“Sir, might I suggest that the fo’c’sle isn’t the safest place for a woman?” Lt. Barnes said quietly from over his shoulder.
Weatherby turned and smiled. “If you wish, you may go and try to convince her, Mr. Barnes. Then go and wrestle a Martian sand beast whilst you’re on about it.”
The second lieutenant smiled. “I understand, sir. Lookouts will be in place momentarily. We’re also checking beneath and behind as well.”
That gave Weatherby an idea, and he quickly rushed over to the map table, where the chaos of the Rocky Main was charted out. An orrery of the thousands of boulder-islands in the Main was hardly feasible, but there were somewhat stable routes mapped through them. “Where are we, Mr. Barnes?”
“Here, sir,” he said, pointing to a relatively clear point on the chart. “I imagine the lights we’ve seen are coming from this cluster of stone here, and this one ahead to starboard. Perhaps pirates, sir. They’ll likely turn tail and run soon as they see us.”
“Perhaps,” Weatherby allowed. “But the French do a brisk business between Earth and their Jovian holdings. They may have found some of their fellows to bring to bear against us. I want every gun loaded and ready to fire, if you please, Mr. Barnes.”
“Straight on, then, sir?” he asked quietly, trying to gauge Weatherby’s intent.
The captain shook his head slightly. “I want each of those ships identified as soon as possible. If one of them is Franklin, I want that ship captured. Otherwise, we shall try to out-race them and make for Saturn with all due haste.” Weatherby pointed toward a point toward the starboard cluster of boulder-islands. “We make for these. Full sail, royals and stud’sels, if you please.”
Barnes paused a good three seconds, confusion writ upon his face, before giving the necessary orders and course. It was only after that he turned to address his captain once more. “Within the cluster, sir?”
Weatherby gave the man credit for posting his orders first before questioning them. “A gambit, Mr. Barnes. If they’re a pair of frigates, then ’tis folly to race them in the clear. We shall even the odds greatly within the cluster, as they will have to slow down or be crushed.”
“As will we, sir.”
“We shall see about that, Mr. Barnes,” Weatherby said, giving his first lieutenant a smile that only deepened the junior officer’s frown.
The captain watched as the royals and studding sails were unfurled across the ship, wrapping the Fortitude in a swath of sailcloth. The solar winds filled them almost immediately, and the ship’s gain in speed was felt underfoot, prompting Barnes to issue an order for safety lines. A wise course, given what Weatherby had in mind.
“Ship identified! French flag!” came the shout from one of the lookouts. “She’s coming straight at us!”
Weatherby nodded; it’s what he might have done. If the aggressor were to get off a few lucky shots, Fortitude might be slowed enough for the other enemy ship to join in. At that point, the battle would be in the French’s favor.
“Four points to starboard! Ready the larboard guns! Two points up on the planes!” Weatherby shouted. Immediately, the ship turned toward the right, while the guns on the left side of the ship were readied to fire at the oncoming French vessel. Fortitude began a shallow climb higher into the Void, for the higher ground, as it were, would make her broadside count all the more.
The French ship, however, would have none of it. It tacked to follow Fortitude and likewise climbed higher. Lookouts immediately counted forty guns on the enemy ship; a rather large frigate, but no match for Fortitude’s seventy-six. Of course, if the frigate’s compatriot was likewise armed, the odds would be evened considerably.
Weatherby watched closely as the two ships sped toward one another. Unlike naval combat upon the seas, battle in the Void was a much faster affair. Two vessels would speed past each other and fire quickly, or they would vie to come alongside one another—without colliding, no mean feat in that—to continually exchange blazing alchemical shot. The cluster of boulder-islands now looming ahead only served to complicate matters. And there was the open question of the location of the other French ship.
“The frigate is positioning itself to come up upon our larboard side,” Barnes reported, “and we’re about to enter the boulder cluster.”
Weatherby nodded but said nothing, instead pulling out his glass in order to look ahead. Timing would be critical for the maneuver, as would his calculations. He could only hope there were no large boulders flying freely around inside the cluster. Not, at least, until he passed through.
Barnes stood next to him, fidgeting with his hands and occasionally rising onto the balls of his feet. “Sir,” he finally whispered, “they will be on us in no time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” he said. “We just need wait for our opening.”
Barnes nodded, then turned to look ahead at the rather larger boulder looming straight ahead of them, and the French frigate coming around their larboard side. “Sir, they’re almost in range. Should we –“
“Four points up on the larboard plane! Now!” Weatherby shouted.
The ship immediately curved away from the French frigate, turning to move around the right side of the boulder-island ahead. Weatherby heard shots ring out from the French frigate; they would try to shoot at Fortitude’s keel, but the range was still too far for their guns. It was a futile gesture.
“Four points up on the starboard plane!” Weatherby commanded, and soon the ship righted itself, its keel less than three hundred yards from a boulder roughly the size of London. Weatherby turned aft and peered through his glass; the French frigate had given chase.
“Excellent!” Weatherby exclaimed, snapping his glass shut. “Mr. Barnes, set up additional lookouts for the pilot, and go to half sail. We shan’t wish to be struck in transit.”
Looking mildly exasperated at this point, Barnes nonetheless issued the orders. At half sail, the frigate would be upon them quite quickly, and it was only good fortune that the ship didn’t appear to have chase guns.
Weatherby caught his lieutenant’s look. “Mr. Barnes, do we have a sighting of the other ship? Unless she’s particularly fast, I imagine we’d see her about three points to larboard, two points below horizon.” Barnes alerted the lookouts and soon the voices from the tops reported back; Weatherby was off by only a point on either axis. The other French ship—another frigate, this one of thirty-two guns—was on a bearing to intercept the Fortitude in the middle of the cluster.
The captain ordered additional sail—just enough to keep ahead of the speedier frigate behind them—and began poring over the charts again, murmuring minute course corrections to the seaman at the wheel. He would look up, scan the horizon with his glass, then consult the charts and make more corrections.
“Very well, there’s nothing more to be done,” Weatherby said finally, snapping his glass closed. “Ready all guns to fire broadsides on my command.”
“All guns, sir?” Barnes asked. “Even the starboard side?”
“Every gun we have, Mr. Barnes. No alchemical shot needed.”
Even more confused, Barnes nonetheless dutifully carried out his orders. Weatherby knew the man was trying his best to comprehend, but simply wasn’t arriving at the matter quickly. They would walk through this engagement over a glass of claret later . . . should they survive.
Even so, Weatherby felt the man deserved something. “Have you ever played at billiards, Mr. Barnes?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t, sir,” he replied, coming full circle in his confusion so as to simply answer the unexpected question with something approaching equanimity.
“Are you familiar with it?” Weatherby asked.
“Only in passing, sir.”
“You should take it up some time, Mr. Barnes. You may find it most illuminating.”
“I shall gladly take your advice, sir,” the lieutenant noted. “In the meantime, there’s our other adversary.” The younger officer pointed off to the starboard side. “
It appears she’s turning to attempt a broadside. Another frigate, roughly thirty-two guns, I should say.”
“About time,” Weatherby responded. “She’s running late. Three points down on the planes, if you please, Mr. Barnes.”
The Fortitude dove deeper into the Void, prompting the other two vessels to change course. The ship’s pilot swore as he saw a number of boulder-islands on either side of the ship. “’Tis a tight fit, cap’n, sir,” the man said.
“And I trust you’re the man to fit us through,” Weatherby said, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Straight on, the tighter the better.”
Unlike Barnes, who at least attempted to maintain decorum at all times, the crewman was unsparing in his look of incredulity. “As you say, sir, but this’ll be tight enough.”
Within moments, boulders began speeding past the ship on either side. Some were small, the size of cannon shot, while others were half again the size of the ship itself. A few pebble-sized pieces of rock started raining down onto the ship’s deck, caught by the Fortitude’s gravity, which was fueled by the ensorcelled lodestones in the bowels of the ship.
“They’re still with us and closing fast, sir,” Barnes said. “Almost within range.” More quietly, he added: “We’re not well positioned to return fire, sir. Suggest we come about to engage?”
Weatherby nodded, then cracked another small smile. “Fire all guns now, Mr. Barnes.”
“Sir?” the lieutenant asked, completely bewildered. “We won’t hit anything!”
Weatherby strode forward and placed his hands on the quarterdeck rail. “Fire all guns!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
Immediately—with a reaction time far greater than Barnes had a moment prior—all seventy-four cannons aboard Fortitude fired their shot into the Void.
And at least three-quarters of those shots hit boulder-islands. The iron shot smashed into boulders big and small, near and far. A bare few were smashed entirely, with most of the smaller rocks split in two and sent careening away from each other. The larger rocks—including several half the size of Fortitude herself—likewise spun wildly through the Void after being struck, and went on to strike other boulder-islands, which in turn struck others with the same prodigious force.
“Planes full up!” Weatherby shouted.
With a chorus of creaking wood and groaning lines, Fortitude began a sharp climb out of the boulder cluster . . .
. . . leaving a wake of careening boulder-islands behind her.
Weatherby and Barnes both turned to look aft with their glasses at the two ships now behind them. The Fortitude’s cannon fire had prompted a chain of reactions throughout the cluster, sending boulders askew in their paths, bouncing off each other and generally creating a blizzard of speeding stone all around the two frigates. They watched as one of the ships lost a mast in the onslaught, while another already appeared to be on fire, likely from a direct hit into its underbelly, where the powder was stored.
A moment later, that ship burst into flame, while the other worked arduously to clear out of the hail of stone.
Weatherby snapped his glass shut, and turned to Barnes. “Keep the lookouts at their posts, and have the guns reloaded, Mr. Barnes. There may be more of them out there.”
“Sir, I . . .” Barnes began, “I must apologize. I—”
Weatherby nodded and interrupted. “Faster, next time, Mr. Barnes. And in the interim . . . billiards.”
The captain turned and started walking down the stairs toward the main deck, and his cabin, when he was met by Philip St. Germain. “That was amazing, Captain!” the boy exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”
Weatherby couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, young man. But aren’t you assigned to assist Dr. Hawkins?”
The boy was immediately flustered. “Well, yes. Sorry, sir.”
Weatherby saw Anne walk up behind him. “It’s all right, Philip. You’re not actually in the Navy,” she said with a smile. “Though I will say, the service has proven to be more imaginative than I would have given it credit for, Captain.”
“Thank you, Lady Anne,” Weatherby said with a slight bow and a smile. “It was not always so.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she replied, with a fair share of weight behind it. “But it’s nice to see some adaptability at long last. Come along, Philip. Let’s help Dr. Hawkins recover his nerves.”
The two turned and walked forward once again, leaving Weatherby feeling less like a victorious captain and more like an eighteen-year-old second lieutenant once more.
CHAPTER 9
June 19, 2134
Maj. Gen. Maria Diaz jumped at every chance to fly she could get. Sure, an executive-class supersonic business jet wasn’t the same as her old Lightning VII stealth fighter-bomber—or a Mars lander, for that matter. But beggars can’t be choosers.
“Wheels up, control,” Diaz called out as she pushed the aircraft down the runway. To her right, Coogan managed the rest of the comm with the tower at Andrews Air Force Base. Between her rank and her security clearance, she didn’t even need to talk to the tower at all, but she knew the controllers preferred knowing just who the hell was in their airspace.
Diaz pushed the throttle forward and the little jet sped up . . . fast. She noticed Coogan giving her a look, but she merely grinned and pushed it forward a bit more, then pulled back on the yoke a bit more than strictly necessary. The jet practically leapt into the air, pressing everyone aboard a bit harder into their seats.
Ninety seconds later, a boom echoed through the jet’s hull—they were supersonic. Diaz keyed in the course and took the headset off. “You got this, Jimmy?”
Her aide smiled at her. “Gladly, yes,” he deadpanned, as only the British know how. “I’ll let you know when we’re twenty minutes out so you can plan an appropriately ‘cowboy’ landing.”
“Smart ass,” she chided, chucking him on the shoulder as she rose from the cockpit and made her way toward the passenger area, where the rest of her team awaited her.
“General, ma’am, you drive like a maniac,” Greene chided, though he wore a sympathetic smile on his face. Capt. Maggie Huntington smiled slightly at this, though she also looked a bit pale, and Diaz noticed the barf bag discreetly placed on her armrest. Perhaps her landing wouldn’t be so cowboy after all.
“As you were, Doctor,” Diaz said, winking at him conspiratorially while flipping on the comm so Coogan could listen in. “And thanks, everyone, for packing up on such short notice, and without the faintest idea where we’re going. Any guesses?”
Greene shrugged and looked at the others. Huntington finally spoke up. “Egypt.”
Diaz’ eyebrows raised. “Not bad, Captain. How’d you get there?”
“Ma’am,” the Marine officer said formally. “The only initial BlueNet site left unaccounted for in either neutral or friendly territory was the one on Siwa Bay. If we were heading for the unknown sites in either Russia or China, our current transport would be unsuitable.”
“Right. Invading Russia or China isn’t on the agenda today. Anything else?”
“Only the fact that you and Lieutenant Coogan were burning up comms for more than six hours before ordering us to pack up. So it seems to me there’s something at Siwa worth seeing.”
“Well done, Mags,” Diaz said. “We’ve been working on a couple leads on the intel front, and it turns out they’re all related. First off, that gear you found at Teotihuacan. Serial numbers were almost entirely stripped except for a single sensor inside a heap of casing. They’d have to break the whole damn thing to rub that number off, which kind of defeats the purpose. Of course, we broke ’em. Traced the part to the piece, and the piece to an outfit called Orion RadTech. Three guesses which conglom owns Orion?”
Greene beat everyone else to it. “Total-Suez?”
“Bingo. So now you have this particular corporate entity not only playing chicken with Armstrong around Saturn, but also planting red herrings around major ancient astronaut sites,�
�� Diaz said.
“Or boosting the Cherenkov signatures at those sites in order to make contact with the other side,” Huntington added. “Even Dr. Greene thinks that’s possible.”
Greene rolled his eyes. “Lottery odds, remember?”
Diaz dismissed the discussion with a wave of her hand. “Total-Suez. So why Egypt?”
Coogan chimed in from the cockpit. “The new fusion reactor there that gave us the BlueNet positive is run by Total-Suez.”
“Right you are,” Diaz said. “So we have unauthorized tech creating Cherenkov false positives, we have a sponsored Chinese ship making for Titan like a bat out of hell, and we have possible unauthorized tech out in Egypt. All being run by the same company. So we’re going to go have a look.”
“Is Harry there?” Greene asked.
“God, I hope so,” Diaz replied, “but we still can’t find the bastard. Meantime, here’s our cover story for Siwa . . .”
Walls surrounded most of world’s coastal cities, humanity’s reaction to global warming and the resulting rise in ocean levels. Without them, New York would be inundated up to 45th Street, while half the Mall in Washington—including the White House—would be swallowed by the Potomac River. Miami, Hong Kong, Mumbai, London, Buenos Aires—all were in a battle with the ocean and, in some cases, were barely hanging on.
There were a few places which welcomed the rising oceans, however, and none as much as Egypt. Where the Libyan Desert once stretched from Cairo to Tripoli with a bare handful of oases between, today there was Siwa Bay, a massive inlet that stretched more than 300 kilometers to the sea. The Egyptian authorities, enthused at the notion of having hundreds of miles of developable coastline, encouraged native wildlife development and added desalinization, irrigation and a wide array of completely unindigenous plant life.
Then came the investment, primarily from fellow Islamic League nations on the Arabian Peninsula, but also from any number of Western and Asian congloms. The Chinese, in particular—having claimed most of Africa as client states over the past century—fueled development of new “seaside” resorts and more than a few casinos with ties to Macau. Conservationists, already feeling rather ineffective in the face of a century of warming, provided only muted warnings, and there was little in the way of historical preservation, even among the towns, like Siwa proper, that managed to avoid the floodwaters.
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