by Paul F Gwyn
She nodded grimly. He had heard tales of such a phenomena from Nathaniel, and the awful tale of Peregrine Station.
“Mon Dieu!”
“I should say! You’d think with our new propeller…” Her words trailed off as her focus returned to her instruments.
Arnaud found his attention being drawn back to the vortex. He stood, and moved closer to the window. It was mesmerising in its violence. The way it was reacting… “Non,” he muttered, “that surely cannot…” The plate in the lab. It, too, seemed to be reacting to something. The humming growing stronger every day they neared Mars.
“The plate?” Annabelle asked. “Your Mercurian plate?”
Arnaud shot a sideways glance at the woman. Had he voiced his thoughts? It was not unknown. But what did she know of the plate? Nathaniel must have mentioned it to her. What else had he told her? Arnaud shook his head. That did not matter right now.
“These fluctuations; could there be a link with your plate there?” she continued.
“I do not see how, but it has been reacting more lately.” He stopped, not liking the look on Annabelle’s face. “It is a regret of mine having brought it on board the flyer, but I never expected…” He could not complete his sentence. The depth of his bad judgement was too much.
The silence between them was broken by the door swinging open, and Folkard barging past Arnaud. “It would appear that the propeller governor is not going to be of any help,” he announced. “We’re still being pulled towards the vortex.”
Folkard less than politely ushered Annabelle from his chair and gripped the control levers. “Miss Somerset, continue checking the readings.” Annabelle did so and Folkard looked out to the vortex. “What the deuce? That’s…not right.”
“Captain?” Annabelle looked up from the orrery.
“Miss Somerset, you have seen an aether vortex before, correct?”
“I fear not. I was incapacitated at the time. Although the destructive capabilities of an aether vortex; that I have experienced firsthand.”
“Ah yes, of course. Well, I have navigated my share of aether vortices and that…” He pointed at the ever growing maelstrom. “That is not an aether vortex!”
Annabelle frowned. “Then what is it?”
This was all beyond Arnaud; though he could not deny that, vortex or not, whatever it was that they were heading to was both powerful and… What was the word? Yes! Primeval!
“Des premiers âges!” he said with a breath. “A rip in the luminiferous aether itself!”
Folkard glanced back at Arnaud. “Such hyperbole, Fontaine. From the professor I expect such like, but not you. However…yes, I think you may be right. I have never seen the like. But it certainly began as an aether vortex. Now? This is something uncharted.”
“I think I may be to blame, Captain,” Arnaud said slowly, although he wasn’t certain he could explain how. Before the captain could comment, Arnaud continued. “I, ah, must confess I brought one of the plates from Mercury on board, it is only of sentimental value to me, but I fear that it could be what has diverted us to this trouble.”
“Plates?” Folkard shook his head slowly. “One would think I’d be used to the follies my crew seems to indulge in. I assume you have something more to add?”
“Those plates are not just crystals, far from it. They are impressionable; they have to ability to contain imprints of people, and even intelligence. Even well after the events on Mercury, there is still much we do not know about them.”
“And you saw it fit to bring such a thing on aboard my ship, Fontaine?”
Chastised, Arnaud looked away. What could he possibly say to make the situation better?
“We shall deal with this later—if we survive,” Folkard said grimly.
“That plate has been reacting the nearer we move towards Mars, or so Arnaud says,” Annabelle pointed out. Arnaud looked at her, but she did not hold his gaze. “Whatever that is out there, it also appears to be reacting to something. As if…I’m not sure. But could it be that that plate and that thing out there are being attracted to each other, like a powerful magnet and a sheet of metal?”
Silence, save for the rattle of the flyer.
“Well, Fontaine?” Folkard barked.
Arnaud started, and swallowed. “Um… A good hypothesis, yes. One should never ignore coincidence.”
“So, we’re being attracted to that rip out there, and the propeller governor is failing to make a difference.” Folkard shook his head. “If we had known about the problems with the governor before, then perhaps, just perhaps, we could have found a way out of his. Prevented it, even.”
