The Venusian Gambit

by Michael J. Martinez

  Weatherby thought back to the first of the two battles off Scotland in which Victory leapt from one place upon the ocean to another. It was a violent movement that threatened to tear the ship asunder. Yet by the time Finch had conducted his alterations to the lodestones some hours later, the flight from the North Sea to the Firth of Forth for the second battle was smooth in comparison.

  He looked at his wife and step-son carefully. Anne had always complained of Finch’s propensities for what she called irresponsible experimentation, but in this she had admitted a maternal bent toward him. Plus, Anne and Finch had collaborated on more than a few papers submitted to the Royal Society over the years. As for Philip, Weatherby knew he held his “uncle” in the utmost esteem, bordering upon hero-worship. For the two of them to be in agreement in this matter, and knowing full well Weatherby’s own sense of brotherhood with the accused, things must be serious indeed.

  “I believe we would need to broach our concerns before the Prince Regent’s household before conducting a search,” Anne said. “Shall I—”

  “No need,” Weatherby interrupted. “Finch remains my fleet alchemist, and while that carries a certain rank and privilege, he remains a member of the Royal Navy under my command. I authorize you, as my personal agents in this matter, to take it upon yourselves to conduct this search. I should wish it that it be done with discretion and without Andrew’s knowledge, for if you are wrong—and I pray to God you are—then I do not wish to create a rift between Andrew and ourselves where there needn’t be one. And if you are right, you are the only ones I would trust to properly secure this artifact. Tell no one other than myself should you find it, for if the Prince Regent discovered Finch had withheld such a critical alchemical weapon from him, it would mean the noose for him and naught but abuse for the Book.”

  Both Anne and Philip nodded soberly. “How should we go about it, my Lord?” Philip asked. “Do you know where Uncle Andrew is at the moment?”

  Just then, a knock upon the door interrupted them, causing all within the small salon to jump as if they were scared. “Come,” Weatherby ordered.

  A midshipman peeked his head through the door. “My humblest apologies, my Lord Admiral, but Dr. Finch has been seeking you out. He has been in consultations with Ambassador Vellusk, and they wish you and Lord Castlereagh to attend them at your earliest convenience.”

  Weatherby nodded and waved the boy off. “Convenience indeed,” he quipped. “Very well. You two have your orders. ‘Tis obvious you may carry them out now. Come to me forthwith should you find your suspicions confirmed.”

  Philip nodded, while Anne gave Weatherby a wry smile. “Does this mean we are now, at long last, part of the Navy, my Lord?”

  This elicited a small smile from Weatherby in return. “My ingenious plans have finally come to fruition after three decades,” he said gently. “You know I am no master of timing in such matters.”

  “You never were, my love, but I shall happily follow you now,” she replied, then turned and gathered her son with a wave of her hand as she departed the salon.

  The midshipman was awaiting Weatherby within the ornate hallway of the palace, and he allowed the boy to lead him to wherever Finch and Vellusk had entrenched themselves. It worried Weatherby no small amount that Finch might withhold The Book of the Dead for himself and whatever researches he had hoped to engage upon. The fact that the book could create soldiers from corpses made it, in Weatherby’s estimation, an inherently evil artifact. Furthermore, it could represent otherworldly alchemy, as Finch himself had once opined, and thus become a gateway to another incursion from the ancient Martians, the Xan partisans, the future humanity he glimpsed long ago—or perhaps something far worse.

  For what if the souls of the dead could come forth into the world of the living? Weatherby imagined Finch would be enamored of such a prospect. And as much as he loved Finch and would swear his long-time friend was a genius of the highest caliber, Finch was not, in the end, possessed of great amounts of wisdom.

  On the other hand, Finch had yet to produce an animated corpse-soldier of his own making, so perhaps he was more judicious with his inquiries than Anne and Phillip were giving him credit for? But then, if he had the book, could he not easily devise a manner by which to readily destroy the infernal Corps Éternel?

