The Venusian Gambit

by Michael J. Martinez

  “We’ve been able to engage in some limited tests, yes,” Finch said. “We’ve managed to cast our thoughts from one end of the ship to the other.”

  “One end to the other? Do you know how far our ships sail in the Void? We may be ten miles away, maybe more!” Weatherby said.

  “And what of the side effects?” asked Searle, who had little love and a great deal of mistrust when it came to matters of alchemy.

  Finch suddenly looked away, as if he were distracted. “What are you doing here?” he muttered.

  “Excuse me?” Searle said, with some force behind it.

  “Oh, quite sorry,” Finch said, snapping back. “Something…just occurred to me. Anyway, there have been some cases of headaches, a bit of nausea, one very isolated case of vertigo and unconsciousness, but, I promise you. Admiral, these issues have been addressed. The days of signal flags and fog-of-war are over!”

  It was very clear to Weatherby that Finch was intensely passionate about his discovery, and that he likely had spent many sleepless nights perfecting it, as was his wont when creativity struck. “I’m sorry, Finch,” Weatherby said gently. “We shall test your innovation at our very next opportunity—just one that does not involve actual combat. We cannot afford to have myself or my captains incapacitated.”

  Finch nodded sullenly. “Of course, sir.” He then brightened up slightly. “I shall discuss this with Captain Searle when we return to the outpost, then?”

  “As soon as we return,” Weatherby agreed, giving Searle a slightly apologetic look. For his part, the captain of Victory smiled tightly, and excused himself to see to Weatherby’s orders.

  “It’ll work,” Finch said quietly.

  “I know, old friend,” Weatherby said, equally sotto voce. “But the captains need to focus on the task at hand. It is not your working, but their lack of preparation for it, that has me worried.”

  It was something of a fib for Finch’s benefit, and Weatherby felt badly for it, but it seemed to assuage him greatly, and the alchemist soon made his way below decks to begin preparing for battle. Not only was Finch responsible for all the alchemists aboard Weatherby’s ships, but in times of battle, Finch would use his knowledge of the Great Work to help treat wounded, repair the ship and fire back with the deadliest weapons alchemy could empower.

  As the crew of Victory unfurled her sails and prepared to make for the Void, Weatherby paced slowly on the quarterdeck, his mind already among the stars, mentally reviewing where each of his ships would be. There were, of course, standing orders as to the positioning of the ships in the fleet, depending on what Thunderer and her squadron found as they scouted ahead. There were six other major warships at Weatherby’s disposal—all third-rate, 74-gun vessels—along with a host of smaller ships taking up picket positions around the outpost. The pickets would be the last line of defense—aside, of course, from the hundreds of guns on the outpost itself. These guns had never fired upon a French vessel while Weatherby was in command, and he would do much indeed to further such a record.

  Weatherby started slightly as Victory pulled away from the outpost and sailed out toward the unknown. When he was a mere captain, his mind captured every small detail of his ship’s operation and could identify a slack line or misplaced ammunition with but a glance. But he’d been an admiral now far too long, it seemed. His mind was on every ship, not just the one upon which he personally sailed. Taking out his glass, Weatherby saw the other ships in his fleet form up, creating a kind of chevron in the void, with Victory herself at the point. Over years of engagements, Weatherby felt such a formation was ideal for most circumstances, allowing the ships to scatter and engage or form up into a single line with equal facility.

  Returning his attention to where he stood, Victory herself seemed in fine form. He had never been her captain, and thus did not know every inch of plank and sail as Searle would, but Weatherby knew well enough her rhythms and ways. There were two sets of planesails upon each side of the massive, three-decked warship—a first rate, and England’s largest—and plenty more sailcloth upon her three masts. For such a large ship, she handled in the Void like one that was much smaller, though certainly not as fast as any would like. Thankfully, her guns were effective compensation for the lack of speed.

  “Signal from Thunderer!” came the call from the lookouts above, more than 150 feet above the maindeck. “Enemy sighted! Ten ships!”

  Weatherby nodded at this, though Searle seemed less pleased. “Ten! That’s a full fleet, then. Orders, sir?”