“But when I checked in on Nathaniel in the engine room earlier, he mentioned nothing of a fault, or poor performance.” Arnaud did not care for the suspicious look clouding Annabelle’s face as she spoke. “Could he have missed such a problem?”
The captain stroked his beard. “Fenn told me that not long after he took Nathaniel off duty the engine seemed to completely deteriorate.”
The deck fell silent.
“That there is a connection between your plate and that rip out there is almost certain, Doctor,” the captain said, “but I suspect the biggest cause of the problem has been poor communication regarding the condition of the engine room. Or rather a deliberate lack of communication.”
The implication was clear to Arnaud, and he did not like it one bit. Certainly Nathaniel had been out of sorts throughout the majority of their journey from Earth, but Arnaud could not believe his confére would do anything to hurt any of them.
“Stone must have failed to alert us about something,” Folkard continued, moving beyond implication and directly into accusation.
Annabelle looked to Arnaud, a deep frown darkening her handsome face. “Captain, surely you cannot believe that Nathaniel would…” She shook her head, still keeping her eyes locked on Arnaud. She was trying to tell him something, but he knew not what.
Folkard ignored her and rose to his feet. “Fontaine, come, we men must consult the professor; he’s been awfully quiet during all this. Miss Somerset will remain here and attempt to regain some control of this vessel. If such an action is possible.”
Arnaud remained behind a few moments longer, trying to figure out what Annabelle’s look had meant. She was sitting back in the pilot’s seat, her back to him once more, her attention focussed on the task ahead. Arnaud opened his mouth to ask her directly, but a bark from Folkard pulled him off the control deck.
5.
THEY FOUND NATHANIEL sitting at his desk making an entry into his journal. He spun around at the abrupt entrance. He looked quizzically at Arnaud’s flustered expression, and narrowed his eyes when he noticed the stern countenance of Folkard.
“Is there a particular reason for your barging into the lab with such ill manners?” he asked.
“I take it you have not noticed any of the present commotion on the flyer?” Folkard glared at Nathaniel.
Nathaniel looked from Folkard to Arnaud, then back again. “I was merely writing my newest journal entry; perhaps I have immersed myself in my own musings too greatly.”
Folkard just stared for a moment and then said; “We are on a direct course with what can only be called a tear in the fabric of the aether, and we are having a hell of a difficult time amending our direction.”
“I see.”
His calm reaction did him credit, but nonetheless surprised Arnaud. They were all in danger; surely even Nathaniel realised that. Folkard continued to eye Nathaniel. The wound that had existed between them since they had first left Earth on their mission had been healed over the last few months, but now it was being torn open again.
“We were hoping you had something to share, anything odd you may have noticed,” Arnaud said in an attempt to add some salve to that wound.
“Nothing at all.” Nathaniel pursed his lips together, and shrugged. “This is all very odd.”
“Listen, Stone,” Folkard said, edging into the lab, “I’m not quite sure you are gras
ping the gravity of our situation. If we cannot avert our course with the rip, we will all die.” There was no reaction from Nathaniel; a strange peculiarity, considering his previous anxiety about living through a situation similar to that of Peregrine. Arnaud did not understand the reason for such a non-reaction, and he did not like the waves of aggression coming from Folkard.
“Now I am very sure that no one of us would want that,” the captain continued, “so can you please share with us any speculation you have of the problem?”
Nathaniel rose from his chair and placed his hands behind his back, his face now deadly serious. “Well, we must unearth this so called problem. Have you spoken with Fenn?”
Folkard rolled his eyes. “Yes, Fenn told us that he has no clue why the propeller is not propelling us anywhere! And further that you were already aware of the problem with the propeller governor. Care to comment?”
Nathaniel turned his back to them both. “Then perhaps your suspicions of the real cause of this predicament have been discarded all too quickly,” he said darkly.
Arnaud and Folkard turned to exchange puzzled looks in perfect unison. Arnaud wanted to say something, but words failed him. He had seen Nathaniel dismissive of people before, but never at risk to his friends.
“What the devil are you talking about, man?” Folkard barked.
