The Daedalus Incident Revised

by Michael Martinez

  Another voice clamored in from the corridor. “Now can I see her again?”

  Diaz winked at Shaila, who snuffled a bit and put a smile back on her face. “Sorry, Steve,” Diaz called out. “Debriefing, you know.” The colonel turned back to Shaila, whispering, “I’ve had to order him three times not to loiter around in here.”

  “She is fine, is she not?” Stephane protested.

  Diaz raised her good hand. “OK, OK, I’m going, I’m going. Geez.” She looked back down at Shaila with a wink. “But if you’re in bed any longer than necessary, I’m writing you both up for dereliction of duty.” Diaz turned and headed for the door. “You behave yourself, Steve.” She gave him a clap on the arm.

  “Shoo!” Stephane said. “I mean, please shoo, General.”

  When Diaz left, Shaila gave Stephane an amused look. “Hear you’re taking a trip.”

  “A little one,” he allowed as he took a seat on her bed. “I hear the view is fabulous. And they say the pilot is pretty good.”

  “I haven’t said whether I’m going,” Shaila said.

  Stephane looked at her incredulously. “Please. You are an explorer. And you made me one, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. How can I go to a teaching job after this? You and I are the only living humans in the universe—well, this universe—to see a real live alien.”

  Shaila thought about that for a moment. “I guess we are. Too bad he was such a bastard.”

  “Well, yes. Anyway, I think the people in Houston would be quite happy to see us both off on a journey for a few years. Fewer people to talk to about what we saw.”

  “Good point,” Shaila said. “Of course, I could go to work for Diaz’ task force instead. Maybe even go back and see Weatherby again.”

  “Trying to make me jealous?” Stephane asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “It is working,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I never thought I would say this to a woman, but why not.” His face grew serious as he leaned in toward her, his eyes meeting hers. “Come to Saturn with me.”

  A shiver ran up her spine and a smile crept across her face. “That’s absolutely the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said quietly.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  They looked at each other for a few moments, both grinning like idiots, until Shaila couldn’t take it any longer. “So is this the part where you kiss me or something?”

  Stephane raised an eyebrow and looked up at the monitor above her head. “If I am reading this right, your heart rate and temperature are increasing,” he said with a smirk. “I would hate to tell Levin you are not behaving.”

  Shaila laughed. “You wouldn’t.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” he said gently. “But you still need rest, and I want you well again. Once you have been freed from here, I will ravish you then.”

  “Ravish?” Shaila said, parroting his outrageous pronunciation of the word. “You looked that up, didn’t you.”

  Stephane grinned as he headed for the door. “Of course. And a lot of other interesting words. It is a long trip to Saturn.”

  Shaila watched him leave, then laid back on the bed with a smile—and a wince. Her side hurt, her lungs felt charred inside and she could barely lift the datapad in front of her.

  In all her life, she never felt better. Yeah, she still had some questions about the voices she heard in her head through all this, but with a Saturn mission to think about—not to mention the company on the trip—she was able to put it out of her mind. It was probably just some kind of quantum overlap. Maybe one day she’d ask Greene about it, when she was far enough away for him not to want to dissect her brain.

  EPILOGUE

  June 22, 1779

  Lt. Thomas Weatherby stood at the helm of the broken frigate Daedalus, his hand upon the weathered wheel. Somehow, the damage was far worse than he remembered. She had been a beautiful ship. For all the lives lost in the pursuit of Cagliostro, he mourned the loss of the Daedalus nearly as much.

  And the questions in his mind continued to spin. Yes, the Mercurium was restored to England with the capture of Cagliostro. And more importantly, Althotas was once again imprisoned in his inscrutable prison-realm. But even that seemed small, somehow. The Xan remained out there, and Franklin had voiced his concern, more than once, that some among their number may have aided Cagliostro somehow. Were they also in contact with Althotas? Or did the warlike faction among them, no matter how greatly in the minority, seize upon the opportunity that Cagliostro presented to them? What would become of Earth, especially when mankind was far from united and far from enlightened, despite the Xan’s comment to the contrary?

