The Venusian Gambit

by Michael J. Martinez

  Suddenly, Hadfield shuddered violently, and more alarms went off. The room’s lighting turned red and the data on every screen was replaced with a single message.

  COLLISION.

  HULL BREACH.

  Coogan’s hands waved wildly in front of him as he flew through the holographic data before him. “Engines hit,” he reported, his usual cool inflected with just a hint of panic. “Offline. Breach in engine room, damage to landing gear, deployment bay and cargo hatch. And…”

  His voice trailed off, leaving Shaila and Diaz to look over expectantly at him. “Jimmy?” Diaz asked.

  “Life support on critical,” he said simply.

  Diaz immediately turned toward the cockpit. “Baines! Get us aimed at Stanford! Use chemical thrusters and give me an ETA stat.” She turned to Shaila. “Get Ayim in gear. We need him and the Emerald Tablet secured in a V-SEV in case things get worse.”

  Shaila nodded. A ship like Hadfield didn’t have lifeboats. The V-SEVs could serve in a pinch, but they had extremely limited maneuvering ability aside from simply landing on the surface of Venus. None of this would go well. “Come on, Doctor. Move your ass,” she snapped, grabbing the old scientist by the scruff of his jacket and pulling him toward the doorway of the CIC, with zero-g making it quite easy for her to bodily drag him along.

  Shaila and Ayim sped toward the lab, where Ayim carefully undocked the Emerald Tablet from its mechanical cradle—a bit too carefully for Shaila’s taste. “Move it, Gerald!” she shouted, but the physicist was intent on making sure the tablet was placed just so, and Shaila floated impatiently for what seemed to be hours, but was only thirty seconds or so.

  When they finally opened the door to the lab, Stephane was floating out in the corridor in front of them, a pained and worried look on his face.

  It startled the hell out of her.

  “Why aren’t you in your quarters?” she demanded.

  “The locks stopped working when the alarms went off,” Stephane said. “Something’s happening. I am…mon dieu, it’s happening again, isn’t it?”

  Shaila nodded. “You still in the driver’s seat?”

  Stephane gave her a weak smile. “For now. This is strengthening him. I have this sense that he is happy. Eager? Yes, eager.”

  Fuck. “All right. Get moving, Durand,” she said as Ayim floated up from behind her with the briefcase containing the Tablet. “Deployment bay, now!”

  Before they could launch themselves down the corridor, another impact rocked the ship, sending them into the walls and ceiling. More alarms went off, followed by a panicked voice from the CIC which Shaila couldn’t place: “Emergency suits! All personnel into emergency suits now!”

  Shaila immediately grabbed a handhold on the side of the corridor and gave it a twist, opening a storage locker. Orange emergency pressure suits began spilling out. “Grab ‘em and put ‘em on!” she shouted.

  Stephane immediately took a helmet and put it on, then started shoving his legs into the suit itself. Shaila did likewise—until she saw Ayim just…floating there. Wide-eyed. Panicked beyond all action.

  Swearing loudly, Shaila grabbed a third suit and shoved it into Ayim’s chest, sending him floating back into the wall. “Gerald. Put this on. NOW.”

  He looked down at his hand, where he carried the case with the Emerald Tablet. “This…” His voice trailed off. “Can you hold this?”

  Shaila snatched the case from him. “Put it ON, Gerald.”

  The scientist slowly began unfurling the folded up suit. Shaila’s every urge was to help him with it, but her training said otherwise—you can’t help someone else if you’re not secure first. A basic rule since the earliest days of space travel, but it was hard to enforce sometimes. She turned to see Stephane just about sealed up. “Stephane, help him,” she ordered as she wrestled with the seals on her own suit.

  Then a massive whoosh rang through her ears as the ship shuddered a third time, and she felt herself pulled toward the deployment bay.

  The ship was falling apart, and the air was going with it.

  She grabbed a handhold and, with the other hand still holding the Tablet, she tried to finish her seals. A scream caught her attention—she saw Ayim hurtling past her down the corridor at high speed, limbs flailing through his half-donned emergency suit. His head caught the ceiling hard and the scream stopped instantly, and she watched in horror as his body was carried downward to the bay below.

