Arrival on the Moon
1.
2.
NATHANIAL DID not have to wait long. Stevenson returned presently, careful not to disturb his fellow ratings, and informed Nathanial that he was needed on the bridge. Nathanial’s curiosity was instantly piqued. Being asked to the bridge was one thing, but to be needed was quite another. He promptly left the cabin, and followed Stevenson through the ship. He entered a busy bridge, and noted with interest that this time Folkard did not dismiss Stevenson, who instead stood back and waited, standing at ease by the now closed door.
“Ah, Professor,” said Folkard, and motioned Nathanial over. “Would you care to identify the object below?”
For a brief moment Nathanial glanced at the steel grating beneath his feet, then realised the captain meant outside the ship. So he walked past the coxswain and joined Folkard. He peered out of the glass that formed the viewing port from which the helmsman was able to direct the path of the ship. He nodded at Bedford, who was standing next to the navigator’s console. He looked up and nodded in response, his expression grim.
Nathanial swallowed and felt his heart beat that bit faster. Clearly something serious was going on.
They were now within the non-atmosphere of Luna, and in his mind Nathanial could see his governor working away, delicately making adjustments to the aether propeller. A smile passed his lips; he would wager that even the design of Cyrus Grant was not as efficient as that which he had perfected. Guilt at that thought soon jumped to the forefront of his mind once his eyes saw the object to which Folkard had alluded.
A wreck of a flyer rested on the lunar surface, several yards from a crater that stretched on for miles. Abstractly, Nathanial’s mind calculated that the crater was at the very least four times the diameter of the Grand Canyon. The basin stretched across into shadow, the dark side of the moon facing away from Earth. Even though they were miles above the wreck, the flyer was big enough for Nathanial to immediately indentify it. The last time he had seen it was in Arizona, resting on the birthing scaffolding. It was the flyer of Doctor Cyrus Grant, designed especially for lunar navigation.
“Oh Lord,” he said, a whispered prayer. If only they had instruments that detected life signs. As advanced as their science was, still their medical knowledge was lacking, and instruments to measure heart rate from a distance was still many years away. “Captain,” he continued, not able to take his eyes off the wreckage, “that is the Annabelle, Doctor Grant’s flyer.”
“Yes, Professor, that’s what we feared.” There was a beat of silence, the background rattle of the ship the only sound that permeated the bridge. “Very well,” Folkard said, his voice now quiet with authority, “Lieutenant Bedford, assemble a team to investigate the Annabelle. I want Ordinary Seaman Stevenson on that team.”
“Yes, sir!” Bedford snapped to attention, saluted, and left the navigator’s station. “Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, you have had low-gravity training?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“Capital! You’re with me,” Bedford said. He glanced over at Nathanial. “Do not fret, Professor Stone, if Miss Somerset is in the wreck we will do everything we can for her.”
Nathanial, the wind having been taken out of him by the sight of the flyer and the possibility of Annabelle’s demise, straightened up, his mind now set. “I appreciate the sentiment, Lieutenant, but if I may? I request permission to join your team.”
Bedford was about to reply, but Folkard stepped in. “Request denied, Professor. I’ll be in need of your help in the search for Doctor Grant.”
“But, Captain, I need…”
“No, Professor, while you’re a guest on my ship you will consider yourself under my command. Besides which, the gloves of the atmosphere suit would never fit your bandaged hand.”
Nathanial looked down at the offending hand. It was a flimsy excuse at best, and he wanted to argue the point, but the look in Folkard’s eyes brokered no alternative but obedience. Nathanial lowered his head and turned back to the view of the wrecked flyer below. “Yes, Captain.”
3.
“REMEMBER, THE oxygen tanks contain only enough air for an hour.”
Stevenson looked up from the oxygen tank on the floor before him. He held the pipe in his hand nervously. He had been trained to use an atmosphere suit, but had never been in a situation that required practical experience of one. He was but eighteen years of age, and the thought of being in an airless vacuum, with just a suit keeping him alive, did not fill him with much confidence.
