Journey to the Moon
1.
2.
“WHAT DO you know of The Agreement Governing State Activities on Luna, Professor?” Captain Folkard asked, once they were all seated.
Nathanial noticed a dark look thrown at Folkard by Lieutenant Bedford. Nathanial was not entirely convinced that such a look of annoyance suited the strong features of Bedford’s face. The captain seemed not to notice, or if he did he chose to pay it no mind. Nathanial mentally shrugged, and replied. “This would be The Luna Treaty? I believe it prohibits any one nation claiming rights to Luna, and prevents the establishment of any colony or research facility on the planetoid.”
Folkard nodded. “Quite succinct, Professor. Over the past year we have become aware of an increased Russian interest in Luna, but the British Government, though concerned, have been unwilling to investigate. Luna has been of very little interest to the British Empire ever since Edison and Armstrong found their way to Mars.”
“And now things have changed?”
“Indeed. Perhaps you are aware of Vladimir Tereshkov?”
Nathanial looked from Folkard to Bedford. It was quite clear that Bedford was not happy with the way this conversation was going, but he knew better than to question his captain in front of a guest. Now Nathanial understood why Folkard had dismissed the cabin boys once they had finished laying the captain’s table. The information about to be parted was not for the scuttlebutt. Clearly Folkard thought Nathanial needed to be aware of it, although the young scientist could not think why, and it appeared that the first officer was of the same opinion as Nathanial. Bedford was now looking at Nathanial with his dark piercing eyes. Nathanial held his eyes steely; there was something of a predator about Bedford, Nathanial thought, and he intrinsically knew that to show weakness would be a mistake.
“I am familiar with the name, Captain,” he said, inwardly sighing in relief as Bedford looked away. “I believe I have heard talk of him. A Russian nastavnik of some repute, unless I am mistaken?”
“Of some repute indeed. It will, no doubt, be of little surprise for you to learn that we have spies close to the Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias.”
“No surprise at all,” Nathanial agreed with a soft smile, “to learn Her Majesty’s Government has spies anywhere, Captain Folkard. Be it in the Russian courts or, indeed, in Arizona,” he concluded pointedly. This provoked a smile from Folkard, but only increased the frown on Bedford’s countenance. “Which is, of course, how I came to be conscripted to work at the Construction Yard in Chatham in the first place. British spies are quite good at what they do.”
Folkard raised his glass. “A toast to British spies, may they continue to serve the Empire and be ‘quite good’,” he said, and sipped the port within. Both Nathanial and Bedford joined him in the toast, and once their glasses were back on the table, the captain resumed. “Tereshkov was working for the Russian government; in 1887 he was at the forefront of their research on precision modulation of the aether flow. I am no scientist myself, Professor, but I believe that you are familiar with such work? Similar to the experiments you helped Doctor Grant with, am I correct?”
Nathanial nodded. “You are well informed.”
“We need to be,” Bedford interjected, speaking for the first time since they had sat down to dine. “Forgive me, Captain Folkard, sir,” he continued, turning to his captain, “but I fail to see how all this will be relevant to Professor Stone’s role in our mission. His presence is merely to ensure that if we have any trouble with the propeller governor we have an expert on hand. The nature of our mission is of no concern of his.”
Folkard sat there, resting his knife on the edge of his lip, the gravy dripping from it. Forgotten. He did not even blink; he merely listened as his first officer spoke. Once Bedford paused for breath Folkard raised an eyebrow. “Are you quite finished, Mister Bedford?”
“No, sir, I…”
Folkard carefully placed his knife back on the table beside his plate and rose to his feet. “No, Lieutenant, you are finished. And dismissed. Please return to the bridge and relieve the coxswain.”
Nathanial swallowed, his eyes following Bedford as the gruff man stood. According to Bedford, when he had finally engaged Nathanial in conversation while escorting Nathanial to his cabin, the first officer had served with Folkard on the HMAS Raleigh. From that Nathanial had made the assumption that the two men were stout friends, but judging by the tension between them now Nathanial came to the conclusion that he was perhaps wrong. The way the two men faced each other, Bedford the younger yet taller of the two, reminded Nathanial of two boxers stepping into the ring. Presently, after what seemed the longest minute in history, Bedford nodded sharply and saluted Captain Folkard.
