The Venusian Gambit

by Michael J. Martinez

  Shaking her head, Shaila closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. Memories wouldn’t do right now. Focus was primary.

  When she opened her eyes, Stephane was staring at her.

  Her heart beating, Shaila returned his gaze as steadily as she could. Normally, she could read Stephane like a book. Granted, that was two years of being in a relationship working in her favor, but he wasn’t exactly guarded. He was an honest extrovert, his heart on his sleeve. But the eyes staring at Shaila now were unreadable. Nothing in his slack, pale face hinted at anything at all. His eyes were glassy…dead.

  She reached over and toggled the comm system so he’d hear everything she said. “Hi, honey.”

  He twitched. Almost imperceptibly, but it was there. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a slight fluctuation in his vitals. Good.

  Shaila got up and slowly walked over to the containment cell’s airlock. “I missed you. Thought I’d come back, see how you were.”

  Stephane looked away, seemingly at a fixed point just above his toilet.

  “Sorry about your bed. Diaz probably didn’t want you to hurt yourself,” she said, right before seizing on an idea. “Well, not quite that. She probably didn’t want Rathemas hurting you. I think he’s done enough of that, hasn’t he?”

  A soft beep from the console behind her prompted her to turn around. Another blip in vitals, and this time in the ambient Cherenkov radiation in the room. Even better.

  When she turned back, Stephane was there—standing, right up against the transparent wall of the containment unit. Looking at her with focused eyes.

  It took every ounce of willpower and discipline she could muster not to jump back.

  “So…umm…so. Yeah, we had a thought,” she stammered, reaching for something in the back of her mind that was bothering her for a while. “You see, we’ve been looking at the device Rathemas and his friends created. You know, the one hooked up to the Emerald Tablet the Chinese found on Titan. We have some people working on it. Good ones, smart ones. We’re trying to figure out why that machine was hooked up to the vats carrying the proteins.”

  Stephane blinked and twitched slightly.

  There were more blips from the console behind Shaila, but she didn’t bother to look. Her heart rate was slowing; she was settling into this. Always the pilot, she was beginning to see the outline of the controls in front of her, in this little interaction. She just had to get a feel for them.

  “So what was that about? I mean, Rathemas flew the ship right through a massive debris field full of ice and micrometeors. With the doors open. All that water, and all those proteins got in. That’s a huge risk. And now all those proteins are just…dead. That’s weird. Why go through all the trouble if you’re going to kill them?”

  Stephane was visibly shaking now, his eyes darting around the room. The effect reminded Shaila of a kid cornered with his hand in the cookie jar. Perfect.

  “You know, I’m thinking that the comm blast Tienlong sent was related. Maybe those proteins had extradimensional properties, and maybe it was the data they represented—not the actual molecules—that was important. So the data was sent to Earth, to someone else out there, who could use it to open a portal, bring some more baddies from the other side,” Shaila said.

  Then she paused, watching Stephane as he crossed his arms over his chest, swaying slightly. As if his body was on the verge of somehow getting away from himself.

  And that’s when she had an idea.

  “Holy crap, Stephane. Maybe this is crazy, but hear me out. So Rathemas used the Tablet to pull not only data, but….oh, I don’t know, the essence…out of those proteins, right. So hell…maybe there’s a way we could use that rig to pull this Rathemas bastard out of you.”

  Stephane stared wide-eyed now, trembling, mouth agape. Shaila felt her datapad vibrate. A moment later, she saw a text from Diaz on it: WHERE DID YOU GET THIS FROM? AYIM LOVES IT.

  Shaila smiled and kept going. “Now, I don’t know what happens to Rathemas in all that. Maybe he just gets sucked into the Tablet. Maybe we dump him in with what’s left of those proteins so he can swim around. Maybe he just dies. Honestly, I hope he just dies. And between you and me, honey, I really, really hope it hurts. A lot.”

  Stephane abruptly smashed his fist into the transparent wall, inches from Shaila’s face, and this time she did jump. But she smiled more broadly, too. It was working.

