The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  Praise for The Daedalus Incident:

  “A true genre-bender. It mixes alchemy, quantum physics, and historical figures in ways you haven’t seen before. [ . . . ] adventurous, original, and a blast to read.”

  —Tor.com

  “Genre bending often come at great peril, but Martinez pulls it off with an assurance that makes all the pieces slot together perfectly.”

  —BuzzFeed, selected as one of “The 14 Greatest Science Fiction Books of the Year”

  “An ambitious and fun romp.”

  —SFSignal

  “On a five star scale, gets six. [ . . . ] One of the most enjoyable reads I’ve had all year.”

  —GeekDad

  “A thoroughly enjoyable, swashbuckling romp through worlds in which I would happily spend more time.”

  —Fantasy Faction

  “Martinez’s debut is a triumph of genre-blending, as steampunk adventure merges with modern space opera. With a cast of superbly drawn characters, Martinez’s title is a mesmerizing tale of two universes that briefly cross paths, leaving both worlds forever changed.”

  —Library Journal (starred review), included in “Best Books 2013: SF/Fantasy” year-end wrap-up

  Copyright © 2014 by Michael J. Martinez

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-59780-504-9

  eISBN: 978-1-59780-512-4

  Cover illustration by Lauren Saint-Onge

  Cover art and design by Victoria Maderna and Federico Piatti

  Interior layout and design by Amy Popovich

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my mom and grandfather,

  who always encouraged me to dream big

  PROLOGUE

  4,137 B.C.

  Mars would soon be dead.

  Standing on the balcony of his fortress, the warlord knew—despite all his efforts and his brilliance—that the battle on the fields below would end in crushing defeat. The flanking gambit backed by his most aggressive general had failed, as he knew it would; the eldritch machines of the enemy made short work of his massed armies. But it was not a gambit designed to win. It merely bought time.

  The warlord clutched his scimitar in one tightened, green fist. This war was all but over. Another was beginning. A new front. A terrible and uncertain front . . . but potentially a winning one.

  “My lord, it is time,” came a voice from behind him. “The subjects are ready.”

  He turned to his chief disciple and aide-de-camp, Rathemas—a fine warrior in his own right, and an even more adept mystic. Rathemas bore a look of grim determination on his face, but his black-eyed gaze remained steady. His hand rested lightly on his own scimitar, sheathed now but ready enough should the defenses finally break.

  Once again, the warlord turned back to the blasted plain for one final look. Dark yellow blood marred the rust-red plains—the blood of heroes, the warlord knew. It would be avenged, though not in this lifetime.

  But the warlord was no longer interested in such short time spans. He watched his final lines of beast riders fall to the lightning strikes of a terrible war machine—such a beautiful, horrible creation it was!—before turning back to Rathemas. “So it is,” he said finally. “Begin the power sequence. I follow shortly.”

  Rathemas bowed and left quickly, the claws on his feet clacking against the bare stone floors.

  Sharp, dissonant shouts floated up from the battlefield, and he knew without even looking that the time was shorter than Rathemas knew. The human vanguard had been crushed, and the enemies’ war-cries were shrill and piercing. It must be now.

  The warlord turned and followed his disciple through the halls of the fortress. His fellows cleared a path for him immediately, pressing their backs to the stone walls and saluting crisply, even as many struggled to stand under the weight of exhaustion and injury.

  Outside the skies were black, roiling masses of alchemical cloud, pierced by the erratic, failing electrical currents linking his citadel to others across the planet, others now likely in ruins. The once verdant plains below were ground to dust, the metal of sword and armor now rusting amid the blood and ichor. Nearly the entire planet’s water supply had slowly been blasted out into the Void during the year-long onslaught. It would be mere hours before the last citadel fell.

  But improbably, it would be time enough for a final masterstroke. What the enemy thought would be the end of the war was merely the opening of a new stratagem, one that would come to fruition over centuries.

  The warlord strode down corridors, hurtled down stairways, brushed past the dead and dying, all while bringing his mind into focus for the task ahead. His will had to be as sharp as the long-hafted blade in his scabbard, and he had many opportunities to practice such concentration in the years since he assumed the mantle of leadership on behalf of his people.

  Finally, in the lowest dungeon of his tallest citadel, he arrived in the massive stone chamber set aside for this ritual and began surveying the preparations of his acolytes and disciples. The room was a vaulted, circular space nearly more than a hundred yards wide, with cunning arches supporting the high domed ceiling and arcane sigils carved in the walls providing the only décor. In the dim electrical light, he could see the subjects were indeed ready—a band of some two hundred humans, along with another sixty enemy beings, their low harmonic moans bringing sweet minor chords to his ears. Thirty reptilian beasts from the second world, barely sentient and scraping futilely at their iron bonds, were in a third area. Together, these groups formed a triangle, in the center of which was the semi-circular altar, hewn of black stone and covered in ritual accoutrements—the symbolic tools of high occult practice and the gears, switches and knobs that represented the pinnacle of his people’s technology.

