The Venusian Gambit

by Michael J. Martinez

  The French did not even have time to run out their guns against Victory and the other English ships that had taken to the sky. But there were signs of damage on the other English line; Mars had taken heavy cannon fire to her gun decks, and her foremast was listing forward at a dangerous angle.

  “Report, Captain?” Weatherby asked, more for the formality of it than anything else.

  “Our line reports damage amidships from shrapnel and the like, minor injuries,” Victory’s captain said. “Our other line endured more fire, but all report ready to continue.”

  But the other French line, as it happened, had little appetite for further engagement with Weatherby’s leap-frogging squadron, and continued south and west toward Edinburgh. “They’re likely linking up with their fellows,” Searle said. “Shall we pursue, sir?”

  “For now, full sail in pursuit,” Weatherby said. “Engage with chase guns if we come into range. In the meantime, have Dr. Finch meet me in the hold if you please.”

  “What of the French ships?” Searle asked, turning to regard the blazing hulks. The men aboard were struggling unsuccessfully to contain the fires, and there were many men in the water besides.

  Weatherby sighed. “Trail lines aft. Perhaps we may save some yet. But…we must continue.” Searle nodded gravely in understanding, and Weatherby made for the bowels of the ship, trying not to be sickened at this violation of the laws of the sea. As much as he wanted to help those men, the preservation of his country—or what was left to him of it—was of a far greater and more immediate concern.

  Minutes later, Weatherby watched Finch descend the wooden stairs into Victory’s hold, where were housed the lodestones that guaranteed the ship’s air, warmth and gravity in the chill of the Void. Yet there were other alchemical workings stored there as well. Finch paused to check on the nearest lodestone, muttering to himself as was his wont of late. Weatherby heard something about “souls,” but could not piece together the rest.

  “Finch?”

  The alchemist stood and smiled once more. “That was quite a trick, Tom,” he said by way of greeting; they were alone but for a few able seamen, and formality was often wasted on Finch to begin with. “Good thinking.”

  Weatherby forced a smile. “I enjoy catching the French unawares. Now, we need to talk about the Mercurium.”

  Mercurium enabled ships to rise into the Void through alchemical means, rather than through the traditional method of sailing into the aurorae at the poles of Earth, or whichever other world they were upon. The French, without reliable sources of Mercurium, were forced to make for the poles each time, making it relatively easy for the English Royal Navy to patrol the northern regions of Earth—or, more often, the polar regions of the Void—in order to thwart them.

  But it was a finite resource that required reapplication to a ship’s hull and sails, and they had just wasted a great deal of it, which is why Finch looked perplexed. “Still planning on making for the Void? I doubt we’d be able to. An abortive rising like that burns through a great deal of it—it was as if we had ascended a dozen times.”

  “I know,” Weatherby replied. “Could we do it again?”

  At this, Finch shrugged. “That depends. To what degree?”

  Weatherby explained his plan, and Finch listened with incredulity and a growing smile. Soon, the alchemist was casting about the hold for his stores.

  “It’s going to be a tight thing,” Finch warned, though he seemed freshly energized by the prospects. “The Mercurium will most likely be spent, and I shall have to rely on other workings to keep us aloft. Even then, we could very well plummet from the sky at any moment.”

  Weatherby, having given his orders, made for the stairs and the decks above. “Then we shall aim to land atop their ships,” he said, only half-joking. “Whatever it takes to stop them.”

  Philip and Elizabeth watched from the parapets of Edinburgh Castle as the sun set over the mountains to their left. To the right, the waters of the Firth of Forth glistened. There was no sight of the French—or of Weatherby’s fleet.

  “They found them and engaged,” Philip said, adopting the naval terminology with only a small amount of confidence. “They’re likely managing the prizes and helping the French survivors now. I’m sure we’ll see them tomorrow.”

  Elizabeth looked at him with a small smile and a hard eye. “You’re horrible at this, you know.”

  “At what?”

  “Being at all reassuring.”