“Yes, sir!” He turned to Nathanial with a polite smile. “If you will excuse me, Professor?”
Nathanial watched Bedford leave the captain’s quarters, his eyes lingering on the closed door for a few moments after Bedford’s departure, a smile plaguing his lips. The scraping of the chair on the wooden deck alerted Nathanial to the fact that Folkard had resumed his place at the table. Nathanial’s smile quickly faded, and he looked back at the captain.
“I do not wish to cause conflict on your ship, Captain, so please do not feel obligated to…”
“My dear Professor Stone, the HMAS Sovereign is my ship and this is my mission. Who I choose to take into my confidence, although possibly against regulations, is my choice and mine alone. If I deem the particulars of this mission to be important enough to share with you, than I shall. Lieutenant Bedford has been on this ship since it launched, and I think he got used to me not being around.” Folkard chuckled. “But he will get used to my presence once more, as he always does. A shift as coxswain will remind him, and any wondering why my first officer is now playing the role of helmsman, that although I may seem to be of good humour I still run a tight ship. Now then, Professor, just where was I?”
3.
THE EARTH in a downward sky! Nathanial never thought he would see anything as amazing in its awesomeness as it was terrifying in its horror. He had witnessed the twinkling of the stars on many a dark night, their lights flickering through the misty atmosphere, but now, to see them with that veil removed…It verily took his breath away.
Seen through the porthole, the Earth was a blue globe surrounded by stars, and for a moment just the knowledge that his beloved home was beneath him filled Nathanial with vertigo. He reached out to steady himself against the bulkhead.
A point of reference to balance himself was needed, just one thing to focus on; blank out the vastness that surrounded him. From this distance, it wasn’t much more than a blip, but it was enough, and Nathanial was almost certain he knew what that slowly moving object was.
The aether equivalent of a tugboat, a single-purpose flyer built to pull large objects through the aether. In this case, unless Nathanial was very much mistaken, this tugboat was pulling a small section of the new heliograph station away from the orbital construction yard and out towards the mid-way point between Earth and Mars where the station was being built. It was another thing Nathanial was not supposed to be aware of, but working alongside William White threw such secrets out of the way. It seemed, for reasons Nathanial had never been able to understand, people always chose to take him into their confidence. He must have a pleasant, open face.
Captain Folkard was the latest. As Nathanial stood there, his mind going over what Folkard had told him, waiting for his tour guide (whom he hoped would be Lieutenant Bedford; more constructive discipline from Folkard), Nathanial wished he was still none the wiser. The mission ahead sounded dangerous, and despite Folkard’s asseveration that Nathanial was up to the task, Nathanial himself was full of doubt. He was not an adventurer, he was a scientist. He agreed to come on this mission so he could see his design work as a practical part of this great ship, and, of course, he wanted to know what had happened to Annabelle first hand, not be stuck on Earth awaiting a telegram from the Admiralty.
Ever since he had known her, Annabelle Somerset was getting herself into some sort of trouble. It always seemed to Nathanial that she actively sought such things, so to learn of the potential danger she was in now came as no surprise to him.
Once Bedford had departed the room Folkard explained to Nathanial the particulars about nastavnik Vladimir Tereshkov, and just how his work on precision modulation pertained to the mission ahead.
Late in 1887 Tereshkov and a team of Russian scientists piloted a flyer to Luna, now equipped with Tereshkov’s prototype governing device, a precursor to the propeller governor design that now sat in the engine room of the Sovereign. The tests must have been successful since Tereshkov and his team returned to Luna several times over the following year; these frequent visits started to attract the attention of the major powers, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, the Confederate States of America, the Democratic and Social Republic of France, and Germany. None of these powers made any great moves to find out what Tereshkov was up to; as far as they were concerned if Russia was really that interested in the lifeless ball in Earth’s orbit, then it left the more important territories open for them. So their attentions soon returned to the inner planets.
However, despite this, certain people in the British government continued to observe, secreted on the Harbinger, and concern grew towards the end of 1888 when the Russians failed to return from Luna. This was when Nathanial found himself brought to Chatham.
Nathanial already knew that the original governor design was a success, as he had received a missive from Annabelle to that effect, telling him of her uncle’s first successful journey to Luna in September. Since then, though, it seemed that Grant had returned to Luna, this time with his niece. The British government was now concerned that Grant had teamed up with Tereshkov, helping the Russians in whatever was keeping them on Luna.
