A Fistful of Dust

by Sharon Bidwell

  “Highmore, sir! Whatever you have done to this ship, I suggest you show yourself and repair it. If you do, Folkard will forgo pressing charges.”

  Charges! As if he cared. What was the threat of charges next to asphyxiation? The walls were closing in on him, making the amount of available air diminish by the second, and here was a Frenchman invading the small space, stealing his oxygen.

  Highmore gave Fontaine no reply but the doctor probably hadn’t expected one. The geologist moved deeper into the engine room, head turning and tilting as he listened for sounds other than the predominant hiss of steam. Highmore slipped further away. As he moved, one of his boots nudged something and he looked down, spying one of Stone’s precious books. He kicked it over the edge of the walkway and carried on even as the sound alerted the doctor to his whereabouts. When he got hold of Fontaine, he would do the same to him.

  6.

  THINK.

  If they were all suffering the same ill effects then were they all suffocating, wanting to shrug off their only protection? Annabelle had to stop them. Opening her eyes, the first thing she saw was Whitlock and Miss Highmore struggling.

  Was the traitor Whitlock? Or Joseph Highmore? Was Whitlock trying to murder them all at his employee’s command?

  Salt running into her eyes made Annabelle blink. Her vision cleared. Whitlock wasn’t trying to hurt Miss Highmore any more than her brother would, and now, Annabelle struggled to understand why she’d even thought that possible. Joseph Highmore loved his sister; Annabelle would…stake her life on it. She was staking all their lives on it.

  If there were nothing wrong with the suits then something was affecting them. She didn’t know what… Maybe Phobos itself. Maybe the reason its name was so closely linked to fear.

  Swallowing and gathering her courage, Annabelle took a deep breath. The artificial oxygen was unpleasant, but not toxic. When quite certain she was of sound mind, she called to the others. She had to make them understand they could not trust their emotions, their own senses. If she failed, at least one of them might not make it back to the ship.

  7.

  “ARE YOU THREATENING me?” Highmore’s gaze flicked from Arnaud’s face to the wrench he held.

  At any other time, Arnaud would have said no. He had no desire to scuffle with another man…at least not in this type of situation. He shrugged, swinging the wrench lazily. “I was just doing a little exploring down here.”

  “Not your field, Fontaine. You belong underground.” Highmore wasn’t talking about a cave. Buried was more like it.

  “I may need a wrench to repair whatever damage you caused.” In truth, he had stumbled across the tool and picked it up as the only defence he had.

  “Damage? Moi?” Highmore used the French word as if to mock him. “What makes you think I would know how to damage anything any more than you would know how to repair it? Ahh…but then I can see that you do know something of how all this works. Which is a pity, for ignorance would better serve self-preservation.”

  “I have no idea how this all works. As you say, I belong elsewhere. This…” Arnaud spread his arms, gesturing to the somewhat cavernous space they currently occupied. “Non. This is Nathaniel’s domain.”

  “And I’m sure he’s taught you a thing or two.”

  Arnaud almost said it was the other way around, but stopped himself in time. Highmore would not be the only one surprised over the things Nathaniel knew. “What did you do?”

  “I see no point in denial. A cable here. A cable there. A venting system is apparently not that difficult to interfere with.”

  As he finished speaking, Highmore moved so fast Arnaud barely had time to bring up the wrench. The only thing it did was to prevent Highmore braining him with his cane, although Fontaine felt grateful for even that small mercy. The wood and metal connected. Both spun away. His hands and arms went numb. Unfortunately, the impact didn’t seem to have quite the same effect on Highmore. At any other time, Arnaud would at least have been the man’s equal, but something magnified the man’s anger.

  Arnaud managed to land Highmore a good clip on the jaw, which fazed Highmore not one bit. The man was fuelled with rage…and something more.

  Fear, Fontaine realised, although he could not understand the cause of it, and now was not the time. Highmore had managed to get his hands around Arnaud’s throat. Instead of trying to drag the man’s hands away, Arnaud punched him in the face.

