Shaila studied the data and did some fast math in her head. “Each one of those would have to have altered their flight plans to be where they are right now,” she said. “Could be as simple as a longer fuel burn or a different departure. Is the cargo ship automated?”
Coogan checked his data. “Outbound, yes. It’s bringing a few students back on return.”
“So they all have atmo,” Diaz said. “All slightly off-sked, but not by much. I dated a Virgin pilot once. She told me they’re always running late because of the fat cats they bring on. Always burning fuel to catch up. Figure the others would do the same.”
“Or it could be corporate. Off the books,” Chrys said from a nearby ops station. “I have a query into the corp-net. But it’ll take a few to get a reply.”
“Thank you,” Diaz said simply. “Hopefully not. Meantime, Jimmy, get Lt. Baines up here in the cockpit, in case we have to move.”
“I can do that,” Shaila said.
Diaz smiled. “Not your job, Commander.”
A moment later, the cherub-faced Baines slid into the pilot’s seat. “Baines reporting in, ready on the controls. We may be experiencing a little turbulence, so please return to your seats, buckle your seatbelts and return your tray tables to their upright positions.”
Shaila had to admit, the cocky little bastard had a pair of brass ones to banter like that on an open comm, especially with a two-star commanding the mission. And knowing Diaz, she probably liked him for it. It was probably why Diaz liked Shaila so much, after all.
The minutes ticked by. Hadfield received comms from the Chinese, Russians and Virgin, with all three reporting their ships on course. None reported spotting Hadfield on sensors, either. The latest flight plans for each ship were included, and all three remained suspects since their last reported position could coincide with that of the unknown ship had they made course corrections in flight.
“I’d like to believe it’s probably nothing,” Coogan said as he wrapped up his comm report, “but I’d like to think I know better by now. Orders, ma’am?”
Diaz floated over the holodisplay, studying the trajectories of the two ships. “How close are we talking here? Fifty klicks?”
“Fifty-seven, ma’am,” Coogan replied.
“And no response on comms, even on emergency channels?”
“No, ma’am. Fifty seconds to intercept.”
After a few more seconds, Diaz nodded at Jain, who floated over toward the cockpit, her fingers dancing across her datapad. “Baines, let’s give these guys some space. Come to course…2-5-1 mark 3 and give me a 20-second burn on top of that.”
“Yes, Commander,” the lieutenant said. “New course and burn in 10 seconds. Nine—wait! Bogey is changing course! Repeat, bogey is changing course!”
“Shit,” Shaila said. “Time to intercept?”
“Eight seconds!” Baines shouted.
“Full right thrusters, up full on the yoke! Now!”
“What the hell are you doing?” the pilot shouted from the jump-seat of the Virgin Galactic ship’s cockpit. “You’re going to get us all killed!”
Maggie Huntington just smiled. “You know, I really didn’t get far in my pilot certification,” she mused. “But I got one hell of an overqualified navigator.”
From the co-pilot’s station, Evan Greene was crunching numbers on a datapad, his blood-shot eyes darting quickly through the digits. “All right. Come about to 2-1-8 mark 7 and let’s do a two-minute burn. That should get us there at least six hours before they arrive, even if they burn all their fuel too.”
The pilot in the jump-seat—strapped down quite firmly and involuntarily—looked aghast. “You’re burning all our fuel? You’re going to strand us around Venus?! Why the hell do you want to lock us in orbit around Venus without goddamn fuel?”
Greene looked over at Huntington, who returned his gaze with a shrug. She then pulled out her pistol and shot the pilot in the head.
“These creatures complain a lot,” she said.
“That they do,” Greene replied. “But I don’t think we need the rest any more. What did you do with the passengers?”
Huntington called up a map on the cockpit’s HUD. “Herded them into the dining room. It’s been about three hours. Figure they’ll try to do something stupid before long.”
Greene nodded. “A false fire alarm should do the trick. It’ll cut off life support and vent the room to space.”
