Short of Breath
1.
THE SOVEREIGN approached the dark side of the moon, following the source of the now-absent glow. It had not lasted very long, but long enough for the navigator to get a bearing. Nathanial remained standing by the window, straining for any further sign of the glow. He could feel his heart beating faster, as excitement of potential discovery overcame him. Rescuing Grant, or at least uncovering what he and the Russians were about, troubled him less than the possibility of learning the secret of the glow. He had not been asked, nor had he wanted, to come along on this mission, but now he was here the scientist in him was taking over.
“Sir,” the coxswain said, pointing, “I believe we have located the source.”
Nathanial peered ahead, unsure as to what the helmsman was referring, and then he, too, saw it. “What is it? An entrance to an underground cavern?”
“A gorge of some kind,” Folkard said, now at Nathanial’s side. “What do you think, Professor? At least twice the length of the Sovereign?”
Nathanial considered this. The gorge seemed to sit in the heart of the basin, a dark pit into Luna. “I would estimate at least three times that, Captain.”
“Capital! In that case it is into the gorge we shall go. Fortunately the Sovereign does not use the standard solar panel apparatus atop ship, so the narrowness of the gorge should not present a problem.”
“Perhaps not, Captain, but this ship is still powered by steam and the solar panels are attached to the antenna beneath the hull. How are we supposed to draw the heat of the sun in the gorge?”
Folkard chuckled at this. “Come now, Professor, did you not tour the engine room? We do not simply use solar boilers. Have you forgot the combustion boiler? That will be in use once the heat has run its course. I must say, despite your work on the design of this ship, you do seem remarkably lacking in the understanding of how the Sovereign works.”
Nathanial glanced around the bridge, surreptitiously he thought, but he was noticed by many of the crew who were themselves sneaking glances at the two men as they conversed by the viewing window. The navigator even seemed to smirk at the captain’s berating of Nathanial.
“You seem to forget, Captain Folkard sir, that my primary role was advancing the aether propeller’s efficiency, and I had very little to do with the rest of this ship’s functions. That was the purview of Director White, not I.”
“And a good job you did of that, Professor, very good indeed. Now then,” Folkard continued, as if he had somehow proven his point, which, Nathanial thought, seemed to be to make him feel as small as possible in front of the bridge crew. Perhaps the captain, not short by any means, did not like the fact that he was almost dwarfed by Nathanial. “If the Russians were active on the surface of Luna we would have heard word of this by now, so it is logical to guess they are working out of sight, and most likely use that gorge, or one similar, as a point of entry to the caverns that are purported to exist beneath the surface.”
“Perhaps they are also in collusion with the sub-lunar natives?” Nathanial asked. Since they seemed to be in collusion with everyone else, he thought to himself with more than a streak of sarcasm.
Folkard nodded. “Quite so, Professor. Maybe less of a rumour than we have heard?” He turned to the helmsman. “Coxswain, prepare the ship to enter the gorge.”
There was the briefest of hesitation before the helmsman replied with a hearty, “Yes, sir!”
Nathanial looked curiously at the captain, who seemed to not notice the hesitation. “What of the rescue team? We are abandoning them,” he said, his tone more accusatory than he had intended. In his mind Annabelle’s lifeless corpse was now joined by that of Erasmus Stevenson. Nathanial could not countenance such losses, and if being in the Navy meant such things then he was glad that he was not a Navy man.
“Not so, Professor,” Folkard said. “Lieutenant Bedford is a resourceful chap; he will quickly ascertain my intention and adapt his mission accordingly.”
Nathanial was quiet for a moment. He did not care for the dismissive tone in Folkard’s voice, and was reminded of the way the bridge had responded when the captain had ordered the ship towards the glow. The crew were too well trained to openly question orders, but even to someone like Nathanial, who had no military blood in him whatsoever, he could feel a change in the crew. It was almost of if they were all uncertain of their captain, but this did not stop them carrying out his orders.
“Then I trust to your faith in your officer, Captain Folkard,” Nathanial said shortly. What choice did he really have? Besides which he had been around Folkard for some time now, and believed he was starting to understand the captain a little. This was likely another of his tests.
“As you should, Professor, as indeed you should, after all your safety, and possibly that of Miss Somerset, lies in the hands of me and my crew.”
2.