Just over a week ago Annabelle herself had sent a heliograph message from Luna, but that message was incomplete, the only words that were picked up by the Harbinger had been “insane…scientist found…Doctor Grant…Russians holding…enslaved natives…threat to Earth”. Certain voices in the House of Lords expressed a theory that perhaps Doctor Grant’s niece had discovered a secret plot between her uncle and Tereshkov. The biggest supporter of that notion was Lord Chillingham, but the Admiralty remained unconvinced.
The HMAS Sovereign was thusly rushed off the assembly line, the new aether propeller governor still untested. She had a shakedown cruise for a week, taking her out into the aether, while Folkard was briefed on the full scope of the mission, but still he was worried. She was a new ship, theoretically the most powerful and capable flyer in Her Majesty’s Navy, but they had no idea what awaited them on Luna.
When Nathanial questioned why he was being told this, since he leaned towards Bedford’s own opinion on the sharing of this information, Folkard had told him; “Because, Professor, you are coming to Luna with me. You know both Miss Somerset and Doctor Grant, and I’m gambling that your connection to them might persuade them against any further involvement with the Russians.”
So ended the meal in the captain’s quarters. He piped a command to have someone sent to take Nathanial on a tour and had left the young scientist to his own devices. Feeling a little awkward remaining alone in Folkard’s cabin, Nathanial had waited out in the gangway, his eyes drawn to the view afforded him by the porthole directly outside the cabin.
As Folkard left him, Nathanial pondered what concerned him the most. It was not the performance of the battleship, or the danger that they would probably find on Luna. Grant was a cantankerous old fool and could look after himself, although if Folkard was to be believed, then the doctor had got himself into more trouble than he probably even knew. Grant did not concern Nathanial, his niece did.
He had heard very little of Annabelle in recent months, save the odd telegram to report on her growing boredom at Ottawa University. Still he remembered with some bitterness the day Grant had decided to send his niece away, “to better yourself, and keep you away from the English scientist. Do not think I failed to notice how he has caught your eye!” Nathanial appreciated Doctor Grant’s protective nature, after all she was an orphan and he had taken it upon himself to look after her following her return from harrowing circumstances of which Nathanial was still none the wiser. Every family had their secrets, Nathanial supposed, including the Grant/Somerset family it would seem. That they did concerned him not, for he had not gone to Arizona to “catch” Annabelle’s eye. Besides which, at that point Annabelle was only eighteen years of age, and to suggest he was interested in such a young woman was an affront. Certainly Nathanial was not so old himself, and there was only six years between them, but even still…
It was that exchange which sealed the date of Nathanial’s own departure. With the removal of Annabelle, Grant was no longer tempered by her gentle nature and became increasingly “cranky”, as the Americans would say. In truth Nathanial was not sorry to leave Arizona. Cyrus Grant had a brilliant mind, that was beyond dispute, but his manners were found wanting and Nathanial could not countenance another week of forgiving the old man his foibles. He had been glad to leave, although disappointed that he would not be there to see the successful application of his work.
“Professor Stone?”
“It is not…” Nathanial drew his eyes away from the tug-boat, and looked at the owner of the voice, cast down to find it was not Lieutenant Bedford whom Captain Folkard had sent. He looked the young seaman up and down; he was barely a man, probably a landman still, with less than two years service in the Navy. Nathanial shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It does not matter. I take it you are to show me the ship, Landman…?”
“Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, sir. Landman has not been used for some time.”
Nathanial nodded. Clearly he needed to brush up on his Navy jargon. “Thank you for the correction,” he said with a smile.
Stevenson smiled back; a smile that simply bounced from his blue eyes. “A pleasure, Professor. Where would you care to start the tour, sir?”
The answer to that was simple. “The engine room, naturally,” he said, and followed the seaman aft. He might not have been able to witness the design perfected by Grant, but he could certainly see his own, bettered, design in action.
4.
THE ENGINE room was located at the stern of the Sovereign, on a lower level all by itself. Nathanial remembered the mirror antenna he’d seen when the great battleship had approached the aerostatic flyer almost half a day ago, and worked out that the engine room must have been situated directly above that.
