The Venusian Gambit

by Michael J. Martinez

  Now he was on the other end. And he was getting pretty damn tired of uncertainty.

  But…

  “Send reply as follows,” he told the car as he drove off. “I’m interested. Set up a secure link and we’ll talk.”

  CHAPTER 2

  March 27, 1809

  Capt. Patrick O’Brian, commander of HMS Thunderer, looked at his young officers and midshipmen with a practiced eye as they filed into the great cabin of his 74-gun ship. So young. How could I have ever looked this young?

  Yet they were the best England could provide—or, rather, the best the North of England could provide, along with Scotland, half of Ireland and a bit of Wales. Perhaps that’s why the frigate captains looked like green lieutenants, the lieutenants appeared to be naught but midshipmen, and the mids…dear God in Heaven, the mids looked barely weaned from their mothers’ bosoms.

  They were the newest addition to the fleet protecting Elizabeth Mercuris, the floating outpost above the blasted cinder that was the planet Mercury. They would have to do, for the outpost was critical to keeping the French from taking control of the Void itself.

  O’Brian looked out his aft windows at the outpost. It had grown immensely in the thirty years since he first laid eyes upon it. It had started as a commercial trading post for the miners who worked in the caves and caverns of Mercury below, then blossomed—if such a term might be used for such an unsavory place—into a major Sunward Trading Company port. Through alchemy, plenty of sails and no small amount of genius born of desperation, the floating outpost consisted of old ships and hulks lashed together with rope, joined by wooden walkways and bridges, weighed by alchemical lodestones designed to keep gravity and air in place. It was tucked directly behind Mercury so as to keep the heat and light of the Sun from becoming too intense.

  And today, it was England’s last hope.

  There was a rapping upon O’Brian’s door. “Come,” he said over the low murmur of his wardroom officers.

  When the admiral walked in, O’Brian smiled as he stood. Only Thomas Weatherby would knock before entering a subordinate’s cabin.

  The officers and mids scrambled to their feet, eyes wide with shock as they saluted Admiral Lord Weatherby, and O’Brian registered a slight shock of his own. It had been nearly six years since he last saw his old commander and friend—the man’s wedding day, in actuality—and the years seemed to weigh upon Weatherby like an old cloak.

  Weatherby, it seemed, saw something similar in O’Brian as he came across the room and clenched the captain in a warm embrace. “For God’s sake, Paddy, why the hell aren’t you eating?” Weatherby said quietly, his concern broken with a warm smile that, for a moment, banished the lines of worry upon his face and lifted the air of palpable gloom around him.

  “Likely the same reason you aren’t sleeping, my Lord,” he replied. “There is plenty to go around, I fear. Thank you for coming to speak to the lads.”

  “It’s good they know what they’re fighting for here, Captain. Shall I?”

  O’Brian nodded, and Weatherby turned in the cramped cabin to address the wide-eyed youngsters present, thinking much the same as O’Brian with regards to their youthfulness. Those eager eyes, those unblemished faces…it was a sin to think how quickly they would be replaced by glassy dullness and hard lines. And Weatherby felt acutely that his own appearance would be an object lesson on the results of a life in service. His hair was grayed, his face lined with worry and wind, the two-inch scar on his cheek, gained ‘round Mars some thirty years past, a white ghostly line on leathery skin. Yet he could stand tall, walk briskly and hold fast, and his voice could still raise an entire ship to action with one bellow. He might have looked worried—and he was, for England was on the very brink of war—but he was, by no means, ready to bend.

  “Gentlemen,” O’Brian said, quieting the room immediately. “May I present Thomas, Baron Weatherby, Vice-Admiral of the White, Knight of the Bath, and commander of all Sunward forces of His Majesty’s Navy.”

  Weatherby shot O’Brian a look for that overly formal introduction, though he knew that listing his various titles and honors might lend additional weight to his words. Still, it seemed that if those in this cabin needed the additional weighting, there was little Weatherby could say that would move them from whatever strange mind-set they possessed.

