Leviathans in the Clouds

by David Parish-Whittaker

  “Meant to say. Of course not, you’re far too kind. You’re trying to cheer me with your whimsy, but you can’t forget what I am, can you? You’re trying ever so hard, telling me what an adventurous sort I am, making me the best false leg in the history of humanity, all that. Don’t think I don’t know that. Appreciate it, even.”

  Nathanial leaned over and patted her arm. Annabelle pushed it away, standing up with minimal awkwardness. But then, there was no gravity to inhibit her. Not out here in the void.

  “Please sit back down,” Nathanial said. “I can’t bear to see you like this. And I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? For what?” To her anger, she felt wetness on her cheeks. “For doing everything you can to try to allow me some normality? No doubt you’re plotting some improvement on this as we speak.” She batted her hand at the leg, making a dull thud. She shook her head. “It’s no good. I’m no stranger to denial, either. I keep telling myself that I can lead a normal life. That I’ll be able to dance, ride, explore, everything I used to do.”

  “My dear, you know that every one of us will help you any way we can. Just tell us what you need and we’ll be there for you.”

  Annabelle wiped her eyes. “I know. As I love all of you, I know. But I don’t want what you’re trying to give me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Pity.”

  She strode out of the greenhouse as quickly as she could. She hardly wobbled at all.

  Chapter Three

  1.

  “I tell you it’s of vital import that we hunt this mineral down.” Nathanial tapped the monograph on Folkard’s desk. “It’s all here. Sightings of what has to be asterium ore.”

  “Asterium?” Folkard sat behind his sturdy iron desk, its pigeonholes filled with a hundred documents, all no doubt sorted and ordered. With his captain’s cap on, he managed to look as if he was standing on the bridge of an ironclad, steering his ship into battle. Then again, in a sense he was doing just that.

  “It’s what Arnaud calls it,” Nathanial said. “Rather an awkward name, but he was the discoverer, after all. Sadly, cerium was already taken. But more importantly, it has remarkable properties should it be refined.”

  “Oh? And how did you reach that conclusion?”

  Nathan shifted uncomfortably. “I am simply parroting Arnaud’s evaluation.”

  Folkard smiled that damnably superior smile of his. “An evaluation he arrived at with his smelting apparatus.” He held a hand up. “If I didn’t approve, I’d have pitched it out the airlock myself. Possibly followed by our French troublemaker.”

  “He’s a good man,” Nathanial said, with a heat that surprised him.

  “Or at least an ingenuous one. That’s what matters to me. If I restricted my crews to only those of impeccable morals, why, I would be hard pressed to find a single able-bodied seaman in the whole of the Empire.” He picked up the monograph and studied it. “But to the point. He says there’s asterium ore in these swamps?”

  “My discovery, actually. Arnaud needed his sleep, so I took over sorting through the Royal Geographer’s minutes.”

  “Brotherly of you. If brothers cared for each other that much, I should say.”

  Nathanial’s face grew hot, but if Folkard noticed, he said nothing.

  The captain put the monograph down. “Interesting, of course. But to drop in on his latest obsession would take us out of our way, to say the least. So far we’ve been pursuing already developed leads, mining colonies and such. It helps if someone else has already done a bit of groundwork, don’t you agree?”

  “It’s admittedly a touch remote.”

  Folkard steepled his fingers. “Middle of the lower Venusian jungle? Ordinarily, I’d be hard pressed to think of a place I’d be less likely to visit.”

  “But the implications of the aetheric effects of—” Nathan paused. “You said ‘ordinarily’?”

  Again with that smile. “The Heart refined our course a few days back. I feel a tug towards the southern German colonies, which are conveniently near this untrammeled wilderness you are ever so interested in. In short, your little discovery is quite in line with its plans. In fact, it may even be part of them.” Folkard shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t quite understand its influence on me, either.” The smile vanished. “It’s a deucedly quixotic thing, I have to admit.”

  “We’ve been confronted with things that defy understanding on nearly a daily basis, it seems.”

  “True.” Folkard stared out the office porthole. “And I hate unknowns.”

  “Science is about confronting the unknown.”

  “Perhaps scientists and military men have more in common than you think, then. An officer also must concern himself with unknowns.”

  “How so?”

  Folkard’s smile vanished. “I try to keep my crewmen alive. And it’s usually the unknowns that get people killed. It would be best for you to remember that, Professor. “

  2.

  Nathanial had visited few places as poorly named as Adonis Station. If the god of beauty were to take an afternoon stroll down its corridors, the poor fellow would no doubt expire in a fit of apoplexy born of horror. The corridors themselves resembled nothing so much as sewer pipes, and scarcely smelt better. For all the constant Venusian rains on the planet it orbited, fresh water seemed in short supply here. While one might suppose that the balloon shuttles could bring a few extra gallons up for purposes of mopping, he was told that they had limited cargo space.

  “Casks are heavy as anything, my friend,” said the dishevelled airman deputised with escorting them to the station commander’s office. “And if we were to waste the cargo, I’d want them filled with beer.”

  “Venusian beer?”

  The airman shrugged. “Can’t say it’s any good. Think it’s made from some sort of squash. Or ’saur droppings. Hard to tell, honestly. On the other hand, it’s unlikely to make you blind. More than I can say for what the boys in the boiler room are selling.”

  “Rum ration not enough for them?” Folkard asked.

  “Never see it, sir. Suppose we don’t even rate that out here. Arsehole of the Empire, this place is. Just in case the smell didn’t clue you in there.”

  “There’s a lady present,” Folkard snapped. Nathanial had forgotten how menacing the man could look when he felt like it. “I’ll thank you to curb your tongue or I’ll—”

  “Do nothing silly,” Annabelle said. She touched Folkard’s sleeve. “I’ve a nose, myself. And my ears have heard worse. I’ll save my fainting in shock for the end of the day when we have time for it.”

  The airman nodded amiably. “Appreciate that, miss. And begging your pardon while I’m at it. We don’t get many ladies here. What passenger liners get out here, they use gas bags. But the Navy can’t be arsed to build ’em special just for Venus. So here we sit up here, just so all their pricey liftwood ships don’t get swamp rot. You’re the first civvie skiff we’ve seen in, hell, since last time I took a bath. Must be nice to have your own liftwood flyer to zoom around the skies in. You wouldn’t see me here if I did, no how.”

  “We’re safe enough up here, yes?” Nathanial asked.

  “Don’t you worry, sir. Liftwood’s about the only thing that doesn’t rot here. Stay out of those clouds, and you’ll be safe enough.”

  “The commander has scheduled a balloon to the surface for us, hasn’t he?” asked Folkard.

  “I expect he’ll tell you whether he has, himself,” the airman said, escorting them into a greenhouse filled with ferns and a significant quantity of hanging moss that had managed to gain a foothold on the iron bulkhead. Venus filled most of the mildew streaked view. Its swirling clouds were bright with sunlight, completely obscuring the surface of the planet proper.

  The airman jerked his head at the planet. “You ask me, you’d be better off holidaying in the Sudan. That was my last home away from home. Hated it enough to ask for posting here. Biggest mistake of my life. At least in the desert, we staye
d dry. And I’ll take a Fuzzy-Wuzzy’s spear over becoming a lizard’s lunch any road. Hate this station, but no dinosaurs here.”

  “That’s fine,” Nathanial said. “They give my sister something to hunt.”

  “Oh ah?” The airman scowled sceptically at him. “I’ll let the commander know that you gents and the Amazon are here, then.”

  3.

  The station commander’s office had escaped the general rot of the rest of the station, albeit not the clutter. It resembled nothing so much as one’s eccentric explorer uncle’s attic, the scent of tobacco covering up the mildew and filled to the point of impassibility with Venusian artefacts. These random trophies included the head of a Tyrannosaur mounted on the wall, more than somewhat tatty but still menacing despite the lack of eyes. Looking overstuffed and threadbare himself, Commander Hawkins slouched behind a desk made from the cross section of a redwood sized tree, nursing a large crystal bulb of amber fluid.

  “Ah, my mysterious crew of the good ship Esmeralda 2,” Hawkins said, perching a monocle atop a chubby cheek. He took a pull from the drinking bulb, taking a long moment to swish his drink in his mouth. “Captain…Matheson, is it?”

  “Yes,” Folkard said. “You’ve been informed of our needs?”

  “My dear Captain, we all have needs.” The monocle fell. “This is a military outpost, and we are here to serve Her Majesty’s needs in that regard. But in your case, I’ve received notice that you may avail yourself of our facilities. Trusted member of the empire, sound moral character, former officer, et cetera ad nauseum.” He gestured indifferently at one of the piles of paper on his desk. “Odd that the Navy takes such an interest in a geological expedition. We’re usually more of the shoot ’em first, then take what’s left school. Pity there’s really nothing down below worth shooting over. Blam blam!” He mimed taking aim with a rifle.

  “You, sir, are drunk,” Folkard said.

  “It would be a waste of this excellent brandy were I not.”

  “Is everyone on this damnable station a sot?” Nathanial asked.

  “No, but it helps,” the commander said. He waved an easy hand. “But let’s not quarrel. I am here to oblige you.”

  “The brandy, might I have a glass?” Arnaud asked. “My health is bad and I could use the strength.”

  “Certainment, my dear boy. Sorry to hear about your constitutional challenges. Then again, I suppose that makes for a ready enough excuse, eh?” The commander gave his bulb a deft twist and decanted a jigger of the drink, which formed itself into an amber sphere that floated slowly towards Arnaud. The Frenchman grabbed a flask from a nearby cabinet and scooped the brandy up.

  “Merci,” Arnaud said with a grateful nod, sipping with evident pleasure as he wandered around the room, examining the various objets d’art.

  Folkard produced a map and slapped it on the commander’s desk. “You may oblige me by transporting us to here.” He tapped his finger impatiently over the destination on the map.

  “Hmm, yes, of course. A touch problematic, of course.”

  Folkard sighed. “I was beginning to suspect so. Fine. Not much we can do; you’ve got us tied over the cannon here. How much or what do you need from me?”

  “Aren’t we colourful?” the commander said, leaning over the map. “Nothing of the sort. It’s in both of our interests to get you off my station.” Picking up his monocle, he peered at the map. “Thought so. Deep in the swamp.”

  “One might suppose that were it easy to find, found it would be,” said Arnaud, looking up from collection of minerals under glass. “I see nothing here that one might value. Curiosities, nothing more. Is this all to be found?”

  “All that has been found,” the commander said, waving his hand back and forth. “A bit of bitumen here, some amber there. Nothing to interest a geological expedition at all. But here you are. Fortunately for you, you’re not the first, you know.”

  “First what?” said Folkard, staring at the bulkhead with impassive restraint.

  “Swamp hopping rock lovers, sir. Or do you have a preferred appellation for such as yourselves?”

  “‘Passengers to the surface’ might do.”

  The commander waggled a finger. “Ah, but Venus is a large place, as planets often are. You need direction. And we’ve a Johnny on the spot geologist sort down there already. Name of Collins, also known as Jungle Ned. Mad as a hatter, but perhaps that’s what it takes to survive down there. The man makes a career out of going where the air is warm, wet and rotten. Before he wandered out here, he spent three years eating mushrooms with the wogs in the New Guinea swamps.”

  “Why on Earth?” asked Nathanial.

  “Good question. Perhaps he finds malarial fevers add spice to life. Be as that may, came out of it richer than Croesus, thanks to a few gold deposits. You or I might settle on the Riviera, but sadly for his sanity, it just seemed to encourage Collins. So he came here.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps he reasoned that the wetter a place was, the more gold he’d—ˮ

  “And this Collins, his operation base is where you recommend we begin?” Folkard interrupted.

  “Hideout, more like. You see, sir, your chosen get away destination is in German territory. Not that it’s easy to stake out claims in the swamplands, of course. One section of God forsaken peat bog looks fair much like any other. But our Teutonic friends can be disagreeable should they decide we’re encroaching on their settlements. And they’ve been expanding in that region of late.”

  “Do you think they might have discovered something?” Nathanial asked.

  “No doubt just feeling their oats,” the commander said. “Those sausage eaters do love their territorial expansion. You might ask the French about that. Not that anyone aside from the local lizzies care awfully much out here. Be as that may, we asked Collins to keep an eye on it. Haven’t heard from him since. Mind you, he isn’t good about writing. Didn’t even send me a Christmas card. That said, it’s been four months. Even for him, that’s long. So, I’d be obliged if you could track him down. It’ll be a bit of a hike, of course. But should you survive the journey without being nibbled upon, it’s entirely possible that he’ll be of some help to you.”

  Folkard sighed. “Don’t suppose you can just drop us down in the area.” He held a hand up. “Never mind, I’m sure you’ll explain to me something about your delicate position and diplomatic incidents. Just have someone show us a room and we’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “The next balloon shuttle with empty room is in three days.”

  “Tomorrow,” Folkard said. “Or do you need me to spread the word about the wayward rum ration?”

  The commander sat upright. “That’s a rumour.”

  “Rumours make the Navy run, sir,” Folkard said.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter Four

  1.

  It had all been Annabelle’s idea, and Nathanial was delighted by that. For one, that fact would give him a certain level of plausible deniability should Folkard find out about their skulking around the station in the middle of the night, or rather, the middle of the station’s passage through the planet’s shadow. The captain had been clear about the need to stay in their quarters until departure. Their aliases seemed thin enough as it was; as civilians, they were already making an impression on the station’s personnel. They were probably the most exciting thing to arrive here since the last shipment of potentially fermentable sugar. While a surreptitious visit was now out of the question, there was still no need to stroll about and attach faces to the already rampant gossip.

  Or so they were told. Annabelle was less than convinced, or at least stir-crazed enough to produce objections, albeit rather flimsy objections.

  “No one has ever won a battle without a knowledge of the lay of the land,” she said, glaring at the confines of her stateroom.

  “I had no idea that we were in for a battle,” Nathanial said. “I’d simply popped by to wish you a good night.”

  “I
’m finding sleep difficult. Too much is unknown!”

  “Shall I lend you a book?”

  Annabelle sighed. “I’d almost say you were patronising me.”

  “I know better. Trust me, I’ve far too much concern for my continued existence.”

  “You think me so dangerous?” She patted his hand. “Thank you. But seriously, I don’t trust the commander, or anyone else here. I think we need to conduct a bit of reconnaissance.”

  “We?”

  “Come now, Nathanial. An unescorted young lady in the middle of the night?” She fluttered her eyes. “People would talk.”

  “I thought we were to go spying.”

  “Doesn’t mean that we need throw propriety out the window.”

  “Shall I run back to my stateroom to fetch my calling cards?”

  Annabelle seized the crook of his arm. “It’s still the frontier. We’ll make do. Come on!”

  Truthfully, he was just delighted to see her spirits up so after her previous moodiness. Besides, what harm could befall them onboard a military station? Surely, they’d exhausted the Solar System’s supply of anarchist saboteurs by now. If wandering the darkened corridors would restore her adventurous soul, he was all for it.

  Still, he found himself wishing for a gun. If they ran into serious trouble, he could always hand it over to Annabelle. He remembered well how coldly she had dispatched Blayney on Ceres.

  The station might have had the ambience of a seedy port town, but so far as they could see, it had none of its nightlife. There were a few bored patrols, but none so awake or dutiful as to discover the wandering couple. That said, there was also precious little interesting about the station: just crew quarters, cargo storage and the engine rooms.

  “No grand conspiracies here,” Nathanial said. “Quiet as a slumbering church mouse. Why, they’ve even shut the solar boiler down for the night. No doubt due to lack of sun. Merely a hypothesis.”

  “We haven’t seen the balloon shuttles,” Annabelle said, once again tugging at his arm. “Aren’t you curious about them?”