  Weatherby’s head was quickly swimming in whats and wherefores by the time the mid had led him to a small library near the palace’s ballroom. The young man knocked on his admiral’s behalf, then held the door for Weatherby to enter. Inside, he found Finch and Vellusk there, with piles of unshelved books between them.

  “Ah, there you are, Tom!” Finch said cheerfully, his demeanor far less sickly than it was aboard ship two days prior; it made Weatherby fervently wish his wife and step-son to be wholly mistaken. “We have much to discuss!”

  Weatherby gingerly entered the room, which looked as if a hurricane of paper and leather covers had been loosed upon it. “And much to clean when you are done, Doctor. Of course, Ambassador, you are most welcome, and it is a great pleasure to see you once more. May God keep you in health and spirit.”

  Vellusk bowed deeply toward Weatherby, appreciative as always for the over-mannered speech that too few humans bothered with, even though it was a mere drop in a bucket compared to the Xan’s own formalities—some of which could take the better part of an afternoon to wade through. “You are most kind, Lord Admiral,” Vellusk replied in pleasant song. “I am heartened to see you in good health after your encounter with the French of late.”

  There were more such pleasantries—a full five minutes’ worth, during which Finch ignored them both and pointedly kept his nose in books—until finally Vellusk invited Weatherby to sit so that he may hear tell of their researches.

  “You are familiar, of course, with the idea of memory vaults, as we have seen it together within the Venusian culture first hand,” Finch began. “There have been several expeditions and embassies to the Venusian people, both before and after our time there back in ’79, during which the concept has been explored further. However, I believe our own Gar’uk might explain things quite simply.”

  It was then that Weatherby realized that Gar’uk was indeed in the room, quietly reading in the corner and shielded from view by the piles of books and papers strewn about.

  “Does no one consult me on any matter regarding my command anymore?” Weatherby huffed. “He is my valet, Finch, not your research assistant.”

  At this, Gar’uk stood and walked to Weatherby, whereupon he bowed deeply. “I am sorry, Lord Admiral,” the Venusian croaked solemnly, and with great dignity. “If I have not been good in my duty, you must tell me now so I can make better.”

  Weatherby opened his mouth to begin, but found that there had been nothing to indicate that Gar’uk had performed his duty in any way other than exacting. “You have done your duty well, my old friend,” he said to Gar’uk in the most gentle of tones. “And I am grateful you chose to assist Dr. Finch and the ambassador.”

  Gar’uk straightened up and appeared to smile—something he was culturally and physiologically disinclined to do, but tried for the benefit of the humans around him. “They would be lost in long words without one of me to tell them.”

  At this, Weatherby grinned genuinely. “Of that, I have no doubt. So tell me what you have found, good Gar’uk.”

  “When we of Va’har’a die,” he began, using the native name for Venus, “our souls, what you call memories, all that we are, these go to our priests. The priests carry them to our vaults. There, our memories are at rest, and they can be used by those still living. All of our history is there in our vaults. If one of our people has ever seen something, it can be known to all.”

  Weatherby nodded. “Simple enough, then. And I suppose there might be some value to the French, though this does not explain Berthollet and Cagliostro, and their enthusiasm for it.”

  Finch grinned widely. “And that is where two experts on alchemy may come in handy, Tom,” h
e said. “For we may obtain an understanding of these memory vaults that can be applied to modern sensibilities and theories on the Great Work.”

  Vellusk cleared his throat, which sounded like a wheezing flute. “We cannot say truly what the alchemical implications may be, I am most sorry to say,” Vellusk sang cautiously. “However, we may state with certainty that there are many good reasons the French—and the wayward citizens of Great Xanath—may wish access to the racial and cultural memories of the Venusian people.”

  “Such as?” Weatherby asked, all pretense of politesse forgotten, replaced by strategic inquiry and concern.

  “There were Venusians present throughout the wars between our people and those you call Martians,” Vellusk sang, notes of martialry and sadness in his voice. “The Martians and the Xan alternatively allied themselves with, or enslaved, the primitive Venusian tribes through the centuries of our struggle. There were Venusians who saw the holocausts on Titan, the destruction of Phaeton, the razing of the Martian surface. There were those who were present—as servants or even military leaders—when Althotas met with his war councils, or when we met with ours.

