The Venusian Gambit

by Michael J. Martinez

  “I am indeed, Lord Admiral, and I trust you are as well,” said Castlereagh, fit and hale for a man nearing 40, and charismatic as one might expect from a nobleman and politician both. “You remember General Wellesley, yes?”

  Weatherby had not seen the other man, but he did indeed remember, as Castlereagh well knew. The Navy admiral shook the Army general’s hand perfunctorily, and with a tight smile. Sir Arthur Wellesley was singularly devoted to the goal of retaking England—of course, as they all were. But Wellesley’s fervor approached manic on many occasions. He personally led sorties south of Hadrian’s Wall, had taken and lost Yorkshire no fewer than three times in two years, and continued to run through men and matériel at a most alarming rate. Wellesley was a decisive military genius, something even Weatherby would readily admit. But whereas Weatherby believed in a strong Navy to keep Napoleon’s forces from gaining reinforcements from the Continent, Wellesley often advocated a total assault from all sides. The year prior, the two men had nearly come to blows right in front of Castlereagh and the Prince Regent when Wellesley insisted on conscripting every sailor in the Royal Navy for a massive southern assault on Portsmouth. It took physical intervention on the part of Prince George himself to separate the two.

  “My Lord Admiral,” Wellesley said quietly, a tight grin upon his thin face, his dark eyes alight with what could only be described as keen assessment.

  “Sir Arthur,” Weatherby said, equally reserved and likewise taking the measure of the other.

  Anne came over and likewise shook hands—they were all, in fact, familiar with one another, having spent varying amounts of time at Edinburgh Castle, and Anne herself was a de facto alchemical adviser to the court—until finally, an uncomfortable silence reigned for several long moments. Castlereagh coughed, then said: “I am told, Lord Weatherby, there is some intelligence from Oxford you wish to share with us?”

  “Should we await His Highness, my Lord?” Weatherby asked.

  “I am to understand the Crown Prince Regent may not be in attendance after all,” Castlereagh said with a smirk. “Obviously, as Prince Regent, and with His Majesty the King still in French hands, there is much that weighs upon him.”

  In other words, the bloody prince doesn’t give a damn. “Well, then, perhaps we best begin,” Weatherby said as he walked toward the room’s main table, whereupon his satchel of papers lay. He opened it and withdrew a page, laying it upon the table. “Minister, General, this is an alchemical message paper, linked to a journal kept by Philip, the Count St. Germain—Anne’s son.”

  “Yes, I understand he and your daughter are both in Oxford,” Wellesley said quietly, and with apparent earnestness. “You both should be proud of them. They are true English patriots.”

  “You are most kind, Sir Arthur,” Anne said before Weatherby could reply. “We are, of course, both proud and greatly worried for their safety. This message requires a bit of translation, but we can safely say that the Frenchman Claude-Louis Berthollet—the very creator of the Corps Éternel, and France’s greatest alchemist—is in Oxford right at this moment, along with another man, likely an alchemist as well. And they are seeking something in the depths of Oxford’s archives.”

  “Do we know what?” Castlereagh asked.

  “We cannot say, Lord Minister,” Weatherby replied. “But Oxford remains the greatest repository of alchemical and otherworldly knowledge in all the kingdom, and the finest outside Paris or the Vatican—all of which are in French hands, of course.”

  “One of Oxford’s foremost specialties, aside from the Great Work itself, is in lore from beyond Earth—the Xan, the Venusians, the ancient Martians,” Anne added. “Our concern is that they may be seeking the key to some new working or weapon of which we are not aware, one that may lay within their grasp. They have free rein upon Venus, after all, and they remain allied with the Xan partisans.”

  Castlereagh and Wellesley took this information in for several long moments. “This is alarming indeed, my Lord and Lady,” Wellesley said finally. “But what action might we take? Oxford is 350 miles from here if it’s an inch. And there are legions of French troops, and their damnable Corps Éternel between.”

