Then a giant metal claw came out of the hole. And another. Until finally, one of the giant metal creatures pulled itself out onto the deck. It paused, then grasped Ocean’s mainmast and tore away half the wood, causing the mast to buckle and fall away—thankfully, away from where Victory was.
“The French fired upon those vessels repeatedly,” Vellusk sang quietly. “They did not take to it well.”
They were suddenly interrupted by a shout from the quarterdeck. “Another French ship coming up starboard side!”
Weatherby wheeled around, feeling suddenly energized. “Ready on the guns! Prepare to repel boarders!”
This other ship was another three-decked gunship, looking to be at about 90 guns. It should have caught Victory in a deadly crossfire between two ships, but it had likely been unaware of Ocean’s strange fate.
“Admiral, I suggest we wait until she is nearly ready to board,” Searle said as the two men took their stations back on the quarterdeck. “We appear adrift, and perhaps we should play along.”
Weatherby nodded. “A fine plan, Captain. At your discretion.” He then saw Finch slowly packing up his mirror and table, looking utterly morose. “Dr. Finch, please produce some fog in order to shroud our decks. Then report to Lieutenant St. Germain in the cockpit and assist as you’re able,” he ordered. “I hereby restore you to the rank of alchemist’s mate for the present. Captain Searle, make a note in the log when this is over.”
Finch blinked several times, looking utterly confused, then caught the glimmer of humor in his old friend’s eye, for Weatherby’s melancholy had taken a sharp turn after seeing the mechanized beast veritably gut the innards of Ocean by itself. “As you wish, my Lord Admiral,” Finch replied, tossing off one of his incredibly sloppy salutes. “It’s a damn sight better than the brig.”
“All hands! Lie low! Hide!” Searle shouted. And to a man, all the seaman abovedecks aboard Victory fell to the decks, hiding behind sailcloth and cannon, slipping behind the masts and diving down into hatchways. Below, the midshipmen and junior lieutenants were already distributing pistols, pikes and cutlasses in order to help repel boarders, and some of the smallest and youngest aboard were now quietly and quickly darting about to arm those remaining on the main deck.
Meanwhile, Finch had produced several egg-shaped packets, placing them strategically on the main deck and tossing a few above the fo’c’sle as well. The quarterdeck was left clear, as there were few standing upon it to begin with—and, of course, the officers still needed to see what might be in store.
Finch then said a quick Latin incantation, and the packets began to produce prodigious amounts of black smoke—very nearly the same hue and thickness Weatherby had seen spewing forth from fire-damaged ships. To the French, it might appear that Victory was suffering fire damage, which might further lower their guard, even as their vision was obscured.
“Most alchemical smoke is white in nature,” Searle noted quietly.
“Finch really is quite talented,” Weatherby replied. “At least, when he has his head about him.”
Moments later, the French ship edged closer to Victory. There were sharpshooters on her main deck, barely visible through the smoke. They wanted the prize, of course, which is what Searle had counted on. But they weren’t being quite brash enough for Weatherby’s tastes, while his captain’s brashness was all too evident.
“FIRE!” Searle shouted.
Immediately, fifty cannon on Victory’s larboard side poured iron and alchemical power into the hull of the French ship, while the men in the tops and upon the main deck opened fire with muskets and pistols. Weatherby watched the fog part somewhat, and saw many casualties upon the French decks, along with several large gashes in the enemy hull.
But it was not enough. Grappling hooks and ropes sailed through the fog and caught in the wood of Victory, even as the sound of a return broadside deafened all aboard and sent Victory shuddering from fo’c’sle to stern. More screams sounded, and this time they were below decks.
Anne. Elizabeth. Philip.
Finch.
Weatherby suddenly cursed himself for his cavalier attitude, for he realized in that moment he had swung from melancholy to over-confidence, ably assisted by Searle’s lust for battle and glory.
“Boarders to starboard!” Searle yelled, drawing his sword. “Onward!”