  “Officers of HMS Thunderer,” Weatherby began. “I should like to come to know each of you as well as I know your captain here, but I fear time and tide shall not allow it in these dark days. But I tell you this: You have in command of your ship one of the finest men with whom I have ever sailed sea and Void. I trust him with my very life. Follow his commands in both spirit and letter, and you will find naught but success, I promise you.

  “Now, your captain asked me to address you briefly, for many of you have had little word of England, or how our war fares with the damnable French. I should wish to report better news than I have…Napoleon has control of much of the Continent, and has recently taken Spain almost entirely unopposed.

  “I am happy to report that Wellesley and the army are holding fast to Yorkshire, and have even begun an effort to take Derbyshire and advance into northern Nottinghamshire. The French have sent reinforcements, of course, and the battles are hard fought. Their invasion force has dwindled—due in large part to the limited life-spans of their revenant soldiers. Apparently, these abominations can only be animated for three or four years before finally collapsing, allowing their poor souls at last the rest God intended. And with the rest of the Continent pacified, Napoleon’s alchemists have a lack of new…material…from which to create new troops.

  “Meanwhile, the victory at Trafalgar—may God rest Nelson’s soul!—has allowed our fleet to continue dominance of both sea and Void. We have kept the plague that is Napoleon’s army from spreading beyond the Continent. Elizabeth Mercuris is absolutely critical to this effort.”

  There was a whispering and a few chuckles from a corner of the room that caught Weatherby’s ear, and he spied a sandy-haired young lieutenant smiling from that direction. “You there,” Weatherby said, pointing. “Repeat what was just said, if you please.”

  At this the young man’s grin turned into a visage of abject panic, but he immediately stood ramrod straight and spoke clearly. “An opinion was stated, my Lord Admiral, as to the critical nature of Elizabeth Mercuris as anything other than…a whorehouse.”

  Weatherby could not help but smile slightly, as there were indeed several such establishments within the outpost. “Indeed, Lieutenant. But can you tell me why that opinion is entirely incorrect and the truth as to why it is critical to our efforts?”

  The lieutenant—barely past his midshipman years—could only shake his head no. And those around him looked upon him with a mix of terror and pity.

  “Lieutenant, the alchemists here use the ores mined below to create the solution known as Mercurium. This allows our ships greater freedom of movement; with the proper application of Mercurium to the ships’ sails, they may launch for the Void from any point, upon any sea, on any world. Without Mercurium, ships must sail—sometimes for weeks—until they reach a world’s aurorae at the poles, and only there can they catch the Solar wind and be off into the Void. But of course, you knew this already, did you not, Lieutenant?”

  The young man nodded vigorously, and seemed quite apt to have a nervous episode at any moment.

  “France has very little Mercurium at hand,” Weatherby continued. “So little, in fact, that they’ve found it easier to simply build ships from their holdings on Venus, then send them into the Void and keep them there. These Void-squadrons are growing, I’m sorry to report. And with Venus so close, our critical holding here upon Mercury—one of the keys to our dominance of the Void—has been sorely tested, and will likely be tested many times again. It is Mercurium, produced here, that allows our ships to quickly make the Void from wherever our ships may be, while France and her allies must ascend at the poles of any given world—effectivel
y hampering their imperial ambitions considerably. This outpost is thus critical to our efforts.”

  Weatherby looked closely at his audience. He told them nothing new, really, but he had them well in hand, the benefits of rank and legend manifest. “I know you would like nothing more than to make sail for England and expel the French from our homes. And I should be quite glad to give the order. But we face a canny, cunning, well-armed enemy. We must fight intelligently, attacking at points of weakness. England will be liberated, I can promise you. Napoleon will answer for the crimes he’s committed against our King, our Country and against God Himself. And your actions here, aboard this fine ship, under this most excellent commander, will help bring us to that fine day.

  “Mind your stations, heed your orders and excel in all that you do, and the French shall hear Thunderer in their ears before long! God save the King!”

  The young men in the room stood as one and cried out, “God save the King!”

  With a nod, Weatherby moved toward the door, shaking the officers’ extended hands. It both amused and saddened him to think that these young men would one day say, “I once shook Lord Weatherby’s hand!” He overheard a young midshipman say exactly that upon a frigate he inspected last year, and felt both embarrassed and morose afterward. Weatherby had done much since the invasion of England…but Napoleon still held their homeland. All the accolades and titles would mean little until he could see the King return to Buckingham and Windsor once more.

  Then he could finally rest.

  O’Brian escorted Weatherby out onto the main deck and toward the gangplank that would take him back upon Elizabeth Mercuris. “I must apologize for Lt. Stiles, my Lord. I shall see to his further education, of course,” O’Brian said.

  Weatherby smirked as he stepped onto the “ground” of the outpost –more wooden planking, slapdash paths made of old timbers that linked Elizabeth Mercuris’ buildings together. Below the planking was nothing but the Void. “Of course, though do remember we were much like him back in the day.”

  “We were, and we were whipped for it,” O’Brian retorted as he escorted Weatherby toward the outpost’s Admiralty headquarters—a former second-rate ship, long stripped of sail and mast, with windows where its gunports once were and a surprisingly ornate door cut into the lower hull. “Anyway, I shall do what needs be done. How fares the Lady Anne, sir?” O’Brian asked.

  Weatherby smirked, his mind rushing back thirty years to an impromptu fencing lesson—and Anne being the one to teach a very young Midshipman O’Brian a few things. “She is well, Paddy. Already trying to come up with ways to increase efficiency here and produce more Mercurium. T’was never a problem she didn’t enjoy solving, even if there was none to solve at first!”

  The two men laughed as they walked along the wooden path, the hustle and bustle of portside activity all around them. The stars shone clear, and the Sun’s corona was visible around Mercury’s dark sphere below. Above, alchemically-treated sails fluttered in the solar winds, helping to keep the outpost in place, rather than plummeting toward the dark, cold desert of Mercury’s night side. “It was good of you to mention Nelson in there,” O’Brian said. “I know you didn’t get on with him, but since Trafalgar, the men—the officers in particular—see him as a martyr. And we, of course, served with him at the Nile.”

  “Actually, we interrupted him at the Nile,” Weatherby said. “Displaced his favorite captain and put a decisive end to an otherwise long battle. I’m sure he was quite put out. But yes, we need our heroes in these days. If Nelson can continue his service from beyond, then we must use his memory well.”

  Just then, bells began to toll across Elizabeth Mercuris. Old church bells, ship bells, even strings of carriage bells. The entire outpost erupted in a nerve-wrenching jangle.

  It was the general alarm. Something—someone—was coming for the outpost.

  Weatherby turned to O’Brian. “You’re in the van. Take two frigates and make sail at once. See what’s coming and report back as quickly as you can. Do not engage if outnumbered. I’ll be along shortly.”

  O’Brian turned and yelled toward the quarterdeck. “Beat to quarters! Prepare to make sail! Clear lines and moorings!” A moment later, Thunderer’s bell joined the cacophony of others, and her captain turned and extended a hand to Weatherby. “An honor to be sailing with you again, sir.”

  “The honor is mine, Captain O’Brian,” he replied with a small smile, taking his friend’s hand firmly. “But don’t stand on ceremony. I’ll get out of your way. Go be my eyes, Paddy.”

  Weatherby turned and quickly made for the gangplank, clambering across onto the wooden pier of the outpost. He quickly hurried along, ignoring the salutes of fellow sailors when they came—and they were few and far between, with Elizabeth Mercuris erupting into chaos. He ventured a glance off toward the Void, but saw nothing. He could only hope that the brigs and sloops on picket duty had been able to signal the outpost well in advance. If not, they would be hard pressed to sail quickly.

  “Tom!” a voice called from behind. “What is it?”

  Weatherby turned and saw Anne, half-covered in silver-black soot, her gown a perfect wreck, her hair a tangle absently drawn back. She looked worried, and rightly so—she had not been upon Elizabeth Mercuris for many, many years, and likely had dismal memories of what such an alarm might bring. Then again, her memories of the place were dismal no matter the condition.

  “I cannot say, my lady,” he replied quickly, not breaking stride, though Anne quickly took her place beside him and matched his pace neatly. “How goes your Mercurium refinements?”

  “We are close, very close, but then your fleet’s alchemists rushed to their ships, leaving things in a complete state of arrest. I should wish them back post-haste.”

  Weatherby smiled slightly; she knew the request to be absurd, and a glance at her showed as much in her smirk. “I shall, of course, send the lot of them back to you as soon as I’m able. But there is the slight matter of their duty to their ship, first and foremost.”

  “Very well. I shall carry on until you’ve taken care of this terrible business,” Anne said with an airy breeze, but then quickly reached over and gripped Weatherby’s arm slightly. “Do be careful,” she added with evident concern.

  “As always, my love,” he smiled. “Now go secure your stores. I shan’t be long.”

  Anne turned quickly for her makeshift laboratory, stored in the hold of a decrepit merchantman lashed to the outpost, and made for where his flagship was moored.

  And he was quite pleased to see that HMS Victory was well and ready to make sail, waiting solely upon her admiral. She was truly a magnificent ship—three decks and 104 guns, one of the largest in His Majesty’s service—and informally considered to be the flagship of England itself, though this was due in no small part to Nelson’s heroic passing upon her quarterdeck nearly three years ago.

  And Victory had been extensively refurbished since Trafalgar, so much so that it was hard to believe her keel was laid in 1759. She was old, certainly, but a fierce lioness if there ever was one.

  Her captain, John Clarke Searle, waited for Weatherby on the maindeck as he boarded. “We are prepared to set sail, my Lord Admiral,” Searle said. “Shall I give the order?”

  Weatherby nodded curtly as he took up his hat and handed his satchel of papers to his long-serving, long-suffering valet Gar’uk; the three-foot tall Venusian lizard-creature had been with him for nearly 15 years. Nobody knew for certain what the life-span of the Venusian people might be, but Weatherby could attest that Gar’uk did not seem to allow advancing age to slow him overmuch, despite a noticeably leathery look upon the scales around his beak, a droop under his eyes and a touch of hobble in his step. Of course, Weatherby could say the same of himself—except for the scales, of course.

  “Any word on the cause of the alarm, Captain?” Weatherby said as he and Searle made for the quarterdeck.

  “No, sir,” the captain replied. “All we know is th
e lookouts caught a signal rocket from one of our pickets. The governor sounded the general alarm at once.”

  Weatherby frowned slightly; the governor of Elizabeth Mercuris was one Roger Worthington, a man who achieved his role and title simply by being the son of his late predecessor, and was wholly unlikely to rise to even his father’s meager level of competence. “At least there was a signal, then, and the governor wasn’t simply suffering under a case of nervous delusion,” he quipped. “Make sail for the direction of the signal rocket. Signal the fleet to form up behind us.”

  “No need for signals, Admiral Weatherby!”

  Weatherby wheeled about to find his fleet alchemist, Dr. Andrew Finch, rushing up toward him. And it was hard to determine what surprised the admiral more—the sudden, loud and undisciplined approach, or the general look of unkempt exhaustion and wide-eyed fervor upon his old friend’s face.

  “My God, Finch, do try to be a better example for the men,” Weatherby chided softly. “You look like a perfect wreck.”

  Finch smiled, and his eyes grew wider. “What if, Tom…what if you could communicate with Paddy O’Brian right now, with but a thought, rather than use signal flags and telescopes to try to divine his messages?” he asked. “What if you could quickly, clearly express your commands to your captains as if they were standing right next to you?”

  Weatherby saw two seamen walk up behind Finch. One carried a small table, while the other held a oval mirror ringed with occult and alchemical etchings. “Finch…I must ask, have you returned to your old habits of late? Are you addled even now?”

  The alchemist looked confused a moment, but then waved the question away with his hand. “Tom, I’m being quite serious here. I’ve come across a method by which we may be able to allow you to communicate and coordinate all the ships under your command simply through the power of thought and speech! Think of what a boon that would be! A strategic advantage like none other!”

  Weatherby turned and walked slowly up the stairs toward the quarterdeck, knowing Finch would follow. “Has this been tested at all, Dr. Finch?” Weatherby asked.