  “Getting antsy in there, Rathemas? Good. Stephane and I are going to kick your ass right out of there,” Shaila said, stepping forward once more. “We’re going to rip you out and send you screaming into hell, you bastard.”

  Stephane’s head twitched. It looked for all the world like an abortive nod.

  “Yeah? Is that you, Stephane? You ready to kick him out?”

  For a long moment, Stephane just stared, bug-eyed and trembling, his fist against the wall. Sweat was beading on his forehead. He staggered back a step. Then another.

  And then he screamed something that sounded an awful lot like French before collapsing onto the floor, unconscious.

  Fuck. “Julie, get me medical in here now!” Shaila yelled as she knelt on the other side of the barrier, trying to get a better look at Stephane.

  Moments later, Julie rushed in. “On their way. His vitals are normalizing,” she reported. “This…this is amazing.”

  Shaila stood slowly. “Yeah. I think it went…well,” she said.

  “And he said something! That’s incredible!”

  “You know French?”

  Julie nodded. “Hard to make out, but I think it was something like ‘moi mont’ or…well, something like that. There was something before it I couldn’t make out.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Me. Me or my. And…rise. Or soar.”

  A cold shiver ran up Shaila’s spine. “‘Watch me soar.’”

  Julie was calling up reams of data on her console. “Regarde-moi mont. Yeah, maybe. We’ll have to clean up the audio some.”

  Now Shaila was the one trembling—so much so, she had a hard time activating her comm. “Jain to Diaz. Tell Ayim we need to figure out how to hook Stephane up to that Tablet thing.

  “I think it’ll work.”

  CHAPTER 9

  May 9, 1809

  “All hands report ready, my Lord. No report from the lookouts,” Capt. Searle said crisply, standing tall upon the quarterdeck of HMS Victory while Weatherby paced back and forth on the lee side.

  “Very good. Thank you, Captain,” Weatherby muttered, then pulled out his own glass and looked over to larboard. “Where the hell are they?”

  They had been at sea for more than twenty hours, having sailed shortly after midday the day prior. Weatherby stationed his ships—only four other ships of the line, with perhaps a half-dozen frigates and brigs—at the very edge of the Firth of Forth, spread as wide as could be managed while still within signaling distance. And there they stayed, hoping beyond hope that the French were indeed heading for Edinburgh, rather than on some other mission to which the purpose might elude them.

  Sleep, of course, eluded Weatherby as well. For the younger officers aboard Victory, rest was no issue at all, for their worlds were much smaller. Ensure the readiness of your division. Manage your watch crisply and to the first lieutenant’s liking. Watch the men for signs of drunkenness or lax discipline.

  Weatherby remembered those days well, walking the deck of HMS Daedalus and thinking only of the tasks at hand, the day’s watch, the respect of his men and his peers. Now, with the defense of Scotland—and the Prince Regent himself—in his hands, Weatherby found himself wistful for those simpler days.

  But then he remembered Mars, and the alien warlord that burst through and shattered the boundaries between worlds, and knew that it was never, ever, so simple as that. Like all memories, it was but a reconstruction of an ill-remembered time, filtered through the prism of intention, desire and regret.

  Weatherby was distracted from his musings by the arrival of
Finch, sauntering up the stairs to the quarterdeck. “Any luck?”

  “None,” Weatherby said, continuing with his pacing. “There is too much ocean, too many potential targets. We may defend Edinburgh, but they may yet try for Aberdeen instead, or even Inverness. Or south to Berwick. They could simply have made for the poles and the Void to reinforce Venus instead. Damn them, we simply do not know!”

  Finch just smiled. “Would you like to?”

  “Like to what?”

  “Like to know where the French are.”

  Weatherby stopped pacing and turned to eye his friend closely. Finch had the insouciant look upon his face he often wore when he was about to pull out some alchemical trump. Yet he continued to grow more pallid and wan, so much so that Weatherby had begun to suspect Finch had lapsed into his former drug-addled ways. “You worry me, Finch. You look unwell.”

  Finch waved it aside. “I’m perfectly fine, Tom. Now, shall we find the French?”