  And what of the other realm he had glimpsed? An entire universe, held away from his own, behind an inscrutable veil that he couldn’t even begin to comprehend, much less describe.

  Shouts and applause distracted him from his gloomy reverie. He looked out over the Martian terrain, now strewn with various tables, chairs and tents on the lee side of the vessel, shaded in the afternoon Martian sun, the crew’s new home while they awaited rescue. Beyond that, a number of the men had started up a cricket game, with O’Brian refereeing the affair, and apparently someone had just scored. He felt a twinge of jealousy that they could enjoy such simple pursuits, and wondered if he could ever lose himself so easily in simple camaraderie any more.

  Watching from the sidelines at a table set for tea— grounded or not, they remained Englishmen, after all— were the Count, Franklin and . . . Anne. He watched as the three talked animatedly, seeming more distracted by the game than watching it. Weatherby looked off toward the bow of the ship, where Second Chance stood proudly in the light. Over the past few days, the little sail-cart had aided foraging, hunting and scouting immensely. It was a little wonder, but far less so than its creator. Weatherby watched Anne laugh with Franklin, and noticed that she debated the Count St. Germain more freely than ever. She was, in so many ways, a woman coming into her own.

  “Sad to see her this way,” said a voice from behind him.

  Weatherby turned and saluted Capt. Morrow. “Ummm . . . excuse me, sir?”

  “The ship, Mr. Weatherby,” Morrow said, taking in the battered vessel with a glance. “She was a good ship.

  “The finest,” Weatherby said. “As bold and true as her captain and crew, I would say.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Weatherby,” Morrow said quietly. The two stood on the quarterdeck for a few minutes, looking over the wreckage, until Morrow spoke once more. “How is Miss Baker faring?”

  Weatherby cleared his throat. “Well, sir. She has been spending much time with St. Germain. I am told he may even take her on as an apprentice.”

  Morrow smiled. “You are told?”

  “Aye, sir. I . . . I’m afraid I may have misspoke to her at one point.”

  “And misjudged her, I should think,” Morrow said gently.

  “Aye, sir,” he admitted.

  Morrow sighed. “And now?”

  “I have always believed, sir, that he who is without sin should be the first to cast stones. It took Dr. Finch, of all people, to remind me of that.” The two officers smirked at this before Weatherby continued. “And yet the sin of pride led me to cast my own. What she may have done in the past is not whom she is today. I do not blame her for not wishing to speak with me,” Weatherby said sadly. “She will do well with the Count, I believe. A woman who sets her mind to something can be quite formidable.”

  Morrow smiled at that. “So it seems. Was our little alchemical society able to send off your letter to Lt. Jain?”

  “The journal disappeared briefly, sir,” Weatherby said. “They said that would be enough.”

  “Well, then,” Morrow said. “Mr. Weatherby, I would like to make you an offer.”

  “Sir?”

  “Our orders were to make for Ganymede, of course. What I failed to disclose at the time was that, once there, I was to take command of Invincible, leaving Daedalus
under the command of Mr. Plumb.”

  Weatherby smiled. The Invincible was an impressive 74-gun vessel, a third-rate ship of the line and one of the most powerful ’round Jupiter. “Congratulations, sir! That is wonderful news.”

  “Yes, yes,” Morrow said, “I suppose it is. I assume that, despite the loss of the Daedalus, we have comported ourselves well enough for me to assume that command regardless, especially now that Cagliostro has surrendered the Mercurium formula.” Morrow turned to address Weatherby directly. “If that be the case, I should very much like it if you would agree to join me as first lieutenant.”

  The younger man blinked several times. “Why, um . . . of course! Yes, gladly!” he blurted out before regaining his composure. “I mean, it would be an honor, sir. Thank you.”

  Morrow extended his hand, which Weatherby took firmly. “No need to thank me, Mr. Weatherby. You’ve performed admirably here on Mars. In fact, admirably does not even begin to describe it.” Morrow nodded down to the shady side of the ship, where Dr. Finch had already joined the other alchemists at table. “Shall we join our learned colleagues and see what new discoveries they’ve made over tea?”