“Shitty way to go,” Huntington observed.
“In a few days, they’ll probably see it as a blessing,” Greene said with a smile.
A moment later, they were the only two left alive on the Virgin Galactic ship.
“Stay on top of things here,” Greene said. “I have to finish the work on the comm system. I want to be able to transmit to the satellites the moment we’re in range.”
CHAPTER 15
May 28, 1809
The sight of Weatherby’s entire family in the great cabin aboard HMS Victory was both comforting and highly disconcerting. The former, of course, because what he had said to Finch was absolutely correct, for it was naught but his family—his dearest wife, their truly remarkable and wholly commendable children—that gave him comfort aside from duty.
The latter, of course, because their next rendezvous would be with the French fleet. And that meeting would be dire indeed.
“Father, I continue to wonder as to the motivations of Berthollet and Cagliostro,” Elizabeth said in between mouthfuls of lamb and potatoes. It was, of course, the admiral’s prerogative to bring aboard victuals befitting his station, and while Weatherby typically eschewed such fine fare on his own, having Anne and the children with him was another story altogether.
“How so, my love?” he asked.
Elizabeth straightened in her seat. “In the brief amount of time we spoke with Cagliostro while at Oxford, it seemed that he was quite regretful of his past actions. Would you not agree, Philip?”
The new fleet alchemist nearly choked on his wine at being called out. “I…that is certainly one possible interpretation,” he allowed.
“And you’ve yet to supply others,” Elizabeth shot back in the manner of an irritated sibling. “Anyway, I should think that Cagliostro, having been so rudely tossed aside by Althotas on Mars, and then stripped of his power, would be loath to resume any sort of association with him.”
Weatherby shrugged, but favored his daughter with a smile. “I cannot discern the motivations of men such as he. I should never want to rule the universe. I just wish to live quietly within it.”
Elizabeth remained undaunted. “But what of Napoleon, then? Why should the Emperor wish to summon an unreliable ally while he has the partisan Xan with him? Napoleon certainly is not one who would share power easily, and this Althotas seems rather the same.”
Weatherby considered this, as well as the one who said it. Having Anne with him on this mission was practically commonplace at this point in his life, for it seemed the former Miss Baker had made a lifelong decision to run toward danger, rather than away from it, and he could not countenance denying her at this point. Philip, of course, was a man and a fine alchemist besides, and while he would worry over him, the son of Count St. Germain was quite capable of taking care of himself.
But Elizabeth…there had been a very long, overwrought argument there, in their chambers at Edinburgh Castle, about her joining them. Yet with Finch deemed quite untrustworthy, Elizabeth’s studies into the Venusians and Xan were such that she was expert in many areas, including the language of the Venusians. Even Gar’uk, when uncomfortably pressed into service to bolster Weatherby’s argument against her coming, was forced to admit that the girl’s knowledge of dialects, and her diction given even the most difficult vocabulary, was extraordinary. And Vellusk noted that she had a fine singing voice indeed.
Anne had remained silent on the issue—Elizabeth was not properly her daughter, after all—but it took but a glance for Weatherby to realize that he was well outgunned w
ithin his own family on the matter. And now, looking at her across the table in his own cabin, all he could do was to pray that no harm would befall her in the duty she had chosen for herself.
“Father?”
Weatherby smiled as he came out of his reverie. “My dear, it is very possible that the French aims have very little to do with Althotas. However, we are left with naught but conjecture until we make keel-fall tomorrow. In the meantime, how fare you in determining our ultimate destination?”
Elizabeth nodded primly and pulled a sheaf of papers off a nearby chair. “Gar’uk and I have been studying the geography of the Va’hak’ri territory. Gar’uk, of course, was young when he last visited, and only knows the trail starts from the beach where you and Uncle Andrew—I mean, Dr. Finch—appeared back in ’79.”