  “Little, certainly, other than to be prepared,” Weatherby said. “We have given them instruction to discover as much as they are able without being discovered themselves, and—”

  “And I’m sure they will perform admirably,” came another voice from the head of the room. The group turned and saw His Royal Highness, George, Prince of Wales and Prince Regent, enter the room. He was tall, stout and broad-chested, possessed of a florid face and dark hair, with eyes that could hold joy and menace in equal measure—and occasionally both at once. At times Weatherby wondered whether he was King Henry VIII come back to life; certainly the prince’s once-profligate spending, estranged marriage, and long-time mistress helped the comparison.

  Yet Weatherby saw there was something far more interesting afoot than the mere attendance of England’s ruler, for the Prince Regent was accompanied by a Xan.

  All in the room bowed deeply toward Prince George, but their eyes remained locked on the looming hooded figure to his right. This worthy was ten feet tall, and its taloned hands were clasped in front of it, obscured by the folds of its robe. Likewise, the Xan’s hood covered its face, as was common amongst those Saturnian folk who visited Earth-men.

  Prince George, for his part, smiled wickedly at his subjects in the room. “And here I imagine you thought me off on some wastrel adventure or another,” the Prince Regent chided. “In fact, I have been deep in negotiations with the ambassador here.”

  Weatherby and Castlereagh shared a quick look, and it became quite evident to Weatherby that this was a surprise to the minister, and thus likely a surprise to the rest of His Majesty’s Government as well. Since retreating north, the Prince Regent had taken a far more active role in government than King George, especially given the latter man’s enfeeblements of both body and mind. An active monarch was, in the eyes of some, a worrisome development, especially when he might act without the advice and consent of Parliament—a Parliament that continued to have difficulty meeting with more than half its elected members behind enemy lines.

  George, meanwhile, smiled up at the hooded figure, which made a non-committal, melodic sound. The Xan had two mouths, one upon each side of their long faces, and their language relied on musical harmonies to add nuance and deeper meaning to their words.

  At this sound, Anne’s face grew brighter. “I dare say I know that melody,” she said. “Is that not Vellusk under there?”

  “Indeed it is, Lady Anne,” the Xan sang, its body quivering slightly. “And I find it most agreeable to be in your company once more, along with our good Lord Weatherby. I hope you are both well, and your children besides.”

  “Yes, we overheard,” Prince George said, cutting him off; His Royal Highness was never one for niceties in private settings. “In fact, that is why we interrupted. This good fellow here suddenly took a keen interest in your children, Lord Weatherby. Or rather, what they might find.”

  Weatherby turned toward the hooded alien. “Have you any notion as to what the French might seek in Oxford, Ambassador?” Weatherby asked.

  “I cannot say for certain,” the Xan sang, with uneasy harmonies lending a tension to his reply. “We remain troubled that The Book of the Dead was unaccounted for during the Egyptian crisis these many years past, and have always been concerned that the French may have taken possession of it.”

  “Dr. Finch says the book was destroyed,” Anne replied, putting a smile in front of the steel of her words. “I see no reason to distrust him.”

  Vellusk appeared to…ripple…under his voluminous robes. “I find Dr. Finch a wholly admirable person, and one of the finest alchemists Earth has produced, my dear Lady Anne. I mean no disrespect. But the presence of these French abominations—those un-dead soldiers upon your very lands—leads me to believe that at least parts of the Book remain in the hands of
Berthollet. So we must consider all options, including, I’m afraid, the very worst of possibilities.”

  Prince George stepped forward, interjecting himself into the conversation. “When might we know something from these children of yours?” he demanded.

  Weatherby saw Anne bristle, and reached out subtly to place a hand upon her arm before words were exchanged. “Philip is the Count St. Germain now, sire, and my daughter Elizabeth is among the most intelligent people I have the privilege to know. Between them, we expect word any day. They have Dr. Finch’s message papers, and we will know what they have learned quite quickly.”