  8.

  “WHAT DO YOU make of it?”

  “I don’t know,” Nathaniel replied to Annabelle’s question. “The sheer size…” He couldn’t take accurate measurements. The two straight lengths appeared to have no markings on them. The curved side…had engravings. “I’d say this is a language of some kind.”

  “Like hieroglyphs?”

  “Similar, yes, but this is more a mixture of words and symbols. Picture-grams as well as written language. Perhaps designed so that more than one species or manner of beings could understand it?”

  “Professor Stone, begging your pardon, sah. We must get back.”

  “Yes.” It was time to go and assimilate all that he’d taken in. He’d learned something important here, but he was damned if he knew what. He missed Arnaud. Would have liked to share this with him. He wondered what the geologist was doing right now.

  9.

  HIGHMORE COULD VERY well throttle him. Arnaud had punched the man twice to no effect. He couldn’t pry Highmore’s fingers loose. His hands were like steel traps. He had two choices. One was a head butt to the man’s forehead. Arnaud chose the other. He lunged and kissed him.

  Highmore reared back, cursed, spat, wiped his mouth with the back of one hand…and seemed to come out of whatever had possessed him.

  “What the…?”

  Arnaud spat while massaging his throat. “Trust me. I enjoyed that no more than you, but short of braining you and possibly myself in the process I chose the less painful option.”

  “I…” Highmore stared around the engine room as if he failed to understand what he was doing there. “Forgive me.” Highmore rolled clear, staggered to his feet. “I…am myself again. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “And that, sir, is a problem, but not the only one.”

  Highmore stared at him, clearly puzzled.

  “You did something to the venting system. We have to find it and repair it before it becomes critical.” Highmore grew pale even as he watched. “Help me, Highmore. Think! What did you do to the ship? Help me to repair it, and then we can pick up your sister and the landing party. We can…discuss what has happened here sensibly at a more convenient time.” He took Highmore’s nod as an affirmative, but made the other man walk ahead. Arnaud stooped to pick up both the wrench and the cane on the way.

  Chapter Six

  “In Which There’s Fear in a Handful of Dust”

  1.

  “I KNOW YOU want me to explain what happened, but the simple answer is I cannot! Now, sir, will you release me from the brig?”

  “I would hardly call my cabin the brig,” Folkard said.

  “It looks no better,” Highmore said then relented. “Forgive me. I realise my attitude is not about to gain your trust, but neither of us must forget the reason we are here. I still have a man to find. Release me.”

  “When I have had a chance to discuss the situation with the others.”

  “But you heard what Stone said!” Highmore’s protest accompanied much gesticulating, before he no doubt realised such wild expressions would not help him gain his liberty. He sat down on the cot. “The others were affected out there as much as I was here on the ship. You, yourself, Captain, have felt the effect of Phobos.”

  “I do not know what I have felt though I am prepared to be open-minded. Nevertheless, I request that you remain here while we make our final move towards Stickney. I will have you escorted to the common room as we approach. Until then, think upon gaining command of yourself and maintaining control.”

  Highmore redd
ened as Folkard turned on his heel and left.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said to Arnaud. “I’ve left bruises on your neck.”

  “That you have.” Arnaud managed to ignore the urge to swallow. To do so would only hurt.

  “I…don’t know how.” Highmore looked at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger. “I would have thought you and I were at least well-matched.”

  “You seemed motivated by something…otherworldly.”

  Highmore seemed to consider this. “From what little I can remember it felt that way. I cannot recall everything I did. I thank God I did not kill us all. Despite my protests, I understand Folkard’s reasoning. I will…require watching.”

  “As will we all if something here is affecting us.”

  The other man regarded him. “And you, Arnaud, are you affected by something here?”

  “That I do not yet know.”

  Highmore nodded, although what he meant by the gesture was lost to Arnaud.

  “The…manner in which you stopped me…”

  “Let’s not dwell on it.”

  “You are…contrary, are you not, Doctor Fontaine? Unorthodox, some might say.”