The captain dashed down to the maindeck to join his men, who had opened fire once more at the direction of their squadron leaders. Despite the withering fire, several dozen French began to board Victory—for the first time in her illustrious history, if Weatherby’s memory served. He slouched slightly, then drew his sword. The silvered blade seemed to cut through the fog with a glow of power all its own, and he knew that many young men would fall before it.
Perhaps he might fall this day as well.
The admiral prepared to move down to the maindeck when he heard the sound of…well, something not normally heard aboard a ship. He could not for the life of him place it, but it was coming from starboard, from Ocean.
And there, through the fog, he saw a pair of bright lights making their way toward Victory.
The metal beast was coming.
“Victory!” Weatherby shouted. “All hands fore and aft at once! All hands, move fore and aft! NOW!”
The two lights arrived amidships. A metal claw—hand?—grasped the railing along the side, crushing it even as the beast pulled itself up onto the deck of England’s very flagship. It was, Weatherby could see, a full twelve feet tall, each arm easily the length of a grown man. It had no head, but there appeared to be a port or window in its chest.
And although the fog was still thick, Weatherby saw something—someone—through that window he never thought he’d see again.
“The French are amidships!” Weatherby yelled at the beast. “Their ship is grappling ours!”
The creature turned and strode across Victory’s deck in but two steps, then started swinging its arms wildly, sending several Frenchmen flying over the side or across the deck. Searle had ordered his men, now clustered near the fo’c’sle and quarterdeck, to open fire as well.
And in the space of a few moments, the situation became a rout.
Soon, the French were clambering back over the side for the safety of their own ship, even as their fellows were thrown past them by the metal mechanism or were cut down by musket fire.
Then the beast leapt. Short spurts of white fire spewed from its back and legs, and it bridged the Void between the two ships in but a moment.
Weatherby could not see what came next, but could easily imagine it from the sounds of screams and crunching wood.
Searle came back to the quarterdeck, bloodied sword in hand. “Never in all my years at sea and Void have I see anything like that,” he breathed. He took a moment to compose himself. “Orders, my Lord Admiral?”
Weatherby nodded. “Have one of the alchemists clear this fog, then signal the rest of the fleet to join us once more. I believe there were three other mechanisms out there, and I will wager they have means to communicate with each other. I expect we have received similar aid elsewhere.
“And Captain, prepare to pipe visitors aboard.”
Searle’s brow furrowed. “Admiral?”
Before Weatherby could respond, the sound of metal crunching down on wood resounded across Victory once more. And there, upon the maindeck, the metal creature stood.
“Belay that last,” Weatherby said. “Pass the word for the Lady Weatherby and Dr. Finch at once.”
Weatherby waited patiently until his wife and friend joined them from below, with Philip and Elizabeth in tow. Philip approached and saluted smartly. “Do you wish a casualty report, Father…I mean, my Lord Admiral?”
In his haste and zeal to report to his superior officer, the fleet alchemist hadn’t bothered to turn forward, as his mother, stepsister and “uncle” had already done. Weatherby simply nodded toward the metal beast, and enjoyed the look on Philip’s face immensely as he strug
gled to come to grips with the sight.
Weatherby then took Anne’s hand in his and walked slowly down to the maindeck, where the men of Victory slowly surrounded the mechanism. As Weatherby approached, the front of the beast seemed to detach somewhat, and began to rise slowly, as if it were a gunport.
Inside, there was a woman. She had black hair and brown skin, and was dressed in a simple-looking uniform of some kind—one with a Union Jack upon the sleeve.
“Mr. Weatherby, I presume? We had reason to believe you and Dr. Finch were aboard,” the woman said with what could only be described as an insouciant grin. This was followed by a slightly perplexed look and a surveying gaze. “How long has it been for you?”
“Thirty years, Lieutenant,” Weatherby replied with a smile. “And might I say, you’re looking well.” Indeed, she looked little changed since they day they had first met, so long ago.
“It’s ‘Lieutenant Commander’ now, actually,” the woman said, her smile growing broader. “Less than three years for me.” She then spotted Anne by his side and waved. “Hey! You look great for thirty years on! Did you two get together?”