  Philip gave her a lopsided grin and was about to say something he thought quite witty, but suddenly spotted sails upon the water, far in the distance. “I dare say they are returned now, my Lady!” he exclaimed.

  Elizabeth turned and smiled…but the joy quickly faded. “I do not see Victory among them,” she said quietly. “I would know her lines anywhere.”

  It was in that moment that a miniscule puff of smoke was seen from the lead ship, followed by a small popping sound that carried across the water toward the castle. It was a cannon shot.

  “The French,” Philip whispered.

  Seconds later, bells rang throughout the city and the streets below the castle were flooded with people rushing about—soldiers rushing to the shoreline, all others rushing for the security of the castle walls. The castle had withstood assault from sea and land for centuries, though none imagined but a few short years ago that such shelter would be required once more.

  Philip and Elizabeth were soon joined at the lookout by the Prince Regent’s retinue, including Lord Castlereagh and Anne, the latter continuing to serve as His Royal Highness’ adviser on all things alchemical and mystical. Together, they watched six French ships of the line—double-decked warships, all—and several brigs and frigates fire long range upon the docks at Leith and the defensive batteries set upon the small isle of Inchkeith. The castle’s cannons were already firing warning shots into the water despite the range.

  Below, Philip and Elizabeth could see line after line of red-coated soldiers massing upon the wharves. In the midst of such a gathering, it would seem a massive throng. From above, they seemed all too few, and tiny compared to the force carried by the French warships.

  “How many men do we have, Castlereagh?” the Prince Regent asked.

  “Two thousand, sire. Wellesley is rallying them to shore right now,” the minster responded. His tone was not one of confidence. “I am not a naval man, but I imagine those ships could easily carry twice as many.”

  Prince George nodded as he surveyed the defenses. The calculus of his thinking was writ upon his face, and although he was often considered something of a dilettante by some, those around him could see George’s resolve—and the weight of his responsibilities—in his faraway gaze. Finally, he, turned to Anne. “My Lady,” he said quietly. “I hope it is most premature, but I am sorry for your loss. And I must ask you to nonetheless aid in the defense of the city.”

  Anne stood tall and stone-faced; Philip looked on with sorrow and pride, while Elizabeth allowed a tear to fall silently for her father. “I am at your service, sire. By your leave, I shall take charge of the alchemists within the palace and ensure enough supply to repel a siege.”

  The prince nodded and looked out once again at the scene unfolding below. The French ships now dominated the harbor. Several smaller ships stood watch at the mouth of the Forth, the first line of defense in what the French likely hoped would be their beachhead—and the ultimate defeat of England.

  Anne watched as well, seemingly unable or unwilling to move, and Philip’s heart broke at the sight of her. Always strong, always certain, Anne now stood silently as the French ships drew closer. It was as though she awaited one more miracle, a sign that her husband was not lost, but would somehow, in some wholly inscrutable manner, arrive to turn the tide.

  Finally, with a sigh and a tear falling down her cheek, she turned to depart, aware that she had duties remaining to her. But she stopped again, looking not at the water, but at the sky toward the west, where the sun was sett
ling below the mountains. And to Philip’s great surprise, she smiled.

  “Oh, dear God in Heaven,” she breathed.

  There was a light.

  Several lights.

  And as they grew larger, shapes surrounded those lights. It was if they had wings.

  “What is that?” the prince demanded as all eyes turned toward the heavens.

  They weren’t wings after all. They were sails.

  There, swooping in from the heavens, was the triple-decked, 100-gun wooden monstrosity that was HMS Victory, with several more ships behind her—all aloft, all flying with planesails unfurled, bobbing unsteadily in the breeze, looking as ungainly as a seal out of water.

  “Sire,” Anne said quietly, but with pride, “I must regretfully decline your condolences at this time.”

  By this point, all upon the walls were transfixed at the sight of the English squadron swooping down upon the French, and the Prince Regent bore upon his face a grand smile indeed. “There’s no regret to be had,” he replied. “Go, my Lady, and attend to the workings. Hopefully, the tide will have turned.”