He stopped at the doorway. He had seen the room while it was being constructed and the aether propeller installed, of course, but that had been in the slip at the dockyards. A sterile room of brass and steel. Now the engine room was alive with steam and noise. The pipes rattled under the pressure as steam was pumped through from the large solar boilers at the end of the room. There were two boilers on the lower level of the two-tier engine room; the biggest of the two was used to power the aether propeller, while the smaller (yet still twice the height of any man) one generated heat throughout the ship and powered the small dynamos that provided the charge for the electricity used on the Sovereign. Two large pipes ran past Nathanial, almost at head height, and through the walls either side of the doorway. Already, after barely standing there two seconds, he could feel sweat forming under his arms and on his back.
“This way, Professor, and I shall introduce you to the staff engineer.” Stevenson glanced up at Nathanial, a smile playing on his sweating face, and stepped politely past him. Nathanial watched him walk away for a moment, his eyes lingering on the wet patch forming on the back of the ordinary seaman’s uniform. He smiled. At least he was not the only one sweating.
Nathanial followed Stevenson, his eyes taking in every piece of equipment, every temperature gauge, every piston…everything! On the upper tier he espied the combustion boiler, which powered the air screws, the propellers that directed the ship when it was in an atmosphere. He could see the large propellers now, both retracted into their cradles, currently out of use in favour of the more impressive aether propeller.
“Chief, any more slush left?”
Nathanial was brought up short by a seaman who could have been no more than twenty-two years of age, thin with narrow features, hair as black as night now damp with sweat which was being held at bay by a neckerchief wrapped around his forehead. Clearly they played it less formally in the engine room.
“Terribly sorry,” Nathanial said.
The seaman laughed. “That’s okay, sir,” he said, his grey-blue eyes looking around, “just blame the steam. Takes a little while to get used to.”
It was true that the amount of steam venting from the solar boilers was a restriction on clear sight but Nathanial had allowed himself to be distracted by the mighty air screws and as a result failed to pay attention to where he was going. He stepped back, to allow the young seaman passage, and watched as an older man, greying hair now almost black from sweat poking out of his hat, uniform covered in damp patches, appeared from the steam which was thickest near the boilers. Stevenson was beside him, and now looked almost as dirty as the crew working the engine room.
“We’re all out, Fenn,” the older man said, addressing the seaman, “go to the galley and see if the chef has some more for us. Tell ’im I’ll settle up with ’im later.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Seaman Fenn said, offered a salute, and pushed past Nathanial with an almost-polite “’scuse me, sir”.
The older man chuckled to himself. “You’ll have to pardon the young ’un, Prof, it gets a bit ’ectic down ’ere.” The older man stepped forward and offered his greasy hand. Now directly before him, the man was at least a head shorter than Nathanial, which seemed to be positively tall for someone serving on the Sovereign. Nathanial was used to being the tallest, but somehow he expected Navy officers to be a bit taller. Not that six-foot was short by any means, but it was amazing the difference eleven inches made. Reluctantly, although he was careful to hide his disgust, Nathanial accepted the hand and shook it. “Senior Lieutenant Boswell.”
Nathanial nodded, and looked at Stevenson enquiringly, wondering why this man was introducing himself. For a moment Stevenson responded with a blank, puzzled look. “Oh! Sorry, Professor,” he said, once his reasoning cleared. Nathanial couldn’t really blame him, after all the heat in the engine room was stifling, and without even a single plant in sight it was clear that it was the least oxygenated area of the ship. The thin air did impede the swiftness of thought somewhat. Nathanial wondered how the men coped down here. “Senior Lieutenant Boswell is the staff engineer,” Stevenson continued, “he’s in charge of everything to do with engineering on the Sovereign.”
“Ah, I see, then a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Staff Engineer Boswell. I am Nathanial Stone, your servant, sir.”
“Yes, I know who you are, Prof.” Boswell wiped his sweaty grey moustache with the back of his sweaty hand, a rather self-defeating move Nathanial thought. “The pleasure’s all mine. S’pose you come to see your baby in action?”
“My…baby?”
Boswell nodded profusely. “The governor, Prof,” he said, as if explaining something to a small child.
Nathanial was not sure whether to be affronted or amused by the informality. So, as usual when faced with a situation beyond him, Nathanial merely nodded curtly. “Yes, in that case I am indeed here to see my ‘baby in action’.”