GEORGE BEDFORD had his eye on Ordinary Seaman Stevenson; there was something about the lad he did not trust, and he still could not figure it out. It was much the same with Professor Stone, which disconcerted Bedford. He liked to have the cut of a man’s gib, but with Stone it was not his concern since the professor was a guest of Captain Folkard and thus not his responsibility, but the personnel on the ship were very much Bedford’s concern. He had to trust, implicitly trust, those who worked beneath him on his ship, and Stevenson was something of a mystery. He came recommended highly enough, the boatswain had served with him before on their previous assignment, and thus far Stevenson had given no reason for Bedford’s ill feeling. Nonetheless, still it was there. So far Stevenson had performed admirably; taken the lead on more than one occasion. He was good officer material. Even now he led the way as they walked through the damaged flyer, his carbine held before him.
In Bedford’s experience, though, most men proved to be brave when they held a weapon in their hands; even cowards. It was as if by the very presence of a tool of death they tapped into something primal. Bedford had never been a believer in God, despite his parents’ continued attempt to instil in him strong Christian values, and when he had discovered a copy of Darwin’s book at the inquisitive age of fourteen so much had made sense to him. All one had to do was look around, see what was happening on Mars between the Red Devils and the Earthmen. He was reminded of Mister Kipling who, upon returning from Mars, had a poem published in The Times only a few months ago; Earth Man’s Burden.
“Take up the Earth Man’s burden,
Send forth the best ye breed.
Go bind your sons to exile,
To serve your captives needs;
To wait in heavy harness,
On fluttered folk and wild.
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Red Devil and Earth Child.”
The poem went on to describe the need for the people of Earth to go out and educate and spread their culture among the natives of the other worlds. It was something Bedford agreed with wholeheartedly; mankind was born to be superior to all of nature.
Which brought him back to Stevenson. This was a young man who knew the truth, who saw the nature of man. He took to the ladder fearlessly, regardless of the potential risk of entering the vacuum in only an atmosphere suit, when more experienced ratings stood to one side, hesitating. Now, despite, of perhaps because of, the risk he led the way through the wreckage. Perhaps armed Russian okhrana awaited them in the shadows, or maybe even those moon men of which they heard such horrific tales. Cautious Stevenson may have been, but if his reactions were not extra sharp he would soon fall before a superior force if one awaited them. Yet onwards he continued.
Certainly something about Stevenson did not sit well with Bedford, but he was developing a growing respect for the young man. Miller, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Still too fresh, but ideal material for shaping into the kind of officer Bedford himself had become over the years. In fact, Miller reminded him a little of himself at sixteen, before he had met Jacob Folkard. Back then, twenty years ago, Folkard had been very much like Stevenson, officer material from the moment he stepped aboard ship. A pity his discipline had declined with his age.
The lab had been empty of bodies, just more collateral damage. Bedford had little interest in the advance of science, except for where it contributed to the continued might of the British Empire, but he expected that Doctor Grant’s flyer would have a well-stocked laboratory, and he was not disappointed. Bedford could not identify most of the equipment, although he was certain he did see a new ratchet-operated aether wheel. Smaller than the one on the Sovereign bridge, but Bedford would wager it was no doubt a more advanced design. They soon continued on, through the common area to search the captain’s quarters. At least, to Bedford’s mind the small room on the port side would have been the captain’s quarters had this been a more official ship, but as it stood it was quite clear that the room they had entered was the personal quarters of Doctor Grant.
The room was, as anticipated, quite a state. Papers lay strewn across the floor, the cot ripped from its moorings.
Once more there was little of interest to Bedford, but Stevenson had other ideas. He walked deeper into the room, to peruse the scattered papers. After a few moments, and mindful of the depleting supplies of oxygen, Bedford stepped further into the room, leaving the ever-nervous Miller on guard at the door, and tapped Stevenson on the shoulder.
“If you are quite finished, Mister Stevenson, may I remind you that we are not here to gather information, but rather to discover if Miss Somerset survived the crash.”
“Yes, sir,” Stevenson said, looking up from the papers, “sorry, sir, but it occurs to me that if Miss Somerset is not here then we can at least return to the Sovereign with information that may be of some help to Professor Stone.”
Bedford had to admit, to himself at least, that he approved. “Be that as it may, we have only a limited supply of oxygen…”
“That’s the thing, though, Lieutenant,” Stevenson said quickly, and Bedford did not much care for the interruption, but he did not draw attention to it, after all it would be good for Miller to see the difference between a seaman out of his depth and a seaman born to be an officer. “According to these notes we may not need to find extra canisters,” Stevenson pointed out.