  Anne gratefully rushed off, leaving Philip and Elizabeth with the Prince Regent and Castlereagh, watching as Victory and her squadron flew low over the city, their planes nearly horizontal as the ships tried to catch as much of the wind as possible to arrest their fall.

  Admiral Weatherby, it seemed, wanted to stay aloft until the last possible moment, for not only were the planesails extended, but also the ruddersail—massive sails hanging at least fifty feet below the keel that would catch the Solar Wind and provide a ship in the Void with direction. And the sails were working just as well aloft as in the Void, it seemed. As Philip looked out into the sky, he imagined that Finch had managed an extension of Mercurium’s innate characteristics, allowing short periods of flight by arresting the usual Void-going and keel-falling properties inherent to the mystical practices surrounding the Royal Navy’s—Philip’s thoughts were wholly interrupted by a huge spray of water from the Firth of Forth, for Victory had finally made keelfall, ruining her ruddersail in the process but landing nearly amidships with the largest of the French vessels. A moment later, Victory’s guns flashed. White puffs from the English ship were followed by black smoke from the French, just as the sound of the shot washed over the walls of Edinburgh Castle. Other English ships landed, with one unfortunate brig nearly capsizing as it did so, ultimately colliding head-on with a larger French vessel. Almost immediately, fires broke out aboard both ships.

  Having made short work of her first target, Victory had sailed onward toward another large French ship, with alchemical fire pouring forth from her gun ports. Similarly, HMS Mars and the other English vessels had seized the upper hand, seriously damaging much of the French fleet. The ships would not be taken as prizes, not so close to shore, and not with so many undead soldiers aboard. Fire would be the only answer, for it was sure to destroy as many of the abominable Corps Éternel as possible. Even so, Philip knew the patrols along the shorelines would increase in coming days, for there would be stragglers, perhaps entire squads, of sodden but still-animated corpses wading out of the river.

  Victory had, by this time, landed several shots into her second opponent, and of the dozen French ships that had sailed into the Firth of Forth, seven were already ablaze. The remaining ships—only one of which was a two-deck gunship—had already turned about and were making for the open ocean.

  “If the admiral keeps this up these last-minute heroics,” the Prince Regent said, turning toward Philip and Elizabeth with a paternal smile, “he shall no doubt cause my heart an arrest.” The prince turned to Castlereagh. “Bring me the message papers for Victory so I may write the admiral a personal commendation.

  “’Tis a far better thing than to write a eulogy.”

  CHAPTER 10

  January 17, 2135

  “With all commendation for your enterprising and wholly meritorious innovation….”

  Gerald Ayim looked up from his holocontrols in confusion. “Excuse me, Commander?”

  Shaila Jain looked at him blankly for a moment, then realized that the thought that occurred to her out of the blue must’ve come out her mouth without her realizing. Really not good, she thought. Keep it together.

  “Sorry, Doctor. Thinking out loud about something,” she muttered, turning her attention back to Stephane, whose glassy, now-angry glare was fixed solely on her. “Just distracted. Sure you understand.”

  The physicist nodded, though his understanding was, at best, partial. “Of course, Commander. I hope this innovation does work,” he said brightly as he hooked wired pads to Stephane’s forehead. Stephane flinched after each application.

  And behind his head, out of view, the Emerald Tablet glowed an angry pale green. Shaila could swear it was pulsing somehow, and the erratic variation in the energies coming out of it, as measured by the bank of sensors around it, backed that up. They had to take him out of containment to conduct the experiment, but it was the DAEDALUS team’s professional opinion that whatever afflicted him was not contagious…probably. Still, Diaz ordered a maximum of three people in with Stephane and the machine at all times, and Diaz wasn’t going to put Stephane through the experiment without being present. Neither was Shaila.

  To Shaila’s surprise, it took very little convincing for Diaz to agree to hook Stephane up to the Emerald Tablet device, even though it came down to a hunch. “I monitored your interview with him,” Diaz reminded her. “If it pisses him off, it’s got to be good, right?”