  Then she felt Stephane’s hands finishing up her suit seal. “There,” he said. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t save him.”

  Shaila nodded and gave his helmet a rap. “You tried,” she said, then keyed her comm. “Diaz, this is Jain. We’ve lost Ayim.”

  Several long moments passed—in which the two made their way down toward the deployment bay—before Diaz responded. “Roger. Deployment bay is breached into space. Parrish and his team aren’t responding. Jimmy and I are heading down there. Let’s get the V-SEVs fired up.”

  A dozen people. “Understood,” Shaila said as she floated down to the bay below. On entering, she could see a meter wide hole in the side of the ship. There was blood all around the ragged outer edges of it. There were no people. “Go for V-SEV startup sequence. Where’s Baines and the rest of the CIC crew?”

  Another long pause, during which Shaila keyed in the command codes for the V-SEVs and watched as they came to life. “Baines sealed himself in the cockpit to try to steer us clear of anything else. The rest…we got VanDerKamp with us. That’s it.”

  Shaila turned and guided Stephane toward one of the V-SEVs. “Shit. Roger that. Let’s go one person per V-SEV.” Not the optimal operating crew, of course, but Shaila knew that launching four of them would increase the chances of someone surviving the day. She turned to Stephane. “Did you read the manual I sent you on these?”

  He shrugged and gave her one of the infuriating grins she had grown to both love and hate. “Some of it. It can’t get any worse, yes?”

  She grabbed him by the arm and hurled him toward one of the mechs. “You better figure it out fast.”

  Shaila pushed herself toward another V-SEV and, as she buckled in, saw Diaz, Chrys and Coogan float into the bay. Coogan looked ashen but focused, while Diaz had tear streaks on her face and grimaced in anger and pent-up rage. For her part, Chrys just looked utterly dazed. They immediately made for the other vehicles, with Coogan taking the exec and strapping her into the jump seat of his V-SEV before taking the pilot’s chair.

  “Baines, you’re a brave kid,” Diaz said over the comm as she strapped into her own mech.

  “I’m an idiot, General,” he replied. “But we’re in the clear, for now. There’s….there’s a lot going on out there.”

  The hatch on Shaila’s V-SEV lowered and her ops controls came on. “A lot of what?”

  Yet another alarm sounded in her ear, and the HUD on her forward hatch window lit up red: LAUNCH SYSTEMS INOPERATIVE.

  “General, we can’t launch,” Shaila said.

  Suddenly, Diaz’ V-SEV lurched forward and began to float toward the rent in the side of the ship. “May not need to. Jain, give us a workaround so we can use the launch breaking thrusters in short bursts.”

  “What the…oh.” Shaila grasped it. If the thrusters on the backs and legs of the V-SEVs—normally used for slowing down the atmosphere—could be placed under manual control, then they could maneuver in space. They could at least reach the Stanford outpost, or maybe even one of the satellites.

  Maybe they’d even live, at least for a bit longer.

  Shaila’s fingers danced over the controls for several long seconds. “Hacking it now. Looks like…if I route through the forward gear subroutine….there. Transmitting new code to V-SEVs operating systems. Use your walking controls as thrusters. Left leg forward and back fires left side, same for right. Together to go directionally.”

  “Good job,” Diaz responded. The general had maneuvered her V-SEV toward one of the small rents in the hull. She raised the mech’
s arm and, a moment later, a panel slid back to reveal the barrel of a laser drill, designed to cut through whatever minerals Venus had handy. She began to cut into the hull of Hadfield in a wide arc and, a moment later, a three-meter piece of bent metal floated off into space. “Here’s our exit. Let’s go.”

  Shaila watched as the three other V-SEVs floated out the freshly made exit, using the ship itself to push off into space. She started floating across the deployment bay to join them. “Do we make for Stanford, ma’am?”

  Then she saw the space around Venus for the first time, and her HUD lit up like a Christmas tree.

  There were twenty-six sailing ships in space around her, hanging over Venus like…nothing she could’ve ever imagined.