  Weatherby smiled as he assisted the still-healing captain down the stairs. They made their way through the wreckage of the main deck and down into what was once the hold; by ducking, they could wend their way to a hole in the hull large enough for them to leave the ship.

  “I tell you, Franklin, I find the whole matter extremely troublesome,” they heard St. Germain state loudly. “I would never have recommended such an impetuous ploy!”

  “Now, now, my lord, what’s all this?” Morrow said as he approached. Dr. Finch hastily rose and grabbed chairs for the two newcomers.

  “My apologies, Captain,” St. Germain responded, still scowling. “We were discussing the implications of the method used to close the portal between and betwixt the two universes involved in Althotas’ plottings.”

  Weatherby frowned. “Am I to take it that there may be some issue with our conduct?”

  St. Germain turned beet red, enough so that Franklin reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “Now, Lieutenant, let us say up front that you and your compatriots from the other realm, for want of a better word, acted most bravely and with great insight,” Franklin said with a smile and a sidelong glance at St. Germain. “The actions that you and Lt. Jain—it was Jain, was it?—the actions you took were exceedingly intuitive and most valiant.”

  “But?” Morrow said, watching as the ship’s steward poured his tea.

  “But,” Finch said, “there is some question as to what might have become of those alchemical essences. If I may translate for my shipmates, gentlemen?” Franklin nodded, while St. Germain still seethed. “You see, by disposing of the alchemical essences in the reverse order of the ritual, you rightly assumed the ritual would be undone, and that Althotas would be returned to his prison.”

  “Indeed. All well and good,” Morrow said as he poured his tea. “So?”

  It was Anne who continued Finch’s thought. “We all believe, sir, each of us, that it was unnecessary to actually hurl the essences back into the portal. Simply removing them from the altar might have been enough. If not that, destroying them might have sufficed.”

  “Very well then, but the deed is done,” Weatherby said, trying not to sound put off, though Anne found reason to frown slightly at him anyway. “I am sorry, Count, if the Philosopher’s Stone is lost to you, and the other essences besides. It served a greater good.”

  St. Germain slammed his cup down upon the table. “But now he has them!” the count roared.

  Morrow looked over at the count. “Who, exactly, has them?”

  Franklin spoke up instead. “Well, Captain, if my colleague’s fears are correct—”

  “They are,” St. Germain snapped.

  “If his fears are correct,” Franklin continued, “it would appear that Althotas might now possess these items. Now, granted, we know not how large or small his prison realm may be, nor the extent of the wounds he suffered. It could take him years, even centuries, before he can gather the essences to himself, if he is even still alive. And it’s quite unknown whether he could actually employ them to any use whilst still imprisoned.”

  “But you’re worried,” Weatherby said, feeling the pit of his stomach lurch slightly.

  “Yes, my boy, I’m worried,” Franklin replied. “We all are. Perhaps nothing shall come of it, but I do believe it falls to us to be vigilant for signs of future mishaps.” Franklin took a sip of tea before continuing. “And really, someone needs to tell the Xan what happened. I dare say there is far more to their stories of Althotas than they have told us.”

  “In that, I agree,” Morrow said. “A diplomatic mission to Callisto, at the very least, is in order, if not to Xanath itself. They imprisoned this monster, and by all appearances, they didn’t do a good enough job of it.”

  “I should very much like to accompany that mission,” Franklin said. “I hope the hostilities between the Crown and Ganymede can be resolved amicably for that to take place. For if St. Germain is correct, we shall need to stand together against this threat, should Althotas return.”

  “In terms of the current disagreement, we will of course do our duty,” Morrow said. “But if it’s in any way possible to bring you to Xanath, Dr. Franklin, I promise you I shall.”

  Franklin smiled. “That’s all I can ask, Captain.”

  St. Germain scowled. “He will return, gentlemen. Of that, I have no doubt.”