“That’s what I like to see, Prof, an academic who don’t mind getting his ’ands dirty. This way then.”
Boswell turned and with one step he was enveloped by steam. Nathanial idly wondered if perhaps Boswell had also served with Folkard before, they certainly seemed to be of the same humour. Although clearly Boswell’s personal background was quite different from that of the captain. He glanced at Stevenson, who was looking up at him oddly, no doubt concerned by the bemused look on Nathanial’s face. Stevenson was young, out to impress his betters, a goal Nathanial agreed with wholeheartedly. Boswell could do with a lesson from Stevenson, he thought, and removed all appearance of mirth from his face.
“Well, then,” he started, “quite. Come, Stevenson, let me show you my baby!”
They stepped into the mist of steam. Reflexively Nathanial took a deep breath, and found himself coughing as the hot cloud of water hit the back of his throat. Stevenson threw him an understanding look, but Boswell glanced back with a look that showed his disapproval. Clearly he expected better of the “prof”. Nathanial said nothing. After all, it was not like he was well acquainted with fully functioning engine rooms.
“How do your men cope down here, Staff Engineer?” Nathanial asked once he had stopped coughing. “I have been here but minutes and already I feel lightheaded from the lack of clean air.”
“Short shifts, Prof, that’s how. Only way, otherwise I’d ’ave engineers out cold all over the place. And, as you see, we keep the entrance clear, in the ’ope that we get some of that clean air you spoke of.”
Condensation created a wet film all over the steel plated surface of the boiler before Nathanial, and he felt an instinctive urge to reach out and place his hand on the steel surface. Barely an inch away he pulled back sharply with a gasp. He looked at his hand, already blistering from the sheer heat emanating from the water bubbling away within. Boswell was by his side in an instant.
“What in the name of all that’s holy were you thinking, man?” he snapped, then called over to one his engineers. “Get me a cloth, and dunk it in some cold water!” The engineer saluted and rushed out of the engine room. Boswell, still scowling, turned back to Nathanial, and grabbed his arm. “Let me get a closer look.” Nathanial wanted to protest at the rough handling, but the pain in his hand won out over his propriety. “You’re very lucky you didn’t touch the boiler, Prof,” Boswell said, his tone mellowing back to his previous humour, “otherwise it would’a been a trip to the sickbay for you.”
“Perhaps I ought to go regardless?” Nathanial asked, wincing as Boswell manipulated his hand, testing the extent of the damage. He watched his now red skin blanch with the pressure applied.
“Stuff and nonsense. Second degree burn at best, that is. You’ll be quite okay, Prof, as long as you keep the ’and covered for a week or so.”
“I see, so a degree in medicine is included in Naval engineering training, Chief?” Nathanial asked, subconsciously finding himself slipping into the familiarity that was so prevalent in the engine room.
“No, Prof. I’ve seen me fair share of accidents while working in the Navy, enough to know a second degree burn when I see one.” Boswell let go of the hand, and offered Nathanial a smile. “Superficial. Ah, ’ere comes the wonder of medical science.”
Nathanial looked up from his hand as the engineer returned with a wet cloth. Boswell thanked him for it, and wrapped it around Nathanial’s hand. Immediately the coldness created a feeling of contentment in Nathanial and the pain eased. As a quick-fix it would serve, but he still intended to visit the ship’s doctor at the earliest opportunity.
“Better?” Boswell asked.
“Much. I am in your debt.”
“Aye, lad,” Boswell said, giving Nathanial a hearty slap on the back, “and you will not be the last and that’s a fact. Whatever possessed you to touch the boiler? You’re a man of great intellect, or at least I’ve always imagined the designer of the governor to be so, surely you must be aware of the temperature the water boils at in there?”
Nathanial felt his skin flush under the looks of both Boswell and Stevenson. It was like being back in his father’s study when he had been a child and the twins had told on him for playing with his father’s new telephonic device. “I have always been a tactile man, Chief, as far back as I can remember. Touching things, taking them apart to see how they work.”
Boswell smiled broadly. “Just my kind of fellow!”
Nathanial found himself returning the smile. “And I doubt the thin air helped much.”
Boswell laughed. “You’ll fit in ’ere well enough, Prof, you see if you don’t.”
“Thank you, Chief. So, the governor…?”