“My dear, we still love Andrew, even with all we have learned of late,” Anne said gently. Weatherby merely frowned; Finch was confined to quarters on his orders, and was not welcome to dinner. Elizabeth, for her part, decided simply to continue on.
“Yes, well, all we know is that there is a mountain upon which the vault stands. Originally, we had thought Mount Ar’ak’a would be a likely destination, but even though the volcano is now dormant, I thought it highly unlikely that the ancient Venusians would build such a structure there. So I believe the most likely candidate would be here,” Elizabeth said, pointing at a map. “It is two days’ journey from the shore, in the very heart of the jungle.”
Weatherby motioned for the map, which Elizabeth offered him as he put on his spectacles—yet another nod to advancing age. “This is probably the worst place on Venus it could possibly be located,” he said after studying it for several long moments. “There is but one realistic trail there, and it goes through a massive…what is this? A meadow of some kind?”
Gar’uk came over from his post by the wall and looked at the map. “Yes. Clear area. Few trees. A long walk from one end to the other. If we no like who we see there, we kill them.”
“Of course you do,” Weatherby said, amused fatigue in his voice, for nothing, it seemed would be easy at this point. “And where might we gain safe passage for this journey, Gar’uk?”
“At the village.”
Weatherby looked to Elizabeth for clarification, to which she replied: “The village Cagliostro destroyed in ’79. We can assume, I believe, it has been rebuilt. The Va’hak’ri remain a key part of Venusian culture, so a village such as this would certainly be appropriate as a kind of customs agency for passage.”
The admiral, meanwhile, continued to study the map. “The French holdings here to the south…is there a trail to the mountain from there?”
Gar’uk studied the map once more. “No, but they can make trail. Long walk, but land is flat. Use swords and axes to cut trees….yes, they can if they wish.”
“And so…if the French have made progress in their research, then they may very well have located the vault already,” Weatherby said glumly. “They may be there in force.”
Anne placed her hand on his. “Then we’ll meet them in the field and take it from them,” she said gently but firmly, for she was accustomed to her husband’s occasional melancholies.
Before Weatherby could respond, the ships bell began to ring insistently, followed a moment later by the sound of the marine drummer beating to quarters. Weatherby rose and grabbed his hat, already proffered by Gar’uk. “Philip, with me. Anne, take Elizabeth with you to the cockpit so she may assist as she’s able.”
Anne immediately rose from the table and took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. The young woman seemed slightly shocked at the sudden burst of movement; no doubt Anne would explain all in due course. For now, Weatherby caught his wife’s gaze and issued a silent plea: Keep her safe. Anne smiled and nodded, then hurried out and down toward the bowels of the ship, which was the safest place to be at the moment. Of course, safety was relative. The bells and drums would not be necessary unless a potential enemy was spotted.
Weatherby buttoned his coat and strode forth onto the main deck, where he was saluted by all in view, then turned and made his way up to the quarterdeck, where stood Searle and his officers. Philip saluted Searle and the others—there were a few private lessons with the admiral to better acclimate him to the expectations of the service—and Weatherby received salutes in turn. “Captain?” the admiral asked.
“Three ships sighted, my Lord Admiral,” Searle reported, pointing off into the Void, two points to starboard, then again three points larboard. Between those two points, Venus loomed before them, already filling a quarter of the Void in their eyes. “I would assume French pickets, but they appear to be advancing upon us rather than retreating to inform their fellows.”
Weatherby took out his glass and looked off into the distance. They were mere points of light, but that would change within the next thirty minutes, maybe less. “They seem to be within signaling distance, but just barely. Where are we?” asked the admiral.
“We have Mars and Kent to starboard, my Lord, with Thunderer and Agamemnon to larboard,” Searle said. “Spread wide so as to extend our pickets as well. But I do not know if we can close up in time, given they have yet to see some of our signals.”