Any reaction from Nathaniel was brushed aside by a loud cracking sound, echoing throughout the flyer. The vessel rocked, causing Arnaud and Folkard to lose their footing.
“We’re entering the horizon of the rip,” Folkard announced from his position on the metal grating of the lab.
Arnaud looked up to Nathaniel, but he was no longer standing, instead he was stretched out awkwardly on the cot, a trickle on blood on his forehead.
Chapter Eight
“Whence Honour Springs”
1.
AS THE LAB continued to shake, Arnaud scrambled over to the cot and checked Nathaniel. He was coming around, his eyelids flickering. “Arnaud, what is…?”
“Soyez tranquille, mon confére.” Arnaud reached for Nathaniel’s head, and wiped away the blood with his sleeve, revealing a very small cut. He must have hit his head on the bulkhead when the flyer shook. “Are you okay?”
Nathaniel blinked. “I think so. What the devil is happening?” His eyes flickered around the lab, following the cracking sound. “The vortex?”
“If, indeed, that is what it is,” Folkard said, returning to his feet.
Nathaniel shook his head, as Arnaud helped him to stand. “I do not understand. What else could it be?”
“That is what we came to ask you, Professor. Your precious governor is failing to have any effect whatsoever, and now we have the added problem of that plate Fontaine here brought with him from Mercury.”
Arnaud could not blame Nathaniel for looking confused; he, too, was confused. But mostly by Nathaniel’s shift in attitude. Only moments ago he seemed cold, provocative even. To assuage Nathaniel’s confusion, he explained about the plate and the effect it seemed to be having on the non-vortex. The ship rocked again.
“That cracking sound is Esmeralda 2 straining from the pull of that tear out there,” Folkard added, once Arnaud had finished. “She was not designed to survive an aether vortex, never mind a rip in the aether.”
Nathaniel’s eyes widened. “It’s like Peregrine all over again.”
“Worse I should wager,” Folkard said, rather pointedly Arnaud thought. Still the captain felt some blame lay at Nathaniel’s feet.
“How long do we have?” Arnaud asked.
“I cannot say. If it were a vortex we would have experience by which to estimate, but that thing…”
“Is there anything we have yet to try in the engine room?” Nathaniel asked. “Perhaps if I look at the governor? I’m certain I can fix this. It was designed to help navigate a vortex after all. On Sovereign, surely you must remember, Captain, how easily we sailed the vortex then?”
Arnaud was still confused. Nathaniel was acting like a wild thing, clutching at straws. He knew that Nathaniel’s experience with Peregrine had a profound effect on him, but this reaction was at odds with his earlier composure. Can a man’s attitude shift so radically in so short a time? Without the influence of cognac Arnaud would have usually said no.
“Professor, you appear to be missing the point. That is not an aether vortex out there. Your governor is of no use now—if, perhaps, you had bothered to tell me that we were having problems with the governor before we got into this predicament then we’d have some kind of solution to grasp hold of.”
For a moment the coldness returned to Nathaniel’s eyes, but then it was gone. He looked directly at Arnaud. “The plate. You say it’s reacting to this aether tear?”
Arnaud nodded. “Oui. And the…aether tear…is reacting to the plate. I do not understand why.”
“Unimportant,” Nathaniel said with a wave. Arnaud wasn’t sure he agreed on that point, but for now their survival was of more importance. “Perhaps if we dispose of it? Destroy it! Remove the metal and the magnet is little more than another piece of metal.”
Destroy it? Arnaud stepped in front of Nathaniel. “Mon confére, you cannot do this. You know what this means to me.”
Folkard spoke up. “Your personal attachment to this plate of yours is beside the point.”
Arnaud span on Folkard. “And if it was your copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland? Would that also be beside the point?” Folkard’s cheeks flared. Arnaud knew he was wrong to bring up such a thing, he was almost betraying a confidence, but he could not let the plate go. It held Nathaniel’s imprint, kept him close at all times.
He felt a hand rest on his shoulders, and Nathaniel spoke to him softly. “Arnaud, I am here right now. Ton confére. You do not need the plate.”