  “And,” Vellusk added ominously, “there were Venusians present when Althotas first enchanted the Emerald Tablet and The Book of the Dead, and when Althotas himself was first imprisoned in the world between worlds.”

  And as alarming as this was to Weatherby, one thought stood out. “Gar’uk, all your memories of our time together would enter into this vault when you pass on?”

  Gar’uk nodded. “But I will not go to the vaults.”

  “Why?”

  The old Venusian tried to smile again, and it came off fairly well this time. “If the French win the vaults from my people, they could find my memories. Then they know how you think and plan, and they will find a way to kill you. I will not let this happen.”

  Weatherby placed his hand upon the lizard-man’s shoulder. “You are a true and loyal friend, Gar’uk of Venus. I shall not forget this sacrifice.”

  Finch stood, looking rather pallid once more. “Tom, you don’t really know the half of it.”

  “Do tell,” the admiral replied, feeling somewhat annoyed with his friend.

  “It’s not a matter of their memories being placed into the vault. The translation doesn’t come across well, because to the Venusians, it appears to them that they are seeing the memories of their ancestors when they visit the vaults,” Finch said. “But really, the Venusians have somehow found a way to house not just memories, but a portion—or all, really—of a Venusian’s spirit or soul within an alchemical construct, one that allows for access to their very consciousness, really.”

  Weatherby thought on this. “Gar’uk, whatever memories you have of me, I cannot allow you to endanger your afterlife in this regard. I hereby—”

  Then the potential of what he said hit Weatherby like a thunderbolt.

  “It’s not just what’s in the vaults, then, is it,” the admiral said. “It’s the vaults themselves that the French want. The memories are fine. But the capacity to create a kind of afterlife?”

  Finch smiled. “Not bad for an old sailor. That’s indeed the biggest problem here.”

  Vellusk’s garments began to ripple in excitement—or concern, perhaps. “They have but a fragment of The Book of the Dead, enough to create their abominable soldiers. But with the vaults in hand, they could not only find memories of Venusians dealing with the Book, but by examining the vaults themselves, they could come to a greater understanding of death and the afterlife, and their alchemical workings could become far stronger—and darker.”

  Weatherby eyed Finch most closely as he continued on with his questions, and saw little in the way of guilt or concern in his friend’s eyes. “Would the vaults have value to us as well?” Weatherby asked pointedly. “For example, could we find ideas therein to counteract the working that created the Corps Éternel?”

  Finch shrugged. “It’s possible, but that knowledge is counter to the knowledge that I saw in The Book of the Dead. Such a working would be within the purview of the Emerald Tablet, and we currently do not have access to that.”

  Weatherby smirked. “Access? It’s in a thousand pieces in a blasted temple on Titan. Not even Vellusk’s worthy people could piece it together.”

  “Then I dare say we may find some use for the vaults, but I would strongly suggest that we ally ourselves with the Venusians against the French, rather than take the vaults for ourselves,” Vellusk sang. “England, as I see it, needs all the allies it can get.”

  Weatherby nodded. “Yes, of course. Having been invaded, I do not wish to in turn invade another sovereign people,” he said. “But tell me, gentlemen, what is the worst of this? Say the French obtain the archive of memories—souls, if you will—from the Venusians. If fortune favors them, what do they gain?”

  Finch answered, as he knew the thrust of Weatherby’s argument. “They not only gain an entire species’ worth of history and knowledge, which may include heretofore unknown alchemical insight and power, but they also gain insight into methods they might use to access the world of the afterlife or, perhaps, even access other worlds entirely—such as the one Althotas was imprisoned within, or even the future worlds we saw upon Mars.”

  Vellusk nodded beneath his voluminous robes. “These vaults, in their own way, allow consciousness to pass onto other dimensions of being, my Lord Weatherby. Thus, this primitive alchemy can be strengthened or altered into a pathway to any number of other realities, including the one in which Althotas may remain in wait.”