  And they were trading cannon fire.

  CHAPTER 17

  May 28, 1809

  “What in God’s name are those?” asked a junior lieutenant as he scanned the larboard side of HMS Victory and saw giant metal men floating off in the distance.

  Weatherby looked up from his mirror. “I do not know, but we can at least assume they are not allies of the French,” he replied. “Now mind your station.”

  Suitably chagrined, the lieutenant continued his watch, scanning for French ships on the larboard side aft. Weatherby caught Searle eying him closely, and cocked his head—a signal for the captain to approach and speak whatever was evidently in his thoughts.

  “Due respect, my Lord Admiral, but how can we assume they are not in league with the French, whatever in God’s name they are?” Searle asked quietly.

  Weatherby allowed himself a small smile. “If these are the people I encountered on Mars, those many years ago, then they have rules against firing upon anyone without appropriate foreknowledge.”

  Searle nodded, but seemed unconvinced. “And if they are not those same worthies from before?”

  “Then we shall deal with them should they engage, and not before,” Weatherby said, turning back to Finch’s mirror. He could see that the metal creatures, for want of a better word, had exited the remnants of some form of vessel—a craft that, luckily, had collided with the remnants of a French frigate and seemed to be crippled. A passing French 74 had taken the liberty of firing upon the vessel as the two passed each other, but the metal creatures had not retaliated, so Weatherby’s assumption was seemingly safe.

  A familiar melody came from the forward part of the quarterdeck. “It has happened once more, my friend Lord Weatherby.”

  The admiral looked up to see Vellusk there, robed as always, his body quivering under the folds of his raiment. “That would seem to be the most likely explanation,” he said, sounding more terse than he might have liked. “At the moment, Ambassador, might I suggest the cockpit as a safer place for you?”

  The Xan, however, had already turned to gaze out upon the metal creatures, now floating in the Void. Short bursts of light were emanating from their bodies, seemingly propelling them toward the battle. “They are not of these worlds,” he sang.

  Weatherby opted to drop the matter, and simply hoped that if Vellusk were to die, it would not cause yet another interplanetary crisis, for there were only so many which could be managed this day. “We have three French ships coming up directly aft, two more to larboard,” he told Searle. “Come right full rudder and signal Agamemnon and Enterprise to form up with us to protect our keel.”

  Searle barked out the orders as Weatherby turned back toward the mirror, and watched as a drop of his own sweat fell upon the glass. He felt as though his very vitality was being leached from him by the power of this netherworld into which he peered. Perhaps this was why Finch would often look wan and pale, for Weatherby doubted not that his friend’s researches would exact an even greater toll.

  And Finch seemed to see it as well. “Tom, you must rest,” he said. “Our ships are already formed up. Can we not rely on traditional signals now?”

  Weatherby gazed into the mirror once more. He had arranged his ships into an intricate pattern which allowed for maximum broadsides while protecting as many keels and upper decks as possible. Some ships were upside-down upon the planetary plane, while others were on their sides. The grouping he had split off would hopefully draw fire away from the others, but he would soon lead those French back into the midst of his fleet, hoping to catch them in the crossfire.

  “Perhaps you are right, Doctor. I…wait.”

  A fourth grouping of French ships now approached from his starboard side, and seemed to be positioning themselves to come alongside. By Weatherby’s count, this was very much the bulk of the French fleet—a trap laid for him at the very highest levels of the French Navy. He scanned the starfield before him, looking for an exit strategy.

  But there was none. The French were descending upon Victory on all sides. And they would of course want to capture her at all costs.

  “Captain, load every gun and wait to fire upon my command. Signal the others to do likewise,” Weatherby ordered, stripping the goggles from his head once and for all. “Then prepare to repel boarders.”

  Searle visibly blanched. “Has it come to that, then?” he said quietly.

  Weatherby favored him with a small smile and placed his hand on his shoulder. “We are well outgunned, Captain. The French wish to take us as a prize. I have ordered all the other ships in our fleet to our defense, but they will not last long.” Weatherby’s smile dropped and his eyes grew distant. “I have placed us upon this course, and we must now see it through. Have the men prepare.”