Outwardly, of course, he did not show any sign of his doubts. He had been in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy for almost two years, and was looking forward to advancing beyond able seaman in a few years. His service record, so far, had been exemplary; he had heard his boatswain say so on many occasions, and he did not wish to discredit that reputation now by looking like a nervous school boy. His behaviour in the engine room earlier had been enough to shame him, and it would have done had there been another officer in attendance. Fortunately Boswell was not the kind of officer to report what he considered a minor moment of weakness.
“The pinch of the game, sir?” he said, lightly, as he hefted the oxygen tank onto his back. He almost staggered into the nearest bulkhead, the weight of the tank catching him off his guard. It was only the steady hand of Lieutenant Bedford that prevented him from damaging either the tank or bulkhead – or, perhaps, even both!
“Quite right, Ordinary Seaman,” Bedford said, no responding lightness in his tone. “Now, no more chatter.”
Stevenson attempted a clumsy salute, which went unremarked upon by Bedford. “Yes, sir.”
Bedford, who already had his tank attached, helped Stevenson fasten the straps that held the tank to him, then turned to assist the seaman who stood beside Stevenson. Even though Bedford walked as if the tank weighed nothing on his back, Stevenson was glad to see that the rest of the Luna party were having as much difficulty with the weight as he. Most of the team had more experience than Stevenson, although there was one lad, surely younger than he, for whom serving on the Sovereign was his first active role in the Navy. They had only been on the ship for two weeks, helping her to get ready for the shakedown cruise that was supposed to happen the following month…It was simply meant to be a routine trip through the aether, to ensure that all systems were operating before the captain took over, but the urgency of the current mission had negated that shakedown. Now, three weeks ahead of schedule, they were out in the aether, on an actual mission. Most performed their duties well, not allowing the unexpected change to affect them, but Stevenson had seen the lad, Stevenson was sure his name was Miller, here and there, looking more nervous as each day passed.
Stevenson offered the rating a reassuring smile, which only served to make Miller more nervous. Not that it was his place to question his superiors, but Stevenson did wonder why anyone would recommend this young man attend this mission.
“Helmets on,” Bedford ordered.
Stevenson could not be sure, and would not like to place a hand on the Bible and testify to the fact, but there did appear to be a slight trace of humour in Bedford’s voice then. As well there ought to be.
Their helmets sat between their legs. While the other ratings sought different ways to manoeuvre themselves into a position that would enable them to retrieve their helmets without being capsized by the weight of the tanks on their backs, Stevenson stood there and waited. He had always been taught by his father that the best way to learn was by seeing the mistakes others made, and not repeat them himself. Such mistakes were being displayed in the airlock around him. He glanced over at Lieutenant Bedford who had somehow retrieved his helmet already and was bolting it into place.
Stevenson watched him, studying his superior, wracking his brain for some clue as to how Bedford had achieved the patently impossible. Movement from the corner of his eye offered the solution he needed. Ensign Challoner was in a crouch, one hand resting on a handle that had been screwed into the bulkhead, balancing himself, while the other hand reached down for the helmet. Stevenson turned his head, and saw similar handles ranged along the deck behind the seamen still struggling to claim their helmets. Now he understood. Bedford had clearly known about the handles, since there was one behind him, too, as well as lined across the bulkhead opposite, but he had counted on the nervousness of actually going into a vacuum to disorientate his team. It was a test.
Stevenson had heard stories about Captain Folkard, how he liked to test new members of his crew to ensure they were worthy of serving with him, and it seemed that it was a trait Lieutenant Bedford had picked up.
Stevenson gripped the handle and lowered himself into a crouch. He would remember this about the first officer. Another thing his father had taught him; to be always mindful of others.
Once everyone had finally secured their helmets, with a little help and guidance from Challoner and Stevenson, an act Bedford watched closely, Bedford ordered them to insert and secure their airpipes. This they did, and with a final click Stevenson heard a hissing in his ear. The air from the oxygen tank had begun to fill his helmet. Once again he gripped the handle, steadying himself from the wave of dizziness that was a result of the sudden rush of oxygenated air. Once his head was clear again he looked over at Ensign Challoner, who was turning the big wheel which released the locks on the massive iron door.