  Finally, streams of warriors and acolytes entered the room, chanting as he had prescribed. Dozens, and then hundreds, flowed through the doors, forming a circle around the altar—and another circle, and another. A thousand strong, the massed horde began to sway to the susurrant drone of their own voices, enraptured by the chance of final victory.

  Naturally, they were not told of this victory’s cost, or of its time frame. But they were loyal, and they would see its value in the days and years to come. No matter how long it took.

  The ranks of the faithful parted for the warlord as he strode, full of purpose, to the altar, his faithful Rathemas by his side. “You need not be here,” he told his disciple with solemn paternal pride. “You are free to go and die in defense of this working.”

  Rathemas gave a shadow of a smile. “There are plenty outside left to die, my lord. I want to be part of the final victory to come.”

  The warlord could not help but smile in turn. That was Rathemas, true to the end. He was the only
other creature in the universe who knew of the full extent of the warlord’s plans, and yet here he was, ready to give far more than one single life for the cause. He placed a long, spindly hand on his disciple’s shoulder. “Then it will fall to you to lead them, when the time is nigh. You will know the hour and bend all to your Will.”

  Rathemas nodded and stopped at the foot of the dais leading to the altar, leaving the warlord to ascend the steps. Upon the altar, he saw the two most precious components there, awaiting the necessary infusion of physical and occult energies needed for the plan to work—two books, one with a cover hewn of the finest emeralds left upon his world, and the other shielded with the blackest onyx, the pages stained with the blood of both ally and enemy alike.

  Chanting softly to himself, the warlord began. He poured noxious liquids over these books—containing the most powerful magical, alchemical and technological processes in the Known Worlds—powered up his etheric generators and ritually cleansed the souls of those present according to the ancient ways.

  Then, just as the citadel shook violently under the enemy’s siege engines, etheric lightning shot from the altar in every direction to pierce the souls of every being in the room, save the warlord. He closed his eyes and savored the screams—the first notes of his magnum opus—before a final stroke of energy shot through his own body.

  “In here!” cried the sergeant, his slug-projectile weapon pointing through the doorway into the massive basement chamber. The melodies of his voice were martial, staccato, and hopeful, all at once, and were audible despite the heavy armor that covered him from head to toe.

  Quickly the squad entered and fanned out, weapons at the ready. But there seemed to be little need. The room smelled of ozone and blood, and the broken husks of long, green-skinned bodies were strewn about, as if thrown around by a giant hand. Yet in other areas, the squad found their fellow soldiers, prisoners now, unconscious but alive. The humans and lizard-creatures also seemed to avoid whatever had slain the warlord’s allies.

  The officer walked in and quickly identified his quarry. “There. Bring the chains,” she sang excitedly, pointing to the green-skinned figure slumped over the console in the middle of the room. “And fetch the healers. We should repatriate these captives to their homeworlds.”

  Within moments, the figure was bound hand and foot, lying on the floor unconscious. “The carnage,” the officer sang dolefully, quietly, an elegy to the fallen. “What has this madman done?”

  A cough from the floor drew everyone’s attention as the warlord—the enemy of many worlds—sputtered and awakened. “It is . . . victory.”

  The officer stepped forward to tower over him. “No, it seems you’ve failed, Althotas,” she sang, her voice carrying minor chords of contempt and rage. “Only your compatriots have fallen.”

  The squad pulled the warlord Althotas to his feet, roughly, supporting him under their arms. Althotas did not respond, instead allowing a small, strange smile to appear on his bloodied, yellow-streaked face.

  Mars would be dead soon.

  CHAPTER 1

  July 21, 1798

  Allah, be merciful. It is like lambs to the slaughter,” the young man said as he surveyed the flat plain far below. His was, perhaps, the finest vantage point one could muster—atop the Great Pyramid of Cheops itself—and yet one neither side from the battle below had seen fit to use.

  Far below and far away, the young man and his companion watched the first line of mounted mamelukes charge forth across the desert toward the arrayed forces of infantry and artillery before them. The cries of the horsemen could be heard faintly over the desert wind, their words not quite discernible, though both men knew that among the cries, many of the mamelukes would be shouting allahu akbar—God is great.

  Wisps of smoke erupted from the lines of the European infantry, followed shortly by the sound of gunfire reaching the observers’ ears. The Europeans, in actuality, were not in lines per se, but had arranged themselves in squares, with artillery pieces in the center of their formations. It was a canny move, for it allowed more muskets to be deployed against the charging cavalry. Thus the mamelukes fell in waves, as if harvested by an invisible scythe. Barely a handful of riders made it to the European lines, and these few were handled expediently by the soldiers and their bayonets.

  The second line of mamelukes charged, this time trying to take a different tack by aiming for the spaces between the squares. Perhaps they had hoped to peel off at the last moment before getting caught in the crossfire, but that experiment never came to fruition, for the cavalry riders and their horses fell just the same. It was an exercise in utter futility and, perhaps, the very end of a storied era of warfare in this part of the world.