Arnaud glanced back and looked up at Nathaniel’s grey eyes. He could not explain it, but a strange sense of contentment overwhelmed him, and he nodded. “Mon toujours,” he said softly.
My always.
2.
THE THREE OF them made haste to the engine room, Fontaine carrying the plate close to his person. Folkard could not blame him for his attachment to it; he, too, had things of personal value with which he did not wish to part. But if it meant losing such things to save the lives of his crew, then he would not hesitate. And Fontaine would have to do the same.
Fenn looked up from his workings, scrambling about the engine room in a vain attempt to get the most out of the boiler and the aether propeller. Folkard wasted no time in explaining the situation, keeping his eye on Fontaine all the while. He and Stone stood to one side, conferring among themselves. Folkard was, once again, uncertain of Stone’s motives. He had thought that he’d finally got the cut of Stone, but recent events had brought all his doubts to the surface once more.
“I have a hammer,” Fenn said, reaching for such. “That should be able to make a pretty dent at the very least.”
“A hammer?” Folkard was incredulous. He was hoping for something more, but perhaps brute force was the answer. “Very well. Doctor Fontaine?”
The Frenchman looked at him with something like fear in his eyes. Stone whispered something in Fontaine’s ear, and with a nod he unwrapped the cloth from around the plate and placed it on the nearest workstation. Fenn and Folkard joined the scientists, and raised the hammer. Fontaine took a sharp breath.
“Wait,” he said.
“Doctor, now is not the time to be squeamish,” Folkard pointed out, irritation building in him.
Fontaine shook his head. “Non, but if anyone is to do this, it should be me. I…I am to blame for all this.”
Folkard had no time for such introspection. Action was required. “We can parse blame later, right now we need to destroy this thing and hope we can get clear of the aether tear.” He nodded at Fenn. “Give the doctor the hammer.”
Fenn did so, and without a moment’s hesitation Fontaine swung the hammer and brought it crashing down on the plate. Not ev
en a scratch. Not to be deterred, he struck again, and once more the hammer had no discernible effect on the plate.
Broad he may have been, but Folkard did not reckon much on Fontaine’s strength. He asked for the hammer, deciding that, if anyone was going to save the ship, then it should be him. Certainly he was the strongest of the men on Esmeralda. He glanced at Stone, who was standing away from the three of them, his arms folded over his chest, watching silently. No, not watching, observing. Folkard narrowed his eyes. Stone would keep for later, if they all survived.
Summoning all the strength he could muster, Folkard brought the hammer down on the plate. The head of the hammer flew off the handle, careering through the air, missing Stone by an inch before bouncing off the bulkhead behind him. Meanwhile the plate, vibrated by the impact, spun on its axis and shot off the workstation to land on Fontaine’s foot. The Frenchman jumped back with a screech of pain, holding his foot in a fashion that would, under other circumstances, be comical, before toppling over due to his one foot being cemented to the decking by the magnet in his shoe.
Folkard looked to the handle in his hand. “Well I think it’s safe to say that did not work.”
Stone picked up the hammer head and looked at it curiously. “No, indeed.” He glanced at Fontaine. “How is your foot?”
“Bruised,” Fontaine said, tentatively rising to his feet and testing his weight. “But I should live.”
“For now,” Folkard said grimly. He handed the hammer handle back to Fenn, looking like a child whose favourite toy had been broken. “Any other suggestions, gentlemen?”
“What about melting the plate?” Nathaniel suggested so quickly Folkard wondered if he had been harbouring the idea for some time.
Fenn shook his head. “That would deplete the oxygen levels, Prof; we couldn’t do that.”
“The ability to breathe will hardly be an issue either way, soon, Mister Fenn,” Folkard reminded him. He turned to Fontaine. “I believe you have a Bunsen burner?”
3.
THE FLAME FLICKERED around the plate, causing the crystal to change colour, mimicking the angry blue of its source. Arnaud leaned in closer, amazed by what he was seeing. The flame was not touching the plate, merely dancing around it. He could not help but admire its beauty.