The door opened and all Stevenson could see was the stars of the aether. He knew that forty feet below was the surface of Luna, but due to the angle of the Sovereign the lunar landscape could not be seen. For a second he imagined himself, floating helplessly away from the Sovereign, lost to the vastness of the aether. He had no fear of aether travel, of course, or he would never had sought a career in the Royal Navy, but the thought of suffocating, dying so painfully and so slowly, brought in him a primal fear from a deeper well he did not know he possessed. He shook it off and stepped forward, quite certain that Miller would not move first.
Challoner was lowering a boarding ladder out of the doorway. Stevenson was not entirely sure how they expected him to climb down the ladder in the atmosphere suit; it was cumbersome and heavy, the gloves making any delicate handling an impossibility. It was for that very reason the Royal Navy had re-designed the grips of the carbines to be more effectively used while wearing an atmosphere suit. The weapons in question were strapped over the shoulders of each seaman in the rescue party, while Ensign Challoner also had a derringer strapped to his right leg. For the lieutenant, though, he carried not only a carbine and derringer, but also a double-barrelled Lancaster pistol about his person. The scuttlebutt had it that Bedford never ever missed a target. As he put one leg over the edge of the doorframe, Stevenson wondered idly if this were true or not. Something told him that before this mission was over, he would know one way or another.
He realised something else as he shifted his weight onto the rope ladder; the low gravity of Luna made abseiling down the ladder in the atmosphere suit simplicity itself. He barely needed to place his booted foot on the rungs, just by alternatively placing one hand lower than the other he was able to gently direct his way down the forty feet between the Sovereign and the dusty surface of the moon, his lower body practically floating. He glanced up, and with the limited visibility provided by the lack-of-helmet movement, he could just about make out a similarly suited figure looking down at him. He was a good ten feet away and could not ascertain who it was that was watching him, but he suspected it to be Lieutenant Bedford, once again checking to see if the boatswain’s pride and joy was performing as well as anticipated.
Stevenson had no idea intention of sullying the bosun’s opinion of him.
Just then, his eyes not on the ladder, Stevenson’s left hand failed to grab the rope. It was as if his greatest fear had come to meet him.
This was it, he would float away, out of Luna’s gravity, running out of oxygen before an aether cutter could be dispatched to rescue him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to visualise his increasingly hectic heart. It was a technique his father had taught him; whenever fear grips you, close your eyes and imagine seeing your heart as it steadily returns to normal.
An image of his mother, dressed in her finest clothes, passed by his eyes. She was waving him goodbye. Almost two years had passed since that time, and he intended to make it back home to see her and Father, and his baby sister.
He hit something softly and opened his eyes.
Stevenson laughed, the loud noise echoing in his helmet.
He had not drifted off; merely fell to the lunar surface gently, the low gravity seeing to the gentleness of his descent. He stood up, and tilted his body towards the Sovereign, which hung above him like some leviathan of brass, steel and wood. The sight almost took his breath away. It was not often one got to see an aether flyer from below, and certainly not a great battleship like this one. Although from some angles she looked much like her water-bound cousin ships, from below there was no mistaking her impressive, space-worthy design. The glass bottom seemed to go on forever, protecting the hundreds of liftwood slats from meteor bombardment, or worse. The antenna, itself over thirty feet long, rested only a short distance above the surface.
He walked, well he thought of it as walking, but it was more like taking long strides with several feet between them, over to the ladder which still hung two feet above the dust. Stevenson waved at the figure still looking out of the doorway, indicating that he was okay. The next person emerged and began to descend.
As the party joined him, Stevenson took in his surroundings. The rocky and dusty ground was not, as he had always believed, grey, but rather a shallow shade of black. Nearby, about half a mile Stevenson guessed, was the lip of the crater they had seen previously from above. From his new vantage point it looked more like a kopje of dust, similar to the perimeter of a gravel quarry perhaps, and he suspected the crater was deceptively smaller when seen from the ship. Not that it mattered to him; he was not here to explore the crater, but rather to explore the wreck of the Annabelle.
There she rested, a shadow of her former herself. Even from this distance the damage looked extensive. Stevenson was no expert on aether flyer design, that was more Professor Stone’s field, but he would wager that the Annabelle was beyond salvaging. He glanced up at the Sovereign just in time to see the remainder of the ladder be pulled inside the ship and the door closed by the able seaman who manned the airlock.