  “Another signal to the fleet, then. We shall scatter and engage as soon as Victory fires. Let’s hope they’re as hidebound as the last ones,” Weatherby said.

  “You’d think they’d learn,” Searle commented after passing Weatherby’s commands to his officers. “Nelson’s tactic at Trafalgar should’ve been a clear enough warning.”

  Weatherby simply shrugged. “Understand, Captain, that so many of their finest sailors, their career officers, were purged during the revolution. And then again in the Terror. And again after Napoleon came to power. They may build ships well enough, and they can sail, but tactics…that’s experience. That’s why we’ve maintained supremacy at sea and Void, and I’m quite unwilling to give it up today. Now, let’s run out. Where’s Thunderer?”

  As Victory ran out dozens of guns from her flanks, the lookouts spotted Thunderer heading back toward Weatherby’s fleet in something of a chaotic trajectory—likely because she was being followed. O’Brian did not wish to provide a clean shot upon his stern, the least defensible portion of any ship, and the wide, swooping turns and spirals in the Void allowed him to fire upon the two ships following.

  One of which, as the ships came into clearer view, was a Xan ovoid.

  “Damn it!” Weatherby cursed, snapping his glass shut. “We keep telling Vellusk there are partisans aiding the French, and yet he does nothing!”

  The Xan, natives of the rings of Saturn, were nominally a pacifist race, but for the better part of the past decade, a small but growing faction had sought more warlike ways—and allied themselves with the French, no less. England had, of course, sought alliance with the main body of Xan, led by Representative Vellusk, but these worthies remained committed to their precepts of peace, unlike their fellows, and would offer naught but verbal support against the partisans, and the aforementioned promises of attention to their increasingly strident faction.

  And yet there was an ovoid—the queer, egg-shaped vessels half the size of a frigate and three times the speed of the fastest brig—and it was quite a problem. Their strange electrical-alchemical armaments could cripple a 74-gun ship with but four or five well-placed shots.

  Searle paled. “Change in orders, sir?”

  “Aye. Signal Swiftsure to come up alongside, and Thunderer to come sail toward us. Let us see if we may crack this egg before it hatches.”

  As the signal flags flew, Weatherby spied ahead with his glass. The ovoid was among the ships counted by the lookout, which was good news. The rest were closing fast and, aside from Thunderer’s pursuers, were hewing to older naval tactics by forming a column of ships, bow to stern. At sea, this would be most prudent, as battles were fought in two dimensions. Out in the Void, however, vessels could take advantage of the third dimension through canny use of their planesails. Likewise, the speeds at which engagements took place were significantly faster, thanks to the alchemical working upon ships’ sails that harnessed the very Solar Wind itself.

  “Swiftsure is in position, my Lord Admiral,” Searle reported. “Thunderer acknowledges her orders as well, though she’s taken some damage amidships.”

  “Then let us be on our way, Captain,” Weatherby responded. “Off toward the ovoid. The rest of the fleet may engage at will.”

  Weatherby watched as, one by one, the ships in his fleet peeled off and, with royals and studding sails unfurled, swooped toward the French line in a hodge-podge of directions. The French could continue to hew to old tactics if they wished,
but Weatherby would not oblige them such a stodgy battle.

  Meanwhile, Thunderer grew ever closer as Victory and Swiftsure, the latter a “74” of fine lines and good form, spread out further apart on either side of the incoming ships in their fleet. For a moment, Weatherby wondered just how effective Finch’s working might be in communicating with O’Brian and his other captains. It hadn’t occurred to the admiral that the system of lookouts and signal flags might be improved, yet in this moment, and despite his extensive experience in battle, Weatherby wondered whether they should test Finch’s innovation sooner rather than later.

  Men raced across the deck of Victory as she raced toward the battle. Marines climbed to the tops, rifles slung across their backs, so they might take aim at the French officers upon the quarterdecks of their ships—just as the French sharpshooters would take aim at Weatherby and Searle. It was Weatherby’s duty to stand tall in the midst of this, showing courage and heart for the men aboard—indeed, while Weatherby could coordinate the battle from the safety of his cabin by using runners to convey his orders, he well knew that he served as a symbol to the men of Victory, and by extension his entire fleet, by being seen.