Weatherby smiled as Anne laughed. “Remarkable,” Weatherby said. “And yes, I suppose we did. You are aboard HMS Victory, Commander. And I am now both an admiral and a baron, in point of fact.”
The woman in the mechanism blanched slightly, her grin fading, then gave an unusual but formal salute. “Lord Admiral Weatherby,” she said. “Permission to…remain aboard, I suppose.”
Weatherby turned to Searle to gain his captain’s tacit approval, but the man looked quite dumbfounded, as did so many others aboard. For his part, Weatherby couldn’t be happier.
“Permission granted, Lieutenant Commander Jain.”
CHAPTER 18
January 29, 2135
May 28, 1809
Shaila looked up at her V-SEV on the deck of the venerable HMS Victory—though not as venerable as it was in the 22nd century—and marveled yet again at the direction her life had taken. This time, at least, it was a positive thing.
In the sudden chaos of the overlap, she thought herself lucky to spot the triple-decked gunship in the fray. She figured there were other first rates out there, both English and otherwise, but the black-and-yellow pattern on her sides was just as she remembered it from her first-year cadet visit to Portsmouth, where Victory now resided in dry dock.
Well, it resided there back on Earth, in her time and world. In Weatherby’s world, he was in command of this ship, and so many others. Her head swam, just as it had back on Mars.
“Are you quite all right, Commander?”
Shaila turned to see Miss Baker—wait, no, Lady Weatherby now—looking at her quizzically and with a bemused smile. The woman had been barely eighteen when they last met, and while Weatherby looked every bit of his nearly 50 years, Anne looked no older than Shaila. Whatever she uses, I got to get me some of that.
“I’m fine, thanks. It’s all just surreal. And this time, I really don’t know what we’re supposed to be doing here,” Shaila said. She turned to look up at the quarterdeck, where Diaz and Weatherby were chatting off to one side. Stephane and Coogan, meanwhile, were still making their way to Victory from several hundred kilometers out. Other ships had been dispatched to get them, since for whatever reason—Alchemy, most likely, she remembered—the sailing ships traveled much faster in space than the V-SEVs.
“There is an overlap for a reason,” Anne replied. “You’ve brought us your world’s version of the Emerald Tablet, while we have our version of The Book of the Dead. The mystical and alchemical properties of these two items together would be…honestly, I cannot think of a superlative for it. But to what end do we use this power? That’s the question.”
Shaila nodded. “There’s someone behind all this. Stephane was infected by the Martian intelligence. You remember Greene? He’s still infected. He’s the one behind the gear that created this overlap, probably.”
“My son also suffered from what you call infection, and my first husband died while fighting it,” Anne confirmed. “We have been, I think, more successful in staving off another Martian incursion, but I think the French have been playing into their hands all the while.”
Shaila stopped and pointed off into space. “Looks like we found our last two mechs,” she said. “That would be Stephane and Coogan.”
“I remember your Stephane,” Anne said. “Did you and he ‘get together,’ as you put it?”
Shaila turned a bit red. “Yes, ma’am. Though with everything, it certainly hasn’t been easy, has it? And Stephane is how we knew you were aboard.”
Anne crooked her head slightly, confused. “How is that?”
“Just after we abandoned ship, he said he knew Dr. Finch was aboard, along with The Book of the Dead. Can’t say how he knows, but…” Shaila’s voice trailed off as a pained look came over her face.
“There is a very interesting link between them, then,” Anne said. “Come, I’m sure Andrew and the others will want to welcome Stephane, and this new compatriot of yours, Mr. Coogan.”
The new compatriot arrived first, and his V-SEV was lashed to the starboard side of Victory, amidships. The ship’s captain, some guy named Searle, was pretty concerned about the heavy mechs on his wooden decks, and Shaila could certainly understand the concern.
James Coogan was welcomed aboard by an early 19th century admiral and found himself on an open deck overlooking Venus—which he handled like a fucking pro, unsurprisingly. Shaila assumed he’d already had access to all the holos and data involving the Daedalus incident, and he had been there for the Siwa thing too. Kid probably looked up 19th century Royal Navy salutes and protocols, just in case, because he seemed completely unflappable.