  With that Weatherby shrugged back into his coat—he had removed it as the strain of Finch’s working weighed upon him—and took both his hat and a glass of fortifying port from Gar’uk before starting to make his way below decks.

  “Tom,” Finch said softly, touching his admiral’s arm. “I set us upon this course, not you. I should have told you of the Book.”

  Weatherby glared. “You should have indeed, Doctor. And while I will always consider you a brother, I’ve no wish for a reconciliation at the moment. I want to see my family.”

  The admiral turned and marched down the steps toward the maindeck, not looking back to see what he assumed would be Finch’s stricken look. Idly, he wondered if their reconciliation would have to wait until the next life. And if that next life would be in Maat or, hopefully, somewhere a bit more welcoming.

  Weatherby waved off the salutes of his officers and the men of Victory as he made his way below. There were gashes and rents in the ship—she had already undergone withering French fire—and the men were bloodied and, in some unfortunate cases, well past saving. Past the three gundecks he went until reaching the very bowels of the ship, where he finally encountered the lantern-lit cockpit, in front of which several dozen casualties were waiting for admittance.

  Inside, he could see Anne and Philip now working feverishly to care for the wounded, and Elizabeth bravely helping where she could by bringing fresh bandages and water to the wounded. His daughter looked up as he approached. “Is it over?” she asked, desperation in her voice.

  “No, my dear,” he said quietly, smoothing her hair. “It is likely we shall be boarded. I am so sorry.”

  Elizabeth nodded and cleared her throat. “Will they allow us to finish caring for the men, I hope?”

  “It is customary,” he replied. “I…I am so very, very proud of the fine woman you’ve become, and I am most sorry that I have led us here.”

  Elizabeth rose and embraced him. “You are the finest man I know, Father. All you have done has been for the greater good.” And with that, she crouched down and returned to care for a man whose left leg and right eye were simply mangled masses of red flesh.

  He entered the cockpit itself, where he found both Philip and Anne with blood to their elbows, and several alchemists’ mates preparing any number of workings and elixirs. He watched as a man’s hand began to slowly grow back under Philip’s care, while another yet to be tended to suddenly coughed and breathed his last.

  Anne looked up and caught the look
in her husband’s eye almost immediately. “Is it that bad?”

  Weatherby nodded. “I am afraid we may be boarded soon. I will ask the enemy commander to allow you, Philip and Elizabeth your freedom after we strike our colors.”

  She nodded gravely, while Philip made a redoubled effort to merely focus on his work. “Shall I see you again?” Anne asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Quickly, she moved before him and kissed him deeply, ensuring that her gore-splattered hands did not touch his uniform. “Then that will have to suffice,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “Now go, my Lord Admiral. You’re in the way.”

  He gave her a sad smile, for he was indeed in the way and she was still focused on the lives she could save. Blinking to stave off his own tears, Weatherby nodded at Philip, who returned it in kind, and left the cockpit—only to have a midshipman nearly run into him.

  “Captain Searle requests his Lordship upon the quarterdeck,” the young boy said breathlessly. “I dare say you won’t believe it!”

  What now? Weatherby wondered as he dashed off after the mid, climbing four decks as fast as he could until finally reaching the maindeck.

  And then he saw.

  A French triple-decker—most likely the 118-gun Ocean—had come right up alongside Victory and was merely hanging there in the Void, not fifty yards off. And yet neither ship had fired.

  “Captain Searle!” Weatherby shouted. “Why have we not fired?!”

  Searle rushed down from the quarterdeck with Vellusk right behind him. “I do not believe we need to, my Lord Admiral.”

  Weatherby spun ‘round on the man. “What in God’s name are you saying?”

  Then a great crash came from the other ship, followed by several more. And then there were shouts…and screams.

  Finally, Ocean’s main deck erupted in an explosion of wood, causing those few left upon the deck to scatter. A cannon shot upward through the resulting hole—so hard and fast that it escaped the French first rate’s gravity and sailed off into the Void above.