Now Bedford’s interest was piqued. “If you would care to explain?”
“According to Doctor Grant’s notes here, there would appear to be several grottoes and caverns beneath the surface with a gravity of thirty percent to Earth’s. That’s only ten percent less than Mercury, unless I am much mistaken.”
“You are not, mister. I have been to Mercury; traversing the terrain is heavy going, but not impossible. This only confirms the rumours about sub-lunar caverns; however, I fail to see how it assists us in our current predicament. Regardless of the gravity, without an atmosphere we will all be dead within another forty minutes.”
“Agreed, sir, which is why this particular passage will interest you.” Stevenson handed him a sheet of paper and pointed to the passage in question.
“Not only have previous expeditions proved the existence of animals and fungus-like plants, but there are pockets of atmosphere in these sub-lunar caverns. Ah! A serendipitous find, Mister Stevenson.”
“Yes, sir, which means all we need to do is find an entrance to one such cavern.”
Bedford nodded decisively. “Splendid! Let us quickly finish our recce of the Annabelle then and pray we find a cavern before the oxygen fails us.” He turned to Miller and made his way out of Grant’s quarters. “Shape up, Mister Miller, we may yet survive our little excursion.”
The expression on Miller’s sweaty face told Bedford that the young man was unconvinced. Bedford smiled to himself grimly, once he was out of Miller’s line of vision. The young seaman would soon be convinced. Stevenson would not let them down.
3.
“NOW AT a depth of fifteen kilometres, sir,” the coxswain said.
“And still no glow,” Folkard pointed out to Nathanial.
Nathanial had to confess he was somewhat disappointed. It seemed they had been descending the gorge for an eternity, although in truth it was probably no more than twenty minutes. So far there was little of interest to be seen. Just rock all around them. He, like Folkard, had felt sure they were on the right track. That this is where either Doctor Grant or the Russians had gone. Perhaps such gorges did exist in the other craters that scarred the surface of Luna, just as Folkard had surmised. None other, though, was the source of the glow. A fact that almost certainly would have attracted the attention of the Russians. It was a foregone conclusion; after all they already knew that both nastavnik Tereshkov and Doctor Grant displayed a more than idle curiosity about the glow.
“The glow is clearly not a continuous occurrence, Captain. Perhaps it is the result of some heretofore unknown intelligence.”
“An…alien intelligence, Professor? Further supposition about the moon men?”
“Maybe, after all there has never been any indication that the glow appears at regularly occurring intervals. Perhaps it is some form of communication, analogous to the smoke signals of the Indians?”
“If that is so, Professor, who could these moon men be communicating with?”
“Another mystery, Captain. It seems this mission is replete with them.”
Folkard smiled. “All the best missions are, Professor, that is why I am out…” His riposte was cut short by an abrupt jerking of the ship. He turned to the coxswain, as Nathanial grabbed at the nearest station for support. “Report, coxswain!”
“Sir, the aether propeller appears to be having trouble responding,” the coxswain said, as he tried to manipulate the aether wheel.
The pipe whistled and the bosun snatched it up quickly, putting the end to his ear. He listened, responded, then turned to the captain. “That was the trimsman in the liftwood room, sir. It would appear the liftwood is reacting to something.”
“Reacting? How is that possible? Mister Dinnick, contact the engine room and discover the situation with the aether propeller.”
Still the bridge continued to shake, as the coxswain attempted to coax a response from the propeller. Nathanial looked out of the glass window, something in the back of his mind was trying to wiggle its way free. Something Annabelle had told…
His eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the gorge wall drawing closer.
“Captain, we’re going to be smashed into little bits!”
“At ease, Professor, the Sovereign can withstand a little buffering against rock.”
Nathanial wished he could agree, but since Folkard appeared to be so nonplussed by the situation he decided he would also attempt the same resolve. Nathanial turned his mind to the problem. The propeller was designed to work at its best in the aether, or in a marginal way in the thin atmosphere high above the Earth’s surface. For the latter it needed the assistance of the liftwood. In the upper atmosphere the propeller merely served to direct the ship with more accuracy, it was the liftwood that kept the ship afloat.
“Of course!” Nathanial exclaimed, slapping his forehead. “Captain, I know to what the liftwood is responding,” he said as he staggered across the bridge. He stumbled into the bulkhead and reached out his left hand to stop himself from hitting it too hard. He let out a gasp of pain as the bandage pressed even tighter over his burned hand.
“Professor, are you okay?” asked a member of the bridