Leviathans in the Clouds

by David Parish-Whittaker

Annabelle glared at him. “Grant the man some dignity.”

  “Don’t look so askance at me,” Arnaud said, meeting her eyes. “I sorrow for the man and shudder for the horrors he saw. But this is not the man. This is a body. The only reason to keep it is to examine cause of death, and since that is unrelated to our mystery, my nose would prefer a bit more distance between us. We haven’t time to be other than practical.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and smiled gently. “Come now, I know you have seen dead men before today.”

  “There is a difference between being accustomed to something and being uncaring, sir.” She nodded. “But you’re right, it’s unhealthy to keep him inside.”

  “No maggots,” Arnaud noted as he and Thymon dragged the body away. “Don’t really have an analogue to the fly on the planet, do they? Tell me, Thymon, what happens to animals when they die?”

  “Things dies, things eat things.” Thymon said. “Sorry to make Miss Somerset angry.”

  “No, no, we all have tension, considering the imminent death threat, et alias. It makes for a temperament quick to anger. And you are not the subject of that temper.”

  Nathanial found a few pages in German. He was glad that he’d spent much of the last month of aether travel improving his German; after working alongside Chauncy Wendt on Ceres he realised it was an increasing necessity. They did seem to encounter Germans often on their travels.

  The deceased man hadn’t been terribly literate, but he’d kept something of a journal in his final days. It had the terseness of someone uncomfortable with the written word. But perhaps there hadn’t been much to say.

  “No revelations from beyond the grave, I’m afraid,” Nathanial said as he read. “Poor souls holed up here until they starved to death.” He made a face. “Apparently they spoke of cannibalism, but couldn’t bring themselves to do the necessary.”

  “I see no stove inside,” Arnaud said. “I imagine human tartare is less than a delicacy. Of course, if one discovered the proper marinade—”

  “Arnaud, please,” Nathanial interrupted. Without looking, he could sense Annabelle wasn’t particularly amused. “At least this confirms that it was our prawns which killed the digger crews. The native workers fled when the first body was found, it seems. The humans began an investigation. By the time they realised it was the prawns, they were surrounded.”

  “What is the saying?” Arnaud said. “Something about a curious cat being killed? Or in this event, turned into a mummy? Very Egyptian, I think.”

  “Didn’t they know about these creatures ahead of time?” Annabelle said, pointedly ignoring Arnaud. “I mean to say, there’s an awful lot of prawns out there, if you haven’t noticed. The Germans must have run into them when constructing this site. All those pits weren’t dug in a day, after all. So the question is, what caused the prawns to swarm like that? Perhaps we can reverse whatever those conditions are.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nathanial said. He paged through the journal. “Apparently it happened during the draining, when they started digging for minerals.”

  “Aha!” said Arnaud. “We are vindicated. They were after the asterium deposits, just as our friend Collins was and just as we are.”

  “Speaking of Collins,” said Nathanial, “I can’t say I hold out any great hope for him, unless he was taken elsewhere by the Germans. No mention of him in this journal. If he escaped, well, I find it hard to imagine he’d survive with all these creatures around.”

  Annabelle wiped the mildew off a nearby window and looked out. “Thousands of them out there,” she said with a shudder. “But they can’t climb the pilings, praise the Lord. Why don’t they give up?”

  “They’re not sentient,” Nathanial said. “Why doesn’t a beetle give up?”

  “No, I understand Annabelle,” Arnaud said. “We are not that much food. And they are being oddly persistent, no? To pursue us is a waste of the energy. The analogy that comes to mind is a disturbed hive. Perhaps the digging woke them out of hibernation, and this is a reflex of defence.”

  “Perhaps,” said Nathanial. “Any ideas about what might return them to that blessed state of hibernation?”

  “Leaving, I think would be a good start.”

  Annabelle turned to Thymon. “Do you still have those flares for signalling Mister Forbes-Hamilton?”

  “But yes,” said Thymon, patting his satchel. “Did not wish to walk all the way home. But Thymon does not wish to leave by the door.”

  “We can try out the window, eh?” Nathanial said.

  Thymon unpacked the Montgolfier. In an apparent fit of whimsy, Forbes-Hamilton had painted the flare like its namesake balloon from eighteenth century France, complete with baroque ribbons and painted gold trim. Nathanial sighed to himself. One really couldn’t expect anything less from a fellow who seemed to think that a dragon figurehead was a suitable design feature for the prow of a modern airship.

  In all fairness, it was of otherwise elegant and straightforward design. It used the heat of the flare to fill the balloon envelope and lift it to altitude. Still, he could have done without the flags.

  “Flags have uses,” Thymon insisted when Nathanial asked for a saw to cut the offending decorations off. “This burns when flare is above clouds. Makes sparks. Easy to see.”

  “I see. It’s a timed magnesium ignition thingee,” Nathanial said. “Right. Well, perhaps a bit theatrical, but right now, I won’t argue with anything that gets us rescued. The brighter the flames, the better.”

  “Perhaps,” said Thymon, pausing in the middle of assembly. “Perhaps we get rescue and not need flares? Oh kay?”

  “Not okay!” Annabelle said. “Mister Forbes-Hamilton thinks we’re busy quantity surveying, not surrounded by carnivorous nasty things intent on a snack.” She stood up and put her hand on Thymon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, you know this. So what is bothering you?”

  Thymon took his deerstalker cap off and scratched his head. “Is true, what Miss Somerset says. Oh kay, Thymon not worry about silly stories for hatchlings.”

  “You mean that fire in the sky thing that Annabelle saw?” Nathanial said. “In all fairness, I’m not sure you’re starting at shadows. I mean, she did see something.”

  “Thank you,” Annabelle said. “But right now it’s the devil we know against the devil we don’t. And if it’s some sort of firebreathing rekota like Thymon’s stories, well then, so be it. Given a choice between a dragon and shrimp, I’ll take the dragon. I don’t have enough arrows for all those shrimp.”

  3.

  Annabelle watched the flare float gently up into the clouds where it turned into a soft fuzzy patch of amber light, then slowly faded away into darkness. Night-time on Venus was unsettling at times, as the clouds kept any starlight from reaching the ground and the absence of civilization meant that there was not so much as a campfire. Only the occasional distant lightning flash cast any light at all, and when it did, she’d rather it didn’t. It just illuminated the writhing mass of prawns below them.

  No sense looking out the window if all she saw was going to give her nightmares. Or would, if she could sleep. Curling up on a bunk, she could hear the distant gnawing sound of the prawns. Were they chewing on the wooden stilts? She had a vision of the eishaus collapsing onto the ground, prawns bursting through the walls, their long spiky mouths ready to pierce—

  Annabelle sat up, panting.

  “You cannot sleep, as well?”

  “No,” she said, turning to face Arnaud’s voice. The man could be exasperating at times, but he was still a friend. And she needed someone to talk to. “I have difficulty with waiting.”

  “You are much more one who acts than one who waits, I think.”

  “I’m told it’s a bit of a character flaw. Unladylike and all that.”

  Arnaud somehow managed to convey a shrug in the darkness. “I find caring about the thoughts of others to be less than profitable. Tell me, do our little friends outside care about your imperfect manners?”

  �
��My imperfect manners?” Annabelle laughed quietly. “Well, you just did say you didn’t care, didn’t you? And yes, the shrimp don’t care, either. They are little multi-legged vampires, waiting to suck every bit of nutrition out of us. To them, we’re nothing more than this biscuit here,” she said, producing a biscuit from her reticule. She looked at it glumly, before tucking into it with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  “You have found our chère Nathanial’s secret cache, eh?”

  “We may very well die. Horribly, I might add. I thought it justified stealing a treat. Or three.”

  “Biscuits need no justification, especially if an alleged friend is caught hording. But I don’t think they are after us for nutrition.”

  “They’re not dropping in for the latest gossip from Earth,” Annabelle said. “That’s right, you made the analogy to a disturbed beehive. But even bees give up after a while.”

  “Mais oui. Not that Venusian and Terrestrial fauna need be precisely alike, of course. But there are basic principles of behaviour. Any behaviour, no matter how maladaptive must have a predicate in some other behaviour that was beneficial.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “As I mentioned, they must have been hibernating, or they would have denuded the area. Very well, I think, they are like unto locusts that save their energy before going on a wild holiday of eating and reproduction. One may insert the necessary joke about university students here.”

  Annabelle decided to bite her tongue. Everyone reacted to danger in different ways. It seemed Arnaud’s method of coping was to be outrageous. It was better than curling into a sobbing heap, she decided.

  “But not these prawns,” Arnaud continued. “They misuse their no doubt fleeting existence to kill and chase what can profit them little. Ce n’est pas possible.”

  “But it is possible. Look outside, if you don’t believe it.”

  Annabelle heard Arnaud stand up and walk to the window.

  “Still dark,” he said. “But one thing is clear. This is not a natural species. They can neither nourish themselves, nor take the time to reproduce. There will be no dandling of little prawns upon the paternal knee for them. If they have knees. My understanding of anthropod anatomy is limited.”

  “I’m really not following. You think these are unnatural? Undead vampire shrimp?”

  “Your tastes in reading are corrupting you. No, that would be silly. I mean that something happened to these prawns to make them behave so. I can only guess at something related to the mineral deposits.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to have the chance to find out, I’m afraid.”

  Arnaud sighed. “I agree. The asterium ore is directly under us. Were it not for our friends, I could start experiments right now. But instead, we must flee for our lives.”

  “Hopefully we’ll get the chance to—” Annabelle froze. She could see Arnaud’s face now, dimly illuminated by a reddish light. “Look outside. Do you see anything?”

  “Mon dieu!” Arnaud cried. “Indeed, I see a red glow in the clouds. Let us hope that it is the Aeronaut, and not your Venusian dragon.”

  Annabelle stepped up to the window. The light looked just like the ones she’d seen on her way down. As it grew brighter, it split into ten or so separate lights that moved around in a loose formation, reminding her of nothing so much as a formation of migratory geese.

  As if in response to that thought, there was a great screaming caw like a thousand eagles in unison overlaid with the rumbling hiss of an angry locomotive. Flames erupted from the bottom of the cloud where the lights had been, backlighting the silhouettes of a dozen great winged shapes swooping down over the trees. Each was easily the size of a fully grown cycad tree, with a wingspan of ten or more meters. They levelled off just above the treeline, their great wings slowly flapping in unison until they reached the edge of the plantation.

  Fire shot out ahead of the beasts, torching the ground in front of them. Steam billowed from the peat, corkscrewing off their wingtips.

  “I’m afraid that I’ll have to vote for dragons,” Annabelle whispered in the silence that followed the roar.

  Arnaud nodded, raptly staring out the window. “I am thinking that these are not the rekota that Thymon spoke of.”

  “Opeme u Mola,” Thymon said from behind them. “The screams of heaven. Have mouth size can swallow rekota,” he said, touching his scar left by a rekota some years back. “Is story.”

  “This is the story about the fires in the sky? The one you were afraid was true?”

  “Yes,” Thymon said. “Thymon is sad to be right.”

  “Don’t be so certain in your regret,” Nathanial said as he joined them at the window. “Look, the prawns are being frightened off.”

  Silent now, the beasts flew low over the dikes through sheets of intermittent rain, flames wreathing them and making the mists explode into great clouds of fog. By the ruddy light of the fire, they could see masses of prawns roiling in all directions. Some scuttled away down the embankments, but most were caught in the flames, leaving steaming piles of carapaces littering the causeway.

  Another great cry broke through the sound of rain and wind, and the opeme stopped flaming. Some of the peat had ignited, littering the black landscape with scattered fires that illuminated the black bodies of the opeme as they banked up and around without flapping, their wingtips nearly touching. There was no sign of the prawns anymore, at least not living ones.

  “We can be eaten by dragons, instead of drained by prawns,” Arnaud said. “Oddly, I find this preferable.”

  “There’s only twelve of them,” Annabelle said. “I’ve taken down larger creatures. And we’ve cover here.”

  “Unless this hut catches on fire,” Nathanial said. “Not to be a wet blanket, sorry.”

  Annabelle swallowed. She’d seen the remains of pioneers burned to death in their wagons. At least for her parents, it had been a quick death by axe blow.

  “Is oh kay, Miss Somerset?” Thymon tentatively touched her shoulder with his great clawed hand.

  Annabelle patted his hand. “More or less. Don’t mind me. So, what do your stories say about the opeme?”

  “Old creatures. Some think all gone many years ago. But when were still many, screams at night mean fire in the skies will be seen. Fires comes, burn huts, burn crops, make Skreelan run.”

  “And shall I guess? Skreelan become dinner.”

  Thymon shook his head. “No. Opeme kill with fire sometimes, yes. But not eat. Just take hatchlings.”

  “They take your children?”

  “Yes. They take hatchlings to Nahe Gadewalu. In English, means Old Ones. Never see hatchlings again.”

  “Old Ones, eh?” said Nathanial. “Well, I’d call it a typical myth, rather like a Baba Yaga equipped her own flying reptiles to do the necessary child snatching. Except for the fact that we’re looking right at those reptiles.”

  Outside, the opeme slowed to a landing in front of the Eishaus. They looked less like dragons and more akin to birds, albeit without feathers. They had long, narrow heads with crocodilian jaws and a crest like a rooster’s, but long and streamlined. Their two legs were short and stocky with four claws that splayed out on the ground. As they started to claw their way towards the eishaus, they used their folded wings for balance, assisted by what looked to be vestigial claws on the wingtips.

  As the creatures approached, Annabelle could see by the firelight that while they might not have plumage, their shiny skin was strikingly patterned with bands of colour like a coral snake. Only creatures at the top of the food chain could afford to be so flamboyant. If one was dangerous enough, there was no need for camouflage. That was something, at least. She didn’t want to imagine anything large enough to give these creatures trouble.

  But their skin wasn’t what caught everyone’s attention. Sitting on each opeme was a slender humanoid with a long lance held straight up, looking like nothing so much as knights on their way to the local joust.

 
; “Do Skreelan ride the opeme?” Annabelle asked.

  “Not Skreelan, no,” Thymon said. “Is others.” He chuckled, making a sound like gravel in a tin can. “So many stories Thymon not believe. Now do.”

  “What story is this? Are those Old Ones?”

  “Name is hard to say for humans, I think,” Thymon said, then whistled an odd series of pitches. “It is how they say it. But not Old Ones. It means those that flies.” He shook his head. “Story is Nahe Gadewalu make them to mind the opeme. They fly near the cities of the dead, protects with fire and rain from the Skreelan. Skreelan ran away from them into the world, but the opeme fliers stay with the Nahe, you see?”

  “The Skreelan used to be with those fellows?” Nathanial interjected. Outside, the riders had dismounted and were approaching with their lances. A small flame burned on the end of each lance, like a quiescent Bunsen burner. “Can you talk to them?”

  “Thymon not know. Just stories, yes? But if stories true, they hates Skreelan.”

  “Why?” Annabelle asked.

  “We kill their masters. Because Nahe our masters, too.”

  “These Nahe came and enslaved you?”

  Thymon turned to the window and watched the opeme riders walking towards them. “Oceans fall, land rises, Nahe Gadewalu make the world. Makes the trees with fruits, makes the beasts that carry, makes the opeme to fly. Makes the riders and seats them at the good table with the good foods. But needs someone to get foods.

  “Nahe Gadewalu makes Skreelan from beasts. Is what word means, Skreelan. Worker. Worker to work for them like Skreelan work for humans. Not nice likes humans,” he said, staring down into Annabelle’s eyes. “Treat like beasts. We work, but never feeds at the good tables where food Skreelan bring goes. Sometimes they kill Skreelan for foods. Eats our eggs. But one day is smartest Skreelan, learns to not obey. So smartest Skreelan kills their gods with magic spear.” Thymon smiled with all his teeth. “Thymon still thinks that part not true.”

  “Sounds like the Belgians in the Congo and Coprates,” Arnaud said. “Nasty bunch once you get them away from home. Make fair decent chocolate and beer, though. Must give the credit where the credit is due.”