Boswell nodded, no doubt impressed by Nathanial’s steel. “Follow me, then.”
Boswell led the way and Nathanial followed, with Stevenson taking up the rear. They passed through the small gap between the two boilers, the heat almost stinging their exposed skin. Even under the damp cloth, Nathanial’s hand throbbed, almost as if it were keeping in time with the gentle vibration of the floor. Nathanial knew, however, that in truth the vibration beneath his feet was a result of their vicinity to the electromagnetic field generated by the aether propeller. The unit which housed the propeller sat behind the boiler on the left; six feet in height and thirteen feet long, it was finished off with a wooden veneer that appeared to be buckling slightly under the intense heat coming from the boiler which was attached to it by a man-sized pipe of brass. The propeller, based on the original design first created by Thomas Edison in 1868, was the most advanced of its kind; a mechanical apparatus that generated an electromagnetic field outwards from the stern of the ship.
Nathanial approached the propeller unit, careful not to fall down the gaping hole in the floor. He glanced down, his eyes following the steel pipe that ran the length of the shaft. Now he knew exactly where he stood. Below him was the antenna, and that pipe channelled the heat generated from the multitude of mirrors that made up the antenna. He stepped around the opening of the shaft. There really should have been some kind of railing around the opening. The thinness of the air could cause someone to lose their balance easily enough, and it was a long way down to the bottom of the antenna shaft.
He walked the length of the propeller housing, feeling ever so nauseous as he did so. He presumed this was from the electromagnetic field. Attached to the far end of the unit was the propeller governor. Nathanial stopped there, and regarded his invention with pride. Outwardly it looked no different than the rest of the propeller unit, except for the excess of gauges and valves; instruments that allowed precise alterations to the effectiveness of the governor. Inside, however, was a very different thing. Although he could not actually see it, Nathanial only needed to close his eyes and he saw it clearly. An intricate lattice work of gears, pulleys, cogs and, at the heart of the governor, which was exposed to the aether itself, three flawed diamonds; serving as lenses by which the governor was powered. It was thing of genius, of beauty, and he had created it.
“My baby,” he whispered.
“Which we shall be putting into practice very soon, I should think,” Boswell said at his shoulder.
Nathanial glanced at him. “Is that so? We are approaching Luna?”
“Close, that’s for sure. Close enough for most ships to try and navigate the Earth’s orbital wake.”
Nathanial’s eyes lit up. “An aether vortex?”
“You know your stuff, Prof. Yes, an aether vortex. Venus and Earth’s wakes are about to merge.”
“Oh Lor’!” The excitement Nathanial had briefly experienced was now giving way to dread. He knew all about aether vortices.
As the planets orbit the sun their aether wakes, the slipstream of their movement around the sun, are pressed outwards. When the wakes of more than one planet overlap, violent aether vortices are produced; gravitational disturbances in space, quite capable of tearing apart aether flyers. Horror stories of the worst kind of vortex miscalculations had reached even Nathanial. There was no doubt in Nathanial’s mind that the Sovereign was manned by the best navigators Her Majesty’s Navy had to offer, highly trained men who knew how to avoid the lee of the planets, very capable of predicting the convergence of planetary turbulence, but they were on a direct approach for Luna, and the Earth’s orbital wake was unusually turbulent due to the interference of the moon. There really was very little way to avoid a vortex when the Earth’s wake was about to converge with that of another planet.
It was one of many things he had been mindful of when re-designing the aether propeller governor. On the one hand it was designed to carefully modulate the performance of the aether propeller when in Luna’s dense gravity, but it had also been designed to provide an efficient way to navigate through an aether vortex. It had, of course, yet to be tested in a practical way, and if Nathanial knew anything of Captain Folkard from their short time together, it was that he liked to test the mettle of his people. Nathanial doubted Folkard would treat his ship any different.
As if to prove his estimation right the pipe whistled a short distance away. Boswell grinned, turned, and walked away, leaving Stevenson looking up at Nathanial. The fear in his blue eyes was felt acutely by Nathanial.
“Sir, can the Sovereign withstand such a vortex?”
Nathanial had almost forgotten that Stevenson was only in his second year as a seaman. Certainly he had never served with Captain Folkard before. Nathanial placed a reassuring hand on the ordinary seaman’s shoulder, and winced as the cold cloth pressed against his skin. “It shall if my governor has anything to do with it, Stevenson,” he said, offering what he hoped was an affirming smile.