His mind returned to the scene on the bridge earlier, when Captain Folkard had told Professor Stone that he was not to join the away team. Although he was careful to hide it, Stevenson had seen the pain in Stone’s eyes, the same eyes that had been so reassuring, so kind, since Stevenson had first been sent to escort him around the ship. He shook his head inside his helmet. For the sake of Nathanial Stone, Stevenson hoped that his friend was not in the wreck. If she were then he did not fancy her chances.
Stevenson turned back to the landing party, just as Bedford plugged the telephonic jack into his helmet. He reeled out the cables and handed the jacks out to the rescue team. Stevenson took his and plugged it in.
“Stevenson, are you with us?” Bedford came through loud and clear inside Stevenson’s helmet.
Stevenson affected the best salute he could manage in the atmosphere suit. “Yes, sir!”
“Good, then perhaps you would like to lead the way?”
“Sir!” Stevenson said and set off, removing the carbine rifle from his shoulder. He was pleased to see the slight smile on Bedford’s face, sweating away inside his own helmet. Following Stevenson’s example, the rest of the team presented arms. Stevenson had no problem with leading the team to the wreck, but he was not such a fool to ignore the rumours passed from space mariner to space mariner about the moon men.
4.
AS THE Sovereign edged closer to the basin, Nathanial returned to his “post” at the viewing glass at the front of the bridge. Behind him the crew worked, reporting to their captain, bringing the ship forward. No one even blinked at him as he returned; had his presence become so quickly expected? It seemed that Bedford and his team had disembarked the ship with little trouble, although Nathanial was certain he had seen the first member of the away party fall from the ladder. He had watched them disembark from a small porthole along a gangway just off the bridge. The view, even through a plate of glass no bigger than his face, was magnificent. He had to admit, although he had never had even the slightest bit of experience in an atmosphere suit, a big part of him was itching to be out there and explore a planetoid that had seen so few visitors. If it came down to a choice between Mars and Luna, Nathanial knew he would most certainly pick Luna. Mars was occupied aplenty, not only by various Earth colonies, but the natives covered the planet. Luna, however, was, discounting rumour, a lifeless rock. Largely unexplored.
He smiled to himself. Perhaps, deep down, there was an adventurer in him after all. Captain Folkard would be most pleased. He turned to look at the captain, who was busy giving orders to the bosun, who in turn was piping them down to the engine room. Why was it that he felt this desire to please the captain? Nathanial was not sure. He surely felt no such desire with his own father, and Folkard was much younger.
Folkard looked away from the bosun and noticed Nathanial looking at him. Giving a final order, he walked across the bridge and joined Nathanial once again.
“Tell me, Professor, how much do you know of Luna?”
“Very little, Captain. Mostly unexplored, although it has been visited over the years, chiefly by the Russians as we discussed previously. I believe the first man to visit Luna was Sir William Otterbein in an aether flyer designed by himself. He was assisted by an Italian called Luigi Piachetti, funded by industrialists in London, correct?”
“As you say. Although the particulars of such missions are not the purview of this mission, I took the liberty to obtain further information before meeting you at Dover. Sir William hoped to find cheap sources of iron on Luna, and although they discovered that Luna is prone to ‘moonquakes’ and that the surface, in particular that of the so-called ‘seas’, is very difficult to traverse on foot, he found on his return to Earth that the samples proved Luna to be barren of useful material. His backing was thusly removed.”
“But still others continued to visit the moon, despite this,” Nathanial pointed out, looking down at the captain, who he felt sure was leading this conversation somewhere.
Folkard nodded. “Yes, curious, would you not agree?”
“Very. I have heard rumours, of course, of a native life form.”
“Ah, yes, the moon men. An unsubstantiated rumour, spread by space mariners hoping to drum up interest from the wealthy who wish to fund trips to Luna. Treasures, a wealth of diamonds, the usual talk of a great bounty. None of which has ever been found, of course, you understand, Professor?”
Nathanial smiled. “People often prefer the romances to the truth, Captain Folkard, sir.”
“This they do, Professor, this they do. I assume you have heard of ‘the glow’?”
