injured in the crash. And I know that you were just talking with Dr. Finch and the Count St. Germain.”
The man, glanced at his comrades, then lowered his sword. “You two, and any others with you, will assemble over there,” he said, pointing to an area about ten meters away from both the creature and the rocks. “You will take your . . . hats . . . off. And then we shall have a talk, shall we?”
CHAPTER 25
June 19, 1779
July 28, 2132
It might’ve been easier if the men from the Daedalus had actually been aliens.
Section 138, subsection 1, paragraph 6 of the Joint Space Command General Operations Code states all too matter-of-factly that in an encounter with intelligent life not of Earth origin, personnel should be aware there may be pronounced cultural differences, ones that should be addressed with care and respect for those differing values.
At the moment, Shaila thought that particular regulation was a steaming load of bullshit.
“I am most sorry to say, ladies, that I find your story to be quite incredible. I have seen much of late, but to find an outpost commanded by female officers?” The young officer, who did indeed confirm he was Lt. Thomas Weatherby, shook his head ruefully. “You have me at a loss.”
Anne straightened up and turned to Weatherby. “Is it so impossible to consider that women may be as competent as men, Lieutenant?” she said, the emphasis on his rank evident to even the astronauts. “Or am I but a silly housemaid with a few magic tricks learned by rote?”
The Daedalus Incident Revised Page 39