  The alchemist turned and waved to someone on the maindeck. A moment later, two men were carrying a table and mirror up the stairs to the quarterdeck, while a third bore an odd sort of helmet made of leather and bits of metal and wire, along with a visor of smoked glass and other, unidentifiable bits.

  “This again, Doctor?” Searle asked, his hands upon his hips. “Must we clutter the quarterdeck with such things whilst the very enemy may come into view at any moment?”

  Finch regarded the captain with ill-disguised disdain. “My dear Captain Searle, this is how the enemy will come into view.”

  Weatherby shook his head. “Finch, I’m not wearing that…thing.”

  “I will,” Finch sighed, positioning himself above the mirror. “This experiment started as a way for you to communicate directly with your captains during a fleet engagement. Unfortunately, we’ve not yet had time to test that aspect further. Since then, I’ve amended this working to create a kind of far-seeing device, one that should allow me to gain a broader view of the horizon and, if all goes well, pinpoint the location of the French. Now, help me orient this to true north, so that I don’t send us off onto an ill-fated course.”

  Finch’s helpers—the few alchemists’ mates assigned to the ship—looked to Weatherby and Searle first, knowing Finch was trying the patience of the ship’s true masters. It was Searle who spoke first. “Are you sure this damnable working of yours won’t damage my ship?”

  Finch merely smiled. “How can a bit of alchemical clairvoyance damage a ship at all, Captain?”

  Searle looked to Weatherby with a frown, but the admiral was merely smiling. “If anyone could damage a first-rate ship-of-the-line with a mirror and a helmet, it’s you, Finch,” Weatherby said. “Go on, then. Show us. And Captain Searle, you may station fire crews as you see fit.”

  To Weatherby’s amusement, Victory’s captain did just that, ordering a line of buckets readied. The admiral had seen enough of Finch’s workings to know that it was highly unlikely that a gout of flame would shoot from the mirror—or from Finch’s head, now adorned with the queer helmet—but the possibility of an unforeseen incident was certainly a concern. Finch was one of the foremost alchemists of his day, but his methods of experimentation were occasionally reckless. One time, many years ago, the very figurehead of one of Weatherby’s ships—along with most of the fo’c’sle—was blown four hundred yards away by one of Finch’s errant workings.

  This time, however, Finch merely stood over the table, his hands extended over the mirror, and began an incantation in a language Weatherby did not recognize. Usually, alchemists in the employ of His Majesty’s Royal Navy used the approved workings written in English, Latin or, on occasion, Greek. But this was nothing like those tongues.

  Then a black cloud appeared in the mirror, slowly expanding to cover the entire surface of the glass in pitch blackness. For a moment, Weatherby thought he caught glimpses of stars, as if the mirror was reflecting the very Void. But then it devolved into a whirling, inky darkness.

  And then Finch looked up suddenly, smiling. “They’re coming from the north and east, roughly…that way,” he said, pointing. “Only four large ships, a few others. And….yes, there’s another four large ones coming from the south and east. That way. A few frigates with them as well.”

  Weatherby followed Finch’s finger. “They likely wanted to draw our defenses out toward one group, so the other could come into the harbor,” he said. “I imagine their holds are packed with those infernal Corps Éternel soldiers.”

  Searle nodded, though he still looked skeptical. “Orders, Admiral?”

  Weatherby turned to Finch. “Which group is closer?”

  “The northern group. They seem to have the wind,” Finch said.

  “As would we should we attack them first, then pivot to the other group,” Searle added.

  Weatherby considered this a moment, then decided. “Captain, signal the fleet. We sail north to engage the enemy. Have a brig and frigate fall back to Edinburgh and tell them of our course, then stay to help defend the city if needed.” He then turned to Finch. “If Edinburgh is indeed attacked, could you have some knowledge of it with your working here?”

  Finch reached up and removed his odd headgear, showing his face even more pallid and sweaty than before. “I believe so, my Lord. Though I will need rest in between.”