Once again Nathanial was reminded of the missives he had previously received from Annabelle. He closed his eyes briefly, an image of her twisted body lying in the wreckage filling his vision. His heart caught in his chest.
“Are you quite all right, Professor? You seem a trifle off colour.”
Nathanial took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “I will pass muster, Captain.”
Folkard narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. Then, abruptly, he reached up and gave Nathanial a hearty slap on the back. “Dash-fire, Professor, we will make a Navy man of you yet.”
Nathanial smiled grimly, forcing the image of Annabelle away. He would deal with that later, for now he had to focus. He was in the company of stout men, and he had to be one of them.
“So, Captain, this ‘glow’…Miss Somerset did mention it in one of her letters, but I suspect that Doctor Grant, no doubt chasing the dragon at the time, revealed such information to one of our government’s increasingly clever spies?”
At this Folkard laughed. Nathanial looked around the bridge, as heads were raised, some smiling, most in surprise. “That sums it up rather aptly. Indeed, indeed. I have read the documentation on the ‘glow’, and very little is known. It seems that if one is in the right position a faint glow can be seen from a very particular part of Luna’s far side. The glow is barely a pinprick when seen with the naked eye, but when seen through a telescope the glow would appear to be almost a mile across. To the best of our spies understanding the glow, greenish-white in colour, has never been scientifically explained.”
“And it is most likely that Doctor Grant returned here to examine it.” Nathanial considered this. It made perfectly good sense, after all in Annabelle’s letter detailing Grant’s initial trip to Luna, she did mention that they had seen the glow many miles away from where they had landed. Nathanial knew that Grant returned to Earth to gather to himself more resources and assistance.
“Our concern is that according to all reports, Vladimir Tereshkov was investigating the glow on his last visit to Luna. The one from which neither he, nor any other Russians, have been seen to return. This does rather add support to the concern that Doctor Grant and Tereshkov are working together.”
“On a threat to both the British Empire and America?” Nathanial shook his head. “I do not believe so, Captain.”
Folkard raised an eyebrow. “With all due respect, Professor, Grant is a scientist, and I have met many in my time, and it is often the case that they will do almost anything to prove their theories, to be the first to make the greatest discovery in human history.” He stopped and turned so he was facing Nathanial. “Are you telling me that Doctor Grant is different from every other scientist out there?”
Nathanial shook his head sadly. “I am telling you no such thing, Captain; I am merely saying that Doctor Grant would not risk his niece’s life on such a mission. The potential risk of working with nastavnik Tereshkov is too great. I have never been acquainted with that man, clearly, but I have heard he is quite insane. Doctor Grant’s concern for Miss Somerset supersedes all other concerns.”
Folkard was silent, then he nodded his head slowly. “Hmm…For Miss Somerset’s sake then, I hope you are correct.”
With that, Folkard returned to his previous position next to the bosun and enquired of the helmsman their current bearing. For a moment longer Nathanial just watched, feeling rather insulted by Folkard’s accusation of all scientists. Perhaps the captain forgot that, despite his youthful appearance, Nathanial was just as much a scientist as any other he may have met. Folkard was clearly aware of Nathanial’s watchful gaze, but he chose to ignore it.
Could it be another test? Folkard continually referred to Nathanial as “Professor”, so perhaps he had said such a thing to see if Nathanial would stand up for himself. Regardless, the moment had passed them both by. He turned back to the window, and his mouth fell open at the sight that greeted him.
“Captain!” he said, his voice much louder than expected.
“What is it, Professor?”
“Look!” Nathanial pointed, his eyes still locked on the distant glow. It seemed to come from several miles away, but the greenish-white tint was unmistakable.
5.
“AIRLOCK IS not going to be necessary, sir,” said Ensign Challoner through the cable linking him to Bedford, as they neared the wreckage.