  The Prince Regent looked to Castlereagh and Wellesley. “Their presence in Oxford shall not affect our plans. The invasion must be conducted on schedule, especially if we are to ask the Xan for their assistance.”

  Weatherby’s jaw dropped as he looked to Castlereagh, and back to George. “Your Highness?”

  George smirked, which in any other man would’ve been unkind, but was largely a part of the prince’s mercurial and occasionally melancholic nature. “This is why we need your ships, Weatherby. We have found what may be a gap in France’s defenses of England and Wales, and we mean to take full advantage. And Vellusk here has agreed to assist.”

  Both Weatherby and Anne looked to the Xan, whose robes rippled again—surely a sign of anxiousness. “We are aware that there are partisans from amongst our people who have taken up arms against you and in support of the French. We, of course, condemn these outcasts, but we recognize our condemnation is not enough. We must assist. However, our assistance must be limited,” Vellusk sang sadly. “We cannot risk open warfare, nor shall we allow ourselves to battle our wayward fellows upon the Earth itself, for the consequences would be most dire. But yes, the time has come. We shall render some small technologies to you that may help you neutralize the threat the partisans pose, and may further keep the French monstrosities at bay.”

  “And we shall retake England!” Wellesley exclaimed quietly. “Surely, this is the hour!”

  Weatherby looked down upon the prince’s table, whereupon was laid a map of Great Britain. There, a number of lines were drawn: it was to be an invasion from Caernarfon, in northern Wales, sweeping through to London via Shrewsbury, Birmingham, Worcester…and Oxford. It was, perhaps, the best plan he had seen in many long months.

  He looked to Anne, who took his hand in hers and held it tightly, then back to Wellesley, Castlereagh and the Prince Regent. “What do you need from me? And more importantly, what technologies can we rely upon from the Xan?”

  Later that evening, Philip St. Germain looked upon the mirror in his room, and was quite pleased to find nothing there to be seen.

  The elixir used to make a person invisible was not made up of rarities, but was rather difficult to create nonetheless, requiring exactitude in ingredients, heat, timing and cooling. Tales were told in the alchemical labs in Oxford of students who would turn the most curious colors thanks to improper admixtures, or would disappear for days on end. There are those who claimed a single hapless student—the time of his attendance at Oxford being uncertain, of course—disappeared entirely and completely, and was left to haunt the halls for decades.

  Philip sought but a single night’s haunting, and hoped his elixir would give him enough time to complete his task. He glanced out his window, and found the French revenants were once again at their posts by the side door, with the well-appointed carriage nearby. Berthollet and his compatriot were inside once more.

  He opened his door slightly and, seeing no one, quickly exited his room and closed the door behind him, then made his way down the hall. A pair of his students wandered past in the hallway, discussing the merits of one of the girls in the village—he hoped it was not Elizabeth—before they moved past, unheeding. Philip merely had to step aside deftly as they walked past, then walked down the stairs to the front door of Hertford College. Another group of students entered, and he took advantage of their passing to slip outside.

  The trick to invisibility, as he understood it from the accompanying texts describing the formulae, was not to disturb one’s environment overmuch. People would not see him, but they would see a door opening seemingly of its own accord, and they would certainly hear footfalls, a cough, a sneeze. Philip had thought to augment his working with a means to dampen sound—a most common addition—but had not the time to prepare it. There was no way of knowing when the French might complete their business, and so he would have to make do. He left his shoes in his room to compensate, requiring him to gingerly walk across the cobblestone street, lest he stub his toe or trip.

  Then there were the Corps Éternel, which had given Philip pause before he executed his plan to infiltrate the Bodleian Library. Precious few English alchemists had been able to study these resurrected soldiers in any great detail, for those who fell in battle seemed to quickly revert to whatever state of decomposition they might normally have experienced since their actual death. The alchemical energies quickly left once their corpses were rendered inert once more, and all too few had been successfully captured.