Stevenson swallowed, and gathered himself to attention. He saluted Nathanial. “Yes, sir!”
Boswell returned, an excited grin on his face. “This is it, Professor! Would you care to work the governor?”
Nathanial did not know what to say at first. Instead he stood there, looking at Boswell, thinking off all the lives on the ship. How could he be responsible for all of them! He was a scientist; he did not belong on a battleship. Being in the engine room, in the company of Boswell and Stevenson had disarmed him, made him lower his defences. He had almost forgotten who he was. What he was. He should be at home, wherever that was…it was most certainly not aboard a Navy ship venturing on a mission into unknown territory, navigating its way through an aether vortex that would almost…
“Professor?”
Nathanial was dragged out of his thoughts by a plaintive voice. He looked down at the imploring features of Ordinary Seaman Stevenson. So young, so innocent. A boy, really, hardly a man at all. Stevenson blinked, his eyelids seeming to move in slow motion.
“What is your name, Stevenson?” Nathanial found himself asking.
“Erasmus, sir,” Stevenson said, puzzled.
“Erasmus! A superb name! And you have a mother, a father?”
Still it was clear Stevenson had no idea why Nathanial was asking such things. “Yes, sir, and a baby sister, Emma, who I’ve yet to see. She’s only four months old,” he said.
The ship buckled, the first indication that it was entering the aether vortex.
“Professor,” Boswell snapped, “make a decision now, sir, or stand aside.”
Nathanial did not even look at Boswell, instead he staggered towards Stevenson and gripped the young man by his shoulders. The ship rocked again. Nathanial smiled. “I do this for you, Erasmus, so you will get to see your sister.” He released Stevenson and looked to Boswell. “What must I do, Chief?”
Boswell nodded, smiling himself despite the rocking of the ship. “Take your station, Professor, and follow my instructions to the letter.” Boswell’s smile faded, and, his face now grim and focused, turned back to steam behind him, to where Nathanial could just make out the seaman he had almost bumped into previously, standing with the pipe in his hand, ready to receive and relay orders from the bridge. “Seaman Fenn, inform the bridge we stand ready.”
Nathanial stumbled back to the governor. He looked at Stevenson, who was steadying himself by the side of the propeller unit. The two men smiled at each other and Nathanial focussed on Boswell who stood, almost shrouded, in the steam. For a brief second, as Fenn relayed the bridge orders to Boswell, Nathanial wondered again as to what he was doing. Taking responsibility for all the lives on the largest flyer in the fleet. No, he thought, shaking his head, he was a scientist and he had developed the most precise way of measuring and manipulating the aether since Edison had built his first prototype propeller. The governor would not fail, and neither would he.
5.
AS HE approached the closed door Nathanial felt his body shake. Shock, or the result of the adrenalin surging through his body from the excitement in the engine room. It had proved to be less dangerous than he expected; a simple stream of instructions passed between Fenn and Boswell and the boatswain on the bridge. Instructions that Nathanial found himself very capable of following.
The turbulence itself was almost nothing after all. The ship rocked, certainly, and Nathanial had successfully managed to bang his head against the bulkhead next to the governor, but otherwise, according to Boswell, little damage was done.
Once they had successfully navigated the vortex Nathanial was summoned to the bridge. Stevenson led the way once more; the young man seemed to have composed himself nicely, once they had emerged from the aether vortex. Glad, no doubt, at the thought that one day soon he would be able to see his family again. As he followed Stevenson, Nathanial could not help but smile at the thought that he had somehow played a role in restoring the young man’s confidence. He was also relieved to breathe oxygenated air once more. He brushed his fingers along the leaves of one particular plant which stood in the short corridor leading to the bridge.
He looked at his hand closely. It was filthy, covered in grime and sweat. He did not even wish to consider how he would appear to Captain Folkard; his clothes were still damp with sweat, his ginger hair stuck to his head in clumps, and his whiskers…Nathanial touched them. They had curled under the heat and steam of the engine room.
“I think the captain has probably seen worse sights, Professor,” Stevenson said.
“Ah, I am that transparent to you?”
Stevenson smiled at Nathanial. “No, sir, but I remember feeling much the same after my first visit to the engine room.”