  Searle, of course, was busy with the efficient handling of the grand old ship, conveying his orders to his first lieutenant, whose shouts pierced the bustle aboard. Young men, barely out of their teens, hauled powder and shot across the decks to arm the guns, while the larger, stronger seamen loaded shot into their guns and ran them out. The men swarming through the rigging prepared to adjust sails according to whatever Searle—and Weatherby—wished in the moment. All 800 souls aboard were part of a well-trained, well-oiled mechanism designed to bring raw destruction forth as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  And Weatherby, as the fleet admiral, was responsible for all of it—and none of it, as it was not, strictly speaking, his ship he stood upon.

  The admiral watched Thunderer quickly grow larger as it neared, with the Xan ovoid racing after it, arcs of electric wrath firing into the Void toward the English ship. She was out of reach for now, but at those speeds, she would feel the power of those infernal workings in seconds. It would be up to the men of Victory and Swiftsure to ensure the ovoid would not get a clean shot upon their comrades aboard Thunderer, for if it did, the grand 74-gun ship would surely see the aft third of its hull ravaged.

  In a flash, Thunderer passed between Victory and Swiftsure, with O’Brian suddenly tacking downward in a course-correction that would likely wrench every man aboard his ship and stress the gravitational lodestones to a great degree. And just as suddenly, Thunderer reversed course yet again, shooting straight upward and well behind her sister ships.

  “Two points down starboard-side plane! Two points up larboard-side plane!” Searle shouted, his timing very close to perfect. Through his glass, Weatherby saw Swiftsure making the same adjustment.

  The Xan ovoid was doing its level best to follow Thunderer and—as O’Brian planned and Weatherby had hoped—placed itself slightly below and in between Victory and Swiftsure.

  “FIRE!” Searle shouted, just as Weatherby’s mouth had opened to give the order himself.

  Streaks of alchemical fire rained down upon the Xan ship, with several shots striking the egg. Soon, several more shots came from above as well; O’Brian had turned back around, rotated his ship, and contributed a broadside to the effort. Yet even as a strange orange-and-black smoke began to pour forth from several rents in the Xan hull, bolts of bluish lightning erupted from the ship, lancing the sides of both Victory and Swiftsure. Weatherby watched as the powder inside four guns aboard Swiftsure exploded in flame, and the tremors he felt underfoot told him a similar effect had occurred on Victory’s gundecks below.

  “Fire crews, to your stations!” Searle yelled, and immediately a score of men raced for the hatches leading belowdecks, buckets in hand. They were not at sea, of course, so the usual seawater was replaced by an alchemical powder that would smother flame in an instant—if they were fast enough to keep it from spreading.

  And yet, despite the damage—and the likely deaths of a dozen or more men below—the Xan had only gotten off weakened shots at best. Weatherby watched as the ovoid, wobbled off into the distance, spinning uncontrollably now.

  “Shall we take her, sir?” Searle asked, a gleam in his eye. No English vessel had ever successfully captured a Xan ovoid. And Weatherby had given strict orders not to try, but Searle was an ambitious man, and likely wanted some recompense—or revenge—for the damage to his vessel.

  Weatherby shook his head sadly, for he understood perfectly well the man’s motivation. “The Xan will not allow it, Captain. Engage the nearest enemy ship still standing.”

  A moment later, as Victory moved off, the Xan ship exploded in a puff of orange flame, leaving a glittering cloud of shards drifting toward Mercury. The warlike Xan partisans would never allow themselves to be captured. Certainly not by a race of people they considered patently inferior.

  Victory came up upon a large triple-decked French vessel—Weatherby could not make her name nor recognize her lines—and began opening fire, joining the 60-gun Agamemnon in pouring shot into her. Only half of Victory’s larboard-side guns fired, for it was a standing order in Weatherby’s fleet to alternate fire from target-to-target whilst in the Void; opportunities flashed by quickly, and the divisions below decks needed to have at least some guns ready to engage at a moment’s notice, while the others reloaded as quickly as possible.