The same could not be said for Chrys VanDerKamp, who looked flabbergasted the moment she slid out from behind Coogan’s seat.
“Jain,” Chrys said, sidling up to her after all the introductions were made. “Have I gone completely batshit crazy?”
“Don’t know,” she replied with a smile. “It’s all real. You’re looking at Venus with nothing between you and space except a wooden ship. Crazy’s not a bad way to go if you need to.”
Chrys nodded. “So what do we do now?”
“Don’t know that either. If it’ll help, maybe we take out your sats, one by one. Last time this happened, though, back on Mars, the devices adapted. Still…you got sensors?”
The exec shrugged. “I got a datapad and whatever the V-SEV has. Maybe I can gin up something.”
Shaila nodded and sent Chrys on her way. First rule of command—keep the troops focused, especially when there’s uncertainty. If any of them paused too long to ponder it all, the impossibilities would hit them like a freight train and they’d be left completely overwhelmed.
A few minutes later, the final V-SEV was secured to the other side of the ship, and Stephane clambered on board. To Shaila’s relief, he looked a bit less strained and more himself. “That was fun,” he said as he kissed her. She was a few seconds into the kiss before she remembered they had been under orders not to engage in, as Diaz had put it, “too much fraternization.” But the world didn’t seem to be ending…yet. So she rolled with it.
“Had fun in the new toy?” Shaila asked.
“It’s easier than the manuals said. Though I did feel bad about wrecking my countrymen’s ships,” he replied. “Don’t tell the general, but I only destroyed their masts and sails.”
Shaila smiled, and made a note to tell Weatherby instead, as the admiral would probably really want to know the state of his enemy’s fleet. “I knew you were a good guy, eh?”
“I’m trying. Moving and acting seems to help,” Stephane said. “And…oh…mon dieu…there he is.”
Stephane had spied Finch walking across the maindeck with a younger man and made for him, and Finch immediately recognized him. “Dr. Durand! So glad you could join us. Might I introduce….”
Then Finch’s eyes widened as Stephane a
pproached. And Stephane began to walk more slowly.
“You’ve been inside Maat,” Stephane said, his eyes narrowing. “That’s what I sensed…. What did you do?”
Finch peered at Stephane with equal amounts of consternation and concern. “I should ask, Durand, what in God’s name have you been up to? I…dear God.” Finch immediately reached into his pocket and pulled out a strange set of eyeglasses, with a number of hinged and colored lenses on them. He switched between lenses for several long moments, all the while staring directly at Stephane.
“What is he doing?” Stephane asked.
“Beats me, but if they have the Book of the Dead like Anne says they do, maybe you’re giving off some kind of vibe he can see,” Shaila said.
“Vibe?” Stephane asked, confused. “Like that thing you have?”
Shaila smacked him in the arm as she felt her face flush. “Christ, Stephane. Not here!”
Finch finally lifted the lenses from his face. “I suggest, Philip, that this man be placed under immediate armed watch while aboard,” he said with a surprising amount of seriousness. “Whilst he remains in control in large part, there is another entity within him, likely of Mars.”
“Yes, there is,” Stephane said, a hint of combativeness in his voice. “His name is Rathemas, and I am keeping him down right now.”
The young man next to him grew wide-eyed at this and nodded, then turned to one of the red-coated marines stationed on deck. “Marine, keep watch over this man until ordered otherwise. I will inform the admiral.”
The marine immediately took up a post behind Stephane’s left shoulder, about three feet back—plenty of distance for him to shoot if needed.
“He’s got it under control, Dr. Finch,” Shaila said, with maybe a little more emphasis than she intended. That’s when she noticed his pale, sweaty look. “How about you? What’s that book been doing to you?”
And Finch’s arched eyebrow showed he got every bit of subtext there was to have. “I assure you, Miss Jain, that The Book of the Dead, whilst a powerful artifact, has not led to possession by an outside intelligence. The connection with Maat is draining, but it is not consuming my Will,” Finch said, a touch defensively. “And Dr. Durand here is, shall we say, not entirely himself. Or, rather, he’s quite more than one self.”
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