He was quite correct. Huge rents had been torn into the hull of the Annabelle, where the ship had buckled upon impact. Stevenson glanced up to the sky, and saw in the distance the small globe of the Earth. He wondered what altitude the Annabelle had managed before she had been gunned down; high enough to get a message to the Harbinger, that was for sure. At least forty thousand feet, then, and assuming the Russians hit the aether propeller first then that would have resulted in quite a rapid descent, even when taking into account the lower gravity of Luna. Flyers were not light, and without the lighter than air properties of liftwood to avail themselves of, a flyer would drop to the surface of Luna like a brick from the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
“Very well, Ensign, proceed with caution,” Bedford said, looking around. “I am certain we have all heard the rumours of the moon men, and there are almost certainly Russian okhrana on Luna somewhere, with secrets to protect. Ensign Challoner, take Platt, Swallow and Clements with you and search the aft.” He pointed to a particularly large tear in the flyer some feet away. “Stevenson and Miller with me. We’ll take the forward section. Be alert!”
Challoner and his team removed their jacks from the cable connecting the main team, and then split off. Stevenson was familiar with Challoner’s team, having served with some of them on previous assignments, but Miller he did not know. All he knew was the younger man troubled him. Even in his atmosphere suit it was clear Miller was twitchy. Once again Stevenson wondered at the wisdom of bringing such a man on a mission like this.
He looked up as soon as he felt it; it was as if the atmosphere suit had picked up the vibration that shuddered its way through the low gravity of Luna. Slowly, but most definitely surely, the Sovereign began to move away. The second team did not appear to notice, slipping out of sight behind a large piece of the Annabelle which had been torn off the mainframe during the crash impact. Bedford looked up.
“What the deuce?” he rumbled.
“Sir,” Stevenson said, “where are they going?”
“To investigate that glow, I suspect,” Bedford said, his tone severe. His brows knitted together, and pointed.
Stevenson looked, and sure enough, although somewhat hazy, a greenish glow could be seen over the tip of the crater’s lip. “But, sir, we only have less than an hour of air left.”
“Indeed, Mister Stevenson,” Bedford responded. For a moment he watched the Sovereign, his expression dark. Abruptly he snapped out of whatever had besieged him and reasserted his usual commanding presence. “I suggest we proceed with haste. I suspect there are oxygen supplies in the Annabelle, unless the Russians or the natives stripped the ship after it crashed.”
A reassuring thought, Stevenson considered. He looked to Miller, and offered a smile. The younger rating was perspiring badly. Somehow Stevenson doubted it was because of the heat generated by his enclosed body. Sighing inwardly, and wondering why he had to get stuck with such a sap, Stevenson led the way once again, hoping Bedford was right about the oxygen supplies, while the lieutenant took up the rear.
Stevenson lifted his carbine, nudging its nose through the rent first. Nothing, not even a hint of disturbance. Carefully he stepped through the rent and found himself in the greenhouse, cast in shadow by the Earthlight seeping through the hole in the hull. Plants of all kinds filled the area. Once having sat in their cradles, providing the oxygen needed throughout the small flyer, they lay scattered across the metal grating that served as the deck. His booted foot crunched the dirt underneath, shattering the stems of a rubber plant. One more dead plant would make no difference now, with the tears in the hull any oxygen the ship had would have long since vented out.
He stepped deeper into the greenhouse, almost feeling the nervous breath of Miller, which was very unlikely since both of them were contained by atmosphere suits. Stevenson stopped abruptly.
He had definitely felt something on the back of his neck. He twisted his head, trying to get a look at the back of his helmet, for a glimpse of whatever it was, but he could not see.
He hooked his carbine over his shoulder and reached for the bolts securing his helmet.
“Stevenson! What do you think you are doing, man?”
Stevenson blinked, and his eyes widened at the sight of his gloved fingers that were about to unbolt the helmet, exposing himself to the vacuum. He moved his hand away slowly and turned to Bedford.
“Sorry, sir, I thought I felt…”
“Pull yourself together, Stevenson,” Bedford snapped. “You have received vacuum training, you are fully aware that the oxygenated air, and the claustrophobic conditions of an atmosphere suit, can play havoc with your reasoning.”
Stevenson looked to Miller, and was struck by the sheer dread in his eyes. He had to be an example for the younger man, otherwise Miller would crack. Stevenson nodded sharply. “Yes, sir!” He turned back to the shadows ahead and took hold of the carbine again, feeling a little more reassured by the weight of the gun in his hands.
He continued on, a small part of his mind telling him that he had not imagined the sensation. Something had definitely breathed on the back of his neck.