  “Murshid, I feel I must warn someone,” the youth—barely a man of 16 years—said to his companion. “Should we not ride to Cairo?”

  The older man, who appeared to be a very hale and healthy forty, merely shrugged under his robe and turban, which seemed an odd pairing with his sandy hair and thinly drawn face. “Cairo knows, Jabir. The mamelukes rode forth from there, after all, and the city is far closer to the fighting than we are. They’ll see it from the battlements, and know the extent of the defeat when no one rides back afterward.”

  Jabir studied his mentor intently. The older man sat serenely on the stones of the pyramid, some four hundred feet above the valley floor, as he watched the defenders of Cairo shredded before the modern European army, which had arrayed itself in massive squares of men, muskets, and cannon protruding from all sides. Surely, the great murshid—“teacher” in the Arabic tongue, a sure sign of respect for a foreigner—would be keen on learning the kinds of alchemical shot the Europeans used, the tactics they employed and, in the end, what their purpose was. But to Jabir, Cairo was his one and only home, and he knew it would fall to these new crusaders within days, perhaps less. He wanted to do something—anything—but exactly what . . . he knew not.

  “So it’s true,” the murshid murmured to himself, still in Arabic. “They’ve come all this way. But why? Why Cairo? Why now?”

  Jabir cleared his throat. “The traders in the suq say this Frankish general wishes to cut off the English from India. He hopes to hurt them so they sue for peace back where they came from.”

  The murshid shook his head. “A likely story,” he said, standing and stretching his long limbs, his robes fluttering amid the winds that graced the slopes of the ancient monument. “You might as well direct your attention toward a gnat when your enemy stands before you. There are other reasons for this.”

  The murshid started climbing down the steep rocks of the pyramid, leaving Jabir scrambling to pack up their gear and follow. “Where are we going, murshid?”

  The older man turned to his student, a compassionate look upon his face. “Cairo is lost, Jabir. I’m sorry. The best we can do now is head north. I doubt the English will have allowed the French to simply sail across the Mediterranean without contest, and I’ll wager the Royal Navy will be at Aboukir Bay before long. There’s 25,000 Frenchmen down there, and they’re just about done cutting the heart out of the mameluke army. So we’ll go and tell the English what has happened here.”

  Jabir frowned as he slung their gear over his back. “Why? So that they too can come and launch a new crusade?”

  “No, Jabir,” the murshid said. “The English have India. They rule the sea and the Void, and they have little quarrel with the Ottomans. But this French general . . . he is canny. Last I heard, the Royal Navy is all that’s keeping him from launching an invasion of England itself, or taking flight beyond Earth. And should this general reach land, as you can see, there is no stopping him. He must be contained to the Continent, lest England fall.”

  The two continued to pick their way down the side of the crumbling limestone pyramid, occasionally stopping to watch the fighting rage on. “I thought you did not care about England, murshid,” Jabir observed.

  “It is true that I left home a long time ago,” the man repl
ied. “But there are still friends whom I care about most dearly. And they will be among those who will be told to fight this General Bonaparte. I must tell them what happened here, so they may be prepared.”

  Jabir nodded; friendship he could understand. “I will defer to your wisdom, as I do in all things, murshid.”

  That brought a small, wry smile to the man’s face as he replied in quiet English. “Good luck with that,” said Dr. Andrew Finch, formerly of the English Royal Navy—one of the finest alchemists in the Known Worlds.

  July 28, 2134

  A single rust-colored rock sits upon red soil, shrouded in darkness. It begins to tremble, slightly at first, but then starts to move of its own accord. It rolls . . . uphill. Gaining speed, it ascends a hill of rubble, then moves vertically up an orange cliff face. It reaches the top, piling atop other stones. There are tears and sadness from somewhere, shouting and vengeance. The stones rise higher, the cliff surrounded by a purple sea. Suddenly, the sky turns black, and from nowhere, snow bursts in a whirling fury.

  “Ow! Damn!”

  Lt. Cmdr. Shaila Jain shook herself out of the momentary reverie at the sound of Stephane Durand’s voice. He was grinning sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his head, turning to examine the culprit—a protruding electrical access hatch, the corner of which caught him squarely on the crown of his head. He gave it a sharp slap with his hand—which in turn sent him floating away in the opposite direction, prompting another oath, this one in more familiar French.

  Shaila couldn’t help but giggle. The French language was sexy as hell, even if it involved swearing and a rather comical attempt at zero-g movement by a mostly naked Frenchman. She had been enjoying some well-deserved afterglow when the little half-trance overcame her, and her laughter now was equal parts relief and genuine amusement. “Hey, this was your idea,” she teased. “I told you it wouldn’t be easy.”

  She watched as Stephane managed to grab one of the overhead conduits and arrest his sudden flight, blushing furiously. “We didn’t have this problem when we were doing it, yes? So why now?”