  And so it was that there was a divergence of opinion as to these revenants’ sensory capabilities. If they were limited to their normal, pre-deceased senses, then Philip would have no issue with moving past them. But if the fell means of their new life had given them preternatural senses, as some suspected, then Philip would have to face the savagery of the un-dead guardians—and tales of their prowess in combat was far more widespread than that of their sensory abilities.

  Philip approached the door to the Bodleian cautiously, looking intently at the guards there for any sign of movement. He, like so many others, was fascinated and unnerved by the Corps Éternel soldiers’ faraway gaze and their utterly still stance. It was as though they hoarded what little spark of life left to them, only to use it when called upon by their French masters—or when someone approached.

  Another step, then…and another. Philip crept closer, and yet the guards remained motionless. At this distance, no more than six feet away, Philip could see their eyes shifting dully. They were assigned to guard duty, after all, and it would not be meet for a guard to be caught unawares. But even in this, they were unnatural. Philip could see their eyes look left, then before them, to the right, then centered, then left again. Over and over, as if a clockwork had been set behind their eyes.

  And so he waited until one of the guards cast its unholy gaze upon him, holding his breath. The cold, dead eyes seemingly fixed upon him…then looked away.

  They could not see him.

  Philip almost exhaled in relief, but caught himself, forcing the breath he had held to escape slowly and quietly. He then picked his way across the cobblestones to the door, which remained closed.

  He waited.

  Several minutes went by, and to his utmost frustration, no one entered or left the library. The hour grew late, and he grew increasingly anxious that his quarry would leave before he might discover their intent.

  Philip turned back to the guards. They stood stock still, their backs to him. And he wondered if these Corps Éternel soldiers were indeed as listless and aimless as they appeared.

  It would be a gamble, and a failed ploy could result in a bayonet through him.

  Philip slowly pressed down upon the door latch with his thumb. With a click—all too audible—it gave way.

  He turned to the guards once more. They remained motionless.

  Quickly, Philip opened the door just enough for him to slip inside, then closed it behind him with immense care. Another sound escaped as the latch caught once more, and he stood in the corner of the hallway, wide-eyed and sweating, to see if anyone, living or dead, would react.

  All was silent.

  Trembling with unspent tension, Philip slowly made his way down the corridor, listening for sounds echoing in the otherwise empty library. Thankfully, he knew the library as well as any tutor might, and some sections were as familiar to him as the contents of his own alchemical
laboratory. And so he moved silently toward the stairs leading upward, to where the tomes on alchemy and other sciences were kept.

  It took altogether too long, Philip felt, to make his way there, but caution remained a watchword. And yet there were no lamps lit in any of the rooms. Nothing was unduly disturbed. There were no signs of the French.

  Philip thought a moment. The only other collection that might be of interest was two floors down, in the basement of the library—the collection of books and artifacts from the rest of the Known Worlds.

  That, in and of itself, might warrant a report to his mother and stepfather. But he had to know for certain. And so he crept down the stairs once more, keeping close to the railings to minimize the creaking of the boards, until his stocking feet met the cold stone of the basement.

  A light shone from one of the rooms further down the hallway. Philip could hear murmurs, but little else. It would not be enough.

  A sound off to his right made him start, and he nearly tripped over his feet as he turned toward the source. At the other end of the hall, he could make out the form of a woman, holding a single candle. There was a basket under her arm, and he could see the outlines of a broom in the darkness. One of the cleaning women, most likely finishing her duties for the evening. Philip allowed himself breath once more, but nonetheless watched carefully as the woman walked away toward another part of the building. It would do no good to be caught by a simple worker when he was so close to his goal.

  Philip proceeded closer, and closer still, and the murmurs began to grow louder. He could not make out the words, but he knew them, at this point, to be French. Another positive sign. Grinning slightly now, having gained confidence in the efficacy of his alchemical disguise, Philip made his way to the open door.