  “So I see,” Weatherby murmured. “Get below and rest. We’ll have need of you to tend the wounded from the coming engagement. And by God, I do hope you’re right, for we leave Edinburgh exposed to do this.”

  Finch smiled wanly. “I’m right, Tom. I swear it.”

  Weatherby nodded, and Finch went below, leaning upon one of his alchemist’s mates for support. Weatherby pulled a small pocket-journal from his coat, along with a pencil, and made a note to himself to discuss this working in great detail with his wife and step-son, for it seemed Finch’s bouts of anemic sallowness were at times tied to his workings. He also made a note to have someone search Finch’s quarters for signs of his return to the lure of Venusian opiates, just to be cautious.

  It was but four hours later when the lookouts first caught sight of the French fleet, well off the coast of Arbroath. As it happened, Finch’s mystical reconnaissance turned out to be correct, though he did confuse a fourth-rate for a smaller ship; while brilliant in the research and execution of the mystic sciences, Finch was always a poor naval officer. The odds were roughly even, for while Weatherby had more guns and one more ship, the French had the weather gage and the knowledge that there were a second group of their fellows making for Edinburgh.

  But Weatherby nonetheless sought to maximize whatever advantages he had. Well prior to the sighting, he had ordered his ships to form a single line in order to obfuscate the number of ships he could bring to bear. So it was that the ships now sailed straight for a scattered group of French vessels, which were spending critical time and effort forming their own line of battle.

  And it was but one line, as Weatherby had hoped. Thus, he could put his plan into action. “Captain Searle, signal the fleet. Form the second line.”

  In moments, half the ships in Weatherby’s line—every other ship, in fact—split off from the line and sailed roughly two hundred yards before forming up again. So whereas Weatherby had but one line prior, he now had two, and they would now maneuver to place the French line between them, catching them in a cross-fire.

  But the French commander, it seemed, was a versatile strategist and, much to Weatherby’s consternation, split off his own ships into two lines, sending one to Weatherby’s larboard side, potentially leading Victory and three other ships into a cross-fire of their own.

  “Damn him,” Weatherby muttered as he peered through his glass. “Starboard line, continue forward. Signal the larboard line that we’ll take the van, and they are to follow us.”

  Searle had the signals run up, and soon Victory was peeling off away from the second British line, drawing that portion of the French squadron with them. Weatherby had hoped his trickery w
ould even the odds, but now it seemed a fair fight would be at hand, and the casualties would be high. There would be no flight from it.

  Flight.

  Weatherby snapped his glass shut with a smile. “Signal our line! Rig for Void!”

  Searle was stopped in his tracks. “My Lord? We are fleeing?”

  “Not at all. But be quick. Signal the line!”

  Searle gave the order, and but three minutes later, HMS Victory and three other ships began to slowly rise from the sea to the sky, and thence into the Void. Except….

  “Now come about east! Prepare for keelfall! Signal the line!” Weatherby shouted.

  Searle, to his great credit, passed along the order before commenting. “My Lord Admiral, we shall burn all of our Mercurium to do this.”

  Weatherby smiled. “Then it is a fine thing we managed to save Elizabeth Mercuris, is it not? Now run out the guns and prepare to fire at my command.”

  The turn, combined with the order to descend, caused the four English ships to essentially jump over the second French line—as well as the first line and that of their English fellows as well. Victory and the other ships splashed down on the other side of four French ships, immediately catching them in between.

  “FIRE!” Weatherby roared.

  A moment later, more than fifty guns poured iron and alchemy into the nearest French ship, burning through wood and men with equal, deadly efficiency. Upon the other side, HMS Mars likewise fired, capturing the French vessel in a horrid cross-fire. Already, sickly green flame burst through the French gunports; inside, Weatherby knew, would be an abattoir of wood, iron, fire and flesh.

  Looking aft, Weatherby saw three other pairs of English ships tearing into the line. One French vessel, a stately old 74 by the look of her, exploded into a greenish-red ball of flame almost immediately, her magazine having been caught. Masts fell while the men on deck screamed and dove overboard, preferring the cold embrace of the sea over fiery death.