  Morrow turned on him. “Then, damn it all, we will face him again!” the captain growled. “Weatherby here did not risk life and limb for you to tell him he did it wrong, man! Your alchemy and your secrets do far too much to imperil people already. I am quite content knowing that, should the time come, we shall stand firm together once more.”

  As St. Germain looked on, stunned at Morrow’s eruption, Franklin smiled and raised his teacup to Morrow. “Well said, captain. We’ll stand together, and we’ll be ready.”

  They all raised their teacups in salute. Weatherby tried to catch Anne’s eye once more, but she instead nudged the Count, who reluctantly lifted his cup a few inches from the table. That drew a very charming smile, one Weatherby wished had been favored toward himself instead.

  May 31, 1785

  The young man rushed through the halls of the Ecole des Cadets-gentilshommes, his uniform chafing around his neck as he hurried on to his appointment, brushing past his classmates, some of whom sneered as he sped past. “Le petit general,” they whispered after him. The little general . . . Perhaps they had little else to do, but this young man’s sights were set much higher.

  He jogged the last few yards, stopping to adjust his uniform before knocking. “Come in,” came the voice from inside.

  The student entered to find his favorite professor, Pierre-Simon Laplace, writing at a desk inside the small but well-furnished room. “Ah, there you are,” Laplace said. “You’re late.”

  “I’m sorry,” the cadet said, coming to attention before his professor. “Our drills ran late, monsieur le professeur.”

  Laplace placed his quill back in its inkwell and regarded the young man closely. He was stocky but strong, with a swarthy look to his face and eyes that, even at the age of sixteen, seemed to bore into people. He burned with energy, having completed the two-year course at the school in just one year due to his father’s untimely passing—and the resulting lack of tuition.

  Laplace was a mathematician, astronomer and alchemist, charged with teaching young men how to aim a cannon properly—child’s play, really, for a man of his talents. The school, on the outskirts of Paris, was a playground for the idle privileged, those who would join the ranks of the officer corps for a few years before riding off to their estates.

  But this cadet was different. He came from more modest means, but wanted so very much from life. He would suffice.

  “Come, sit,” Laplace said, motioning his charge toward a chair. �
��You are, perhaps, not the best student in my classes, but one of the most driven, and I am appreciative of that.”

  “Thank you, monsieur,” the young man said.

  “Are you familiar with the art of alchemy, the Great Work?”

  At this, the student’s brow furrowed under his dark hair. “I have not taken up a full course of study, monsieur. Do you think it necessary?”

  “No, no, I merely ask because you may find use for alchemists in your career. The English, as you well know, certainly do.”

  The young man nodded. “I am familiar with the effects to which alchemy may be employed in battle, and for my chosen vocation, I had hoped it to be enough.”

  Laplace smiled. “It will be. There is an alchemist, a true master of the Great Work, who has need of a young officer of superior talent and drive. I have recommended you to him.”

  The cadet’s eyes widened. “You are most kind!”

  Laplace leaned back in his chair. “Not at all. It is he whom you should thank. He sees the decadence of the current times, sees the empire the English have built, even with their recent losses on Ganymede. He sees France in decline, but would not have it this way.”

  “Pray, monsieur le professeur, what is his name?”

  “He wishes to remain anonymous,” Laplace said. “In time, you may meet him. But for now, he seeks to sponsor young men such as yourself, in the hopes that your efforts may work to bring France back to its former glory, and more.”

  “I am honored, truly,” the cadet said. “What is it that he would have me do?”

  “For now, nothing,” Laplace said. “Finish your schooling. Join the army, as you have planned. Rise through its ranks as you are able, and your new mentor shall pave your way according to your ability. And when the time is right, you might truly make a difference in this world, and others.”

  The young man nodded, his smile carefully hiding his concerns. There was no true generosity amongst men, and he doubted any man was such a patriot as to sponsor officers for the mere love of king and country. But the cadet was no fool, either. He would accept the aid, rise through the ranks as he had been told, and use this patronage to his own ends.