For reasons Nathanial could not quite fathom, he found the support and camaraderie from Stevenson very comforting. They had reached the door, however, and so any further conversation was immediately curtailed. Stevenson rapped his knuckles on the door and waited. With a click, the door opened. Directly in line of sight stood Captain Folkard, hands behind his back, looking directly at Nathanial.
Beside him Stevenson snapped to attention. “Ordinary Seaman Stevenson reporting Professor Stone to the bridge as ordered, sir!”
Folkard nodded once. “Thank you, Ordinary Seaman. Dismissed,” he said, and added, “next time I see you I expect you be in a clean uniform.”
“Aye, sir!” Stevenson turned swiftly and marched away.
“Welcome to the bridge, Professor,” Captain Folkard said as he stepped towards Nathanial. “Please do enter.”
Nathanial did so. He expected a larger area than the one he was in. Visiting the bridge while the ship was being constructed was not something that had interested him, after all his concern was with what enabled the ship to sail the aether; the heart of the ship, as it were. The brains did not interest him. Until now.
A few men worked at their stations; a navigator sat at his desk, checking over the orrery and astrolabe, the helmsman, or coxswain as the Navy called them, stood at the wheel, a small ratchet-like device that controlled the precise changes in the electromagnetic field of the aether propeller through a system of ropes and pulleys routed throughout the infrastructure of the ship. Others went about their own business, of which Nathanial knew naught. Lieutenant Bedford was nowhere to be seen, Nathanial noted with a brief sensation close to disappointment; he was probably not needed on the bridge while the captain was in charge and was most likely enjoying a banyan of his own.
“I hear you acquitted yourself quite admirably with the propeller governor, Professor, despite your…ah…injuries,” Folkard said as Nathanial walked further onto the bridge. Nathanial glanced down at the now grotty cloth wrapped around his left hand. What a sight he must have appeared! “As I believe I said before, sir,” Folkard continued, “you are quite the bully trap. I suspect old Boswell took you for a coward?”
Nathanial grimaced. “I am not quite sure I would put it like that, Captain, but…” He stopped, seeing the slight lift of Folkard’s lip. Once again he was the source of Folkard’s amusement. “Yes, well, quite, Captain Folkard. I must say, from what I have seen of the Sovereign she is quite the…Oh my!”
Nathanial stopped just past the coxswain and looked at the sight outside the window. As a child he had little interest in stargazing, laying on his back on the wet grass of Putney Parish, looking up at the moon on a dark night. But now he was here, looking at the grey orb, so close and so big, he realised that in some ways he had always wanted to be here.
Luna.
“Quite an awe-inspiring view, would you not agree, Professor?”
Nathanial swallowed and licked his lips. He hadn’t realised just how parched being in the engine room had made him. “It is…spectacular, Captain. Spectacular,” he said once more, the word barely a breath of air.
He remained standing there for a few moments, while the crew busied themselves, bringing the Sovereign ever closer to Luna. He glanced up at the stars behind the moon, and wondered at the vastness of space beyond, and the mystery it must have contained. Secrets lost to the ages, things beyond the reach of current science. For the briefest of heartbeats Nathanial felt a deep desire to uncover those secrets, to discover just what was…out there!
“Very well, then, Professor.” Folkard look over at the bosun. “Mister Dinnick, see that the atmosphere suits are prepared.”
Nathanial slowly emerged from his dreaming as he became aware of a presence beside him. Standing there, now also looking out to Luna, was Captain Folkard. “Do you intend to stand there for the remaining hour, Professor?”
“I beg your pardon, Captain?”
“We have an hour until we attain a lower lunar orbit, then we shall find this ‘glow’ Doctor Grant’s research spoke of.”
Nathanial frowned. Annabelle had mentioned the glow before, in one of her letters, but he had not shared this information with anyone. “You do seem remarkably well-informed, Captain, if I may say so.”
Folkard smiled slightly. “British spies, Professor, remember. We learned a lot more about Grant’s research than just the work you and he did on the governor.”
At first Nathanial did not respond. After all, what more could he say? Instead he looked down at his clothing and grotty makeshift bandage. “I really must freshen up before we land.”
“Do not concern yourself too much; I anticipate that you will become a lot more haggard before this mission is complete.”