  “I prefer avant-garde,” Arnaud said with a smile. “I suggest we leave what occurred here, and I will come fetch you myself as soon as we sight Stickney.” He left Highmore nodding and went to find Nathaniel. He’d just been strangled half to death. Nothing like a good throttling to focus your reasons for living.

  2.

  “I’M NO PHYSICIAN but there seems to be no permanent damage.”

  This close to him, Arnaud was aware of Nathaniel not only examining his neck and applying some soothing balm to the developing bruises, but the concern in the other man’s eyes. Despite his modesty, Arnaud was well aware that Nathaniel had been studying Blackwood’s Pocket Physician book, and if Nathaniel said all was well he felt inclined to believe him. He reached up to touch Nathaniel’s wrist. “I am fine. You are fine. The others are all fine.”

  “If we were about to head home, I think I would take consolation in that. I do not like this place. It seems to bring out the worst in people. I have a confession to make.”

  Arnaud waited.

  “I had heard of Joseph’s reputation, but my resentment did not stem from that. To me he is typical of the type of establishment who bend laws to suit their own needs and do not temper them with the very thing they are supposed to uphold: justice.”

  “You blame the likes of Highmore for your incarceration at Chatham as well as many things that have happened to you.”

  “Yes, in some ways I do.”

  “Yet you do not entirely believe your own defence.”

  He waited until Nathaniel lifted his gaze to look at him in puzzlement. Arnaud wrapped one of Nathaniel’s hands in both of his, purposely choosing the weaker wrist, weaving their fingers together and bringing them in front of his face.

  “Your depth of feeling, mon toujours, it is perhaps your worst failing and yet the best thing about you.” He tightened his grip. “If you were not a good man you would not feel the need to be punished for things you could not prevent. Forgive yourself. Enough, I say.” Arnaud sat back. “Mon dieu. You are not listening. Yet this is why I…” He stopped at a shake of the professor’s head.

  “You’ve said enough. For today, you’ve said enough.”

  Maybe it was just as well, for Annabelle spoke from the doorway. “Would you two like to retire?” She waited until she had their attention and then said, “Hurry. We approach the crater.”

  Arnaud nodded and then sat silent as Nathaniel finished his doctoring.

  3.

  “A PLOUGHED FIELD.” Nathaniel shot Highmore a look although he knew to what the man referred. Highmore turned wide eyes full of wonder upon him. “Grooves.”

  They now stood crammed in the control room, and although this irritated Folkard, it was the best viewing screen and he could hardly deny them these sights. There had been a slight altercation with Highmore, but he insisted on a brief look. Then he used the trump card of his search for Henry, and his association with Routledge. How much weight either of these carried with Folkard was another matter, but likely in order to waste the least time Folkard had relented.

  Naturally everyone wanted to be here, but Annabelle was currently manning the engine room, it having been agreed that scientifically Nathaniel and Arnaud had the most to offer. Nathaniel was ready to run the length of the ship at her call should any problems ensue.

  Like Highmore, Nathaniel was lost in the wonder of the scarred surface, the spectacle of which confirmed the minimal reports so far made by Earth’s scientists.

  “Intriguing configuration, do you not think?” Highmore came to stand on Nathaniel’s left, separating him from Arnaud. Aside from seeming a little embarrassed, the man was back to his old self.

  “Furrows.” Arnaud’s description was even more apt than grooves and added to Highmore’s remark of a ploughed field. The manner of machinery necessary to form these furrows would have to be wielded by giants.

  Highmore looked from Arnaud to Nathaniel and back again. “Observations?”

  “Why ask? You indicated you are less than enamoured with scientists,” Arnaud said.

  “For the most part that is true. So prove me wrong, gentlemen.”

  “The…furrows are aligned along the length of the moon. They could be an overrun from the collision that caused the Stickney crater, as an impact is the most likely explanation for both. Really anything I say would be speculation.” The continuing silence invited Nathaniel to do just that, but he refused.