The admiral frowned, for this was his own stratagem come back to haunt him. In the Void, he had taken to spreading out his ships in order to gather more intelligence, for the French typically traveled in tight formations. Once sighted, the British captains knew to swarm to the static French formations, allowing for a scattered but effective approach against a single group of targets. Now, however, their enemy would come upon all sides as well, and Weatherby’s ships were so far apart, they might not be able to coordinate their activities.
“Why must the French decide to innovate today, of all days?” Weatherby groused. “Signal the fleet to form up. Hopefully they shall see it in time. I—”
Then the worst sort of thought occurred to him. One he was sure he might regret at some point, sooner or later. He could only pray it would be later.
“Lieutenant St. Germain,” Weatherby said, turning to Philip. “Bring Dr. Finch to the quarterdeck at once. And tell him to bring the equipment we used off Edinburgh. Now. Go.”
As Philip dashed off, fairly plowing into a couple of midshipmen in the process. Searle turned his back toward the other officers and faced Weatherby, lowering his voice to a bare whisper. “I cannot think this a good idea, my Lord, and my apologies for saying so.”
“And what other options might we have, Captain?” the admiral replied, quietly but with steel. “I see none other than retreat and regroup, and I assure you that time is not with us to make that a possibility.”
Searle frowned. “I…I shall be here in case you need me, my Lord.”
Weatherby put his hand on the man’s shoulder and favored him with a grim half-smile. “Should this not work, you shall take command of the fleet and, with whatever you have left, make for Venus with all due haste. Vellusk and the Lady Weatherby will advise you on your course afterward.”
“I pray it will not come to that, my Lord.”
Weatherby spied Finch making his way out of the fo’c’sle, looking to the quarterdeck with an eager look upon his face and several alchemists’ mates in his wake. “So do I, Captain.”
Mere minutes later, Weatherby watched as dispassionately as possible as Finch set up his table and mirror on Victory’s quarterdeck, with both Philip and Anne supervising him. Searle had far less dispassion upon his face, looking between Finch and his creation with both immense concern and barely concealed anger, for the captain had been told of Finch’s betrayal and had suggested to his admiral that the yardarm was fair recompense for the alchemist’s crimes.
Instead, however, Weatherby would seek to take advantage of Finch’s forbidden researches in order to defeat the French. The old admiral wondered just how complicit he would become in his friend’s crimes.
“Tell me how this truly works, Doctor,” Weatherby said, no small measure of malice in h
is voice. “And tell it true, with Philip and Anne here listening. Leave no detail out.”
Finch kept his eyes upon his work, lining up his table and mirror just so, in alignment with the stars of the Void above and in consultation with a thick leather-bound book. “Yes, well, as you may have now surmised, this working does indeed make use of the world of Maat, the Egyptian Underworld—though I do believe it needs a better name, wouldn’t you say?—to provide a kind of clairvoyance to the wearer of this device.”
With that, Finch offered Weatherby the leather-and-glass rig, which the latter accepted gingerly. “So I shall be entering the Underworld, shall I?”
“Oh, no! Of course not!” Finch said quickly, snatching the device from Weatherby’s hands in order to adjust it. Finch’s hands were all aflutter, and his mien was one of nervous energy and deference. “Through the working upon these lenses and the mirror, you are merely peering into Maat, rather than bodily entering it. Because the energies of the Underworld touch upon every part of our world, and both space and time are constricted and, I believe, quite meaningless there, you can use those energies as a conduit to peer upon whatever you wish—such as the Void around your captains’ ships.”
Anne was nodding slowly. “And he needn’t be in contact with them to do this, for he can simply view the area around them, using them as an anchor in our reality, yes?”
“Exactly!” Finch said. “Of course, you’ll need to contact them mentally. That’s simply done by saying their name and focusing on their face, then speaking the message. Then say their name again to break contact, lest they all hear each other and it becomes a perfect jumble.”
Finch slipped the device over Weatherby’s head, ignoring the deathly, angry look his superior officer and friend showed him. “If the French have a similar device, Finch, can they not see and hear my plans as I communicate them?”
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