  The idea that this could also harm Stephane was unspoken, except for a long glance they shared before Diaz gave the go-ahead. It was a risk, and one that would ultimately hang around Diaz’ neck should it go south. But Stephane had spoken French for the first time since his possession on Titan, and the fact that what he said was meaningful in a way only Shaila would understand…. She was grateful that, of all the two centuries’ worth of science fiction she made him watch, he had latched onto one of the more obscure ones.

  “All right, Doctor,” Diaz said now, standing over Stephane’s prone and strapped-down body. “Run it by us one last time for the record.” The record, of course, was the bank of holorecorders and sensors and God-knows-what devices around them, the ones that would exonerate or condemn them once the inquiries started.

  Ayim cleared his throat. “We currently theorize that this man,” he began, nodding at Stephane, “used this so-called ‘Emerald Tablet’ device to download information stored within protein chains drawn from the waters of Enceladus, both before and after the planet’s destruction. We believe these proteins—and/or the data which they carried—existed in quantum superpositioning between two dimensions, allowing for a certain amount of information to be shared between both dimensions. We also currently theorize that one of these proteins has infected this man, and that the data stored therein may be acting as a kind of interdimensional virus, somehow possessing him with a heretofore unknown alien intelligence.” He paused. “I still can’t believe I’m saying all that.”

  “Yes, you can,” Diaz snapped. It sounded like an order.

  “Yes, of course. While very implausible, it is the only explanation that fits all of the facts as we know them,” Ayim said quickly. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. It is our belief that if this device can ‘download’ and decrypt data stored on other Enceladan proteins, and breaking them down in the process, then it may be possible to do the same here. Whether we recover any data, I cannot say, though we have replaced the comm relay section of the device with an optical holodata storage unit, so we may capture whatever information we can. More importantly for Dr. Durand here, we may be able to break down the protein that is anchoring him to whatever intelligence currently possesses him. We hope that this will free him from that influence, ideally without damaging the proteins that make up his own DNA.”

  And there’s the catch, Shaila thought.

  Diaz looked over at Shaila, who nodded. The fact that Stephane was indeed s
omehow possessed by an alien intelligence was the single biggest military secret in the Solar System; gaining next-of-kin consent for an experiment such as this was impossible. So it fell to Shaila to give the go-ahead. Both she and Diaz figured she was close enough, though she had never broached the idea to Stephane while they were together. Or, rather, while he was himself.

  Let them sue, Shaila thought. I know he’s in there. I know he wants out.

  “All right, team. Julie, how are we looking?” Diaz asked.

  The tech replied over the comm; she was in the other room, monitoring the sensors. “We’re…fine, I guess, General. Commander Jain, would you mind taking a step closer to Dr. Durand for me?”

  To Shaila’s surprise, she found herself at least a good two strides away from Stephane, almost in the corner of the room. She attributed it to nerves, but also to the glare he continued to fix her whenever she was within range of his eyes. “Sure,” she said flatly, and took a step forward. “Why?”

  “Wow. Take another step, would you?” Julie asked.

  Frowning, Shaila stepped closer still, but behind Stephane’s head. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  “Interesting,” Julie said absently. “It looks like the ambient Cherenkov radiation in the room is increasing whenever you get closer, while the Cherenkov radiation coming off the subject is decreasing.”

  “What does that mean?” Diaz snapped.

  Ayim grabbed another sensor pad and moved toward Shaila with it. “It means we need to have a look at you as well, Commander,” he replied. “I don’t know why, but something is going on between you two.”

  Diaz suddenly brightened. “Could it be their relationship, Doctor? Maybe Stephane is in there trying to kick the other guy out. Shaila could be a positive influence on that.”

  The physicist finished taping a sensor to Shaila’s head, then turned to Diaz with a look of patient, paternal disbelief on his face. “There is no scientific basis to make that kind of assumption, General. That is why we measure and study.”