  A rap upon the door interrupted them. Gar’uk dutifully rushed to answer, whereupon he allowed Anne and Philip entrance. Weatherby looked over and found them both to be grim-faced and determined. A quick nod from Anne was all Weatherby needed.

  “Dr. Finch, we must speak with you on an urgent matter,” Anne said coldly. “And I’m quite glad you’re here, Ambassador Vellusk. Perhaps you can help us discern why Dr. Finch might have this in his quarters.”

  Philip came up behind his mother and placed a large, linen-wrapped package upon a table in the room. Weatherby watched Finch turn several shades more pale, his eyes growing wider.

  “This is not what it seems,” Finch said, altogether too quickly.

  Weatherby calmly rose and went to the table, whereupon he unwrapped the linen from the ebon-covered book therein. “Well, Doctor, then perhaps you may elucidate. Is this not The Book of the Dead?”

  “Well, yes, it is, Tom, but—”

  “And it seems to me that it is indeed in your possession,” Weatherby continued, his voice rising. “Is that the case, Doctor?”

  Finch began to grow agitated and slightly possessed of panic. “Yes, yes, Tom, I’ve been keeping it quite safe, I assure you. I—”

  “Quite safe!” Weatherby spat. “It is, by your own account, one of the greatest alchemical treasures the world has ever seen! And you told me to my face—more than once, Finch! To my very face! You told me it was lost, and here it is, found in your rooms, which is certainly not, in any rational opinion, safe!”

  “Tom,” Finch said weakly. “If I did not keep it…”

  “If you did not keep it, would England still stand?” Weatherby roared. “Would we not have found a way to defeat the Corps Éternel, despite what you have said? How many have died because you kept this! You hoard your knowledge like an old, corrupt dragon with gold, just as Franklin once warned us would be our downfall!”

  Finch looked stricken, and indeed placed a hand upon the chair before him to support himself. “It is too dangerous for others, Tom,” Finch said. “It would corrupt us. Look what a mere fragment did to the French! And there is more. It is a way to communicate! I have done so with the others!”

  Weatherby was about to speak, but was silenced by a surprising interruption from Vellusk. “What others?” the ambassador sang, loudly and with great anger.

  “The others from our future!” Finch replied. “They have the Tablet, or an aspect of
it! I….wait….” He suddenly looked as though he could see the very Void before his eyes. “Go to Venus. Go to Venus!”

  At this, Finch’s legs gave out from under him, and he collapsed to the floor, still looking as though he was seeing leagues away. Or perhaps his mind was leagues away, Weatherby could not say. And despite his rage against the man he called friend, he nonetheless rushed to Finch’s side. “Anne, help him!” Weatherby cried.

  She, too, rushed over, but they found Finch in a state of near catatonia. “I cannot say what has befallen him,” she said after several long minutes, spent in awkward silence. “We need time to study what this damned book has done to him.”

  Weatherby turned to address Ambassador Vellusk, who was practically vibrating with intensity. “Ambassador Vellusk, my very wise and very good friend. It is only this day we began to suspect Dr. Finch’s possession of this artifact, and I must apologize, humbly, on his behalf, and for myself. And for all England.”

  This helped Vellusk somewhat, though he still appeared quite agitated. “And what shall be done with this fell book?” he sang, notes of both dread and rage within his voices.

  “I shall keep it locked away with the utmost security, and I shall hold the only key,” Weatherby said. “Only Anne and Philip will be allowed to study it, and only should you be consulted first. You or one of your representatives may be present at all times while it is examined.”

  Vellusk seemed to pause a moment before responding. “This is acceptable, Admiral Weatherby, but I urge you to keep this matter most private,” the Xan sang. “If your Prince Regent discovers this is here, I fear that his lust for vengeance and hatred of the French will cause him to make ill use of it. And if my people were to discover it, it would only add credence to the belief, currently in the minority, that humanity plays with powers they cannot understand and harness.”