  “Strip mining,” Arnaud ventured without hesitation. Nathaniel turned his head to stare at him, a look that he readily returned.

  “Enlighten those here who may not know the term,” Highmore commanded.

  Without breaking his gaze, Arnaud spoke to the room, his words utilitarian. “A term that simply means surface mining, stripping the layers of rock and soil. It gained popularity as early as the sixteenth century. It’s been used to extricate coal…oil…minerals.” Arnaud gave the word no particular emphasis but clearly the geologist was wondering whether indeed the minerals they sought were here on this very moon. Folkard remained silent, listening. “The most likely explanation for the…trenches, are a result of the impact which caused the crater; however, the patterns in the regolith are not remedial from the crater and would be indicative of strip mining. It would likely also account for size.”

  Yes, size, for the grooves were… “What do you think?” Nathaniel asked Arnaud. “A hundred feet deep?”

  “Oui. A thing that could be achieved by the gradual removal of layers. They have to be…” Arnaud stared out the viewing port, pursing his lips. “The smallest I judge three times the width as is deep, and some are double that. Their length runs for several miles.”

  “I thought the Martians had no interest in Phobos,” Folkard said, brow furrowing in a good rendition of the surface. “Didn’t Sir Henry say…?”

  “That they had superstitions? Yes. Mostly, they seem to have no wish to discuss it. During my conversations with the Canal Martians, I learned they seem to…fear it.” Highmore said that last directly to Nathaniel. “But if these marks are the result of mining…then who? The other men? The ones here before us, who have Henry?”

  Arnaud flicked a slightly pained but sympathetic look in the man’s direction.

  “Impossible.” Arnaud pronounced it the French way: im-poss-si-blah. “These marks have taken place over time. Some are fresher, others worn by years. Some have been here longer than I care to gauge. They angle over one another, overrun.”

  “Stone?” What had happened to Highmore’s calling him Nathaniel? “You have nothing to add to this yet call yourself a scientist?”

  “When I have something to live up to that expectation I will impart it.”

  “For now I suggest you all look ahead.” Everyone obeyed the captain. “That’s our destination, gentlemen.”


  The Stickney crater! Though to call it so did it a disservice. At Folkard’s order, the Esmeralda 2 eased along the rim, although they were still some way up and merely changed their angle of drift. From their vantage point, they began to perceive its depth and breadth.

  “What size is this thing?” Highmore stepped forward, allowing Nathaniel to bridge the gap to join Arnaud. The two men bent their heads together, although Nathaniel had to bend rather more than Arnaud. When soft strands of the geologist’s hair brushed the side of his face, it was all Nathaniel could do not to leap back. They conversed. He straightened, grateful to do so, and a little sorry. “Approximately six miles in diameter.”

  “There appears to be a smaller crater inside the giant one.”

  “That would be Limtoc,” Arnaud explained.

  Folkard dipped his head, gaze intent, once again projecting the image of a man whose mind was only marginally here. When he ordered them into Limtoc, no one questioned why.

  4.

  THEY DESCENDED INTO darkness.

  “Decidedly unremarkable.”

  “You sound puzzled, Highmore. What were you expecting?” Having no wish to talk to the aristocrat, Folkard couldn’t resist baiting him. The…itching had diminished but remained as vibrant in his mind as were Arnaud’s bruises. The geologist even now stared at him and from the way he held a hand to his throat, probably felt battered.

  “I’ve been in caves in Devon more interesting than this.”

  “Of such magnitude?”

  A glance revealed an irritated curl of Highmore’s lip. That such caves as this existed on Earth, Folkard had no doubt, but that Highmore had been in one was disputable.

  The cavern in which they descended was large enough to allow more than adequate manoeuvrability for Esmeralda 2. Their projected lights extended far enough to reach the sides, but the outer walls remained in gloom. Nothing pierced this twilight except shifting shadows, which at first Folkard had taken for movement until he reasoned what could be down here to move?

  Anything. If his encounters so far had not taught him this, they’d taught him nothing.