  The French ship shuddered under the assault, and quickly dove toward the Sun and away from both English ships, maneuvering toward the ribbon of glowing specks emanating from the star itself—the Solar current, a powerful flow of motes and lights that could whisk ships away toward the other planets at immense speeds.

  “Permission to pursue, Admiral?” Searle asked. In actuality, it was more of a statement, and it was quite evident he wanted the French triple-decker as a prize.

  Weatherby supposed that’s why there were admirals aboard ships after all—to rein in talented but ambitious captains.

  “Permission denied. I’m sorry, John, but we must assist the rest of the fleet, and we’ve not the space nor manpower to keep hundreds of French prisoners secured upon Elizabeth Mercuris,” Weatherby said gently and quietly. Even though he was in overall command, Weatherby knew to not loudly countermand his captains whilst upon their very quarterdecks.

  “As you wish, my Lord,” Searle said, with the very ghost of a smile upon his face, for he likely knew Weatherby’s answer before he gave it, but thought to chance it regardless.

  As it happened, there was little more Victory could do. Weatherby’s fleet of swarming ships had scattered and flayed the French fleet quite nicely. One French ship was adrift in the Void, fully engulfed in flames, while two others had lost their masts and had struck their colors; Weatherby would later allow one to be sailed to England as a prize. The other would be disarmed, her cannon added to the defenses of Elizabeth Mercuris, and given over to the two French crews to sail wherever they pleased, so long as they left Mercury and swore never to return. Much goodwill had been engendered by these tactics, as the bulk of the French crews—and even some of their junior officers—had been pressed into service. Many had set sail for Ganymede, where the ships would become merchantmen or be sold to the upstart United States.

  The rest of the French had followed the French flagship into the current, allowing themselves to be whisked away in defeat. As was his practice, Weatherby went below decks to congratulate the men—and to survey the damage. It was upon the middle gundeck that Weatherby saw the carnage the Xan weapon had wrought, for there was a massive gash in the ship’s hull, some forty to fifty feet long and four feet wide. No fewer than seven guns had been hit, disintegrating under the alchemical onslaught and sending thousands of bits of metal shrapnel careening through the entire deck. The decks were slick with the blood of brave Englishmen, and even though he had seen such horrors many times before, it was all Weatherby co
uld do to maintain his composure and put on a brave face for the men, many of whom looked at him with any number of emotions: pride, sorrow, horror, recrimination.

  There were scores wounded, and junior officers and alchemists were quickly administering curatives to any who could be saved. Finch was there as well, still looking wan, but moving deftly to save the life of some poor soul whose name he likely did not know, nor would ever learn. The fleet alchemist’s arms were covered in blood up to his elbows, and it was left to one of his assistants to procure the necessary curatives from his stores, for the glass vials and cloth satchels would be tainted with blood were he to handle them personally.

  “How bad?” Weatherby murmured as he drew close enough to speak quietly.

  Finch poured a silver liquid into the abdominal wound of a sailor who could be no more than fifteen years of age, and the young man screamed in utter agony. “Sixty, perhaps. I cannot say yet for certain. Now if you please, Tom…”

  Weatherby straightened up and left Finch to his workings, slowly making his way forward once more, shaking hands with the survivors, consoling the injured with a kind word and a hand upon brow or shoulder. He knew full well his legendry, and knew that the merest touch could be a salve to a dying man, giving those lost souls a measure of purpose and grace, even as they breathed their last.

  It was appalling. It always was, it always would be. But it was the duty of an admiral to the men he used as a weapon against his enemies.

  After a half-hour of this, and with his fleet turned about to return to Elizabeth Mercuris, Weatherby returned to the ship’s great cabin, where Gar’uk had poured a glass of claret for him. Weatherby struggled to turn his attention to the battle’s conduct, rather than its aftermath. The French still hewed to their old tactics, but the admiral knew that even their inexperienced officers may learn from this engagement. So Weatherby took pen and paper in hand and began to make sketches of the engagement, so that he could review the battle with his captains later. They could not become complacent, and so they would alter their approach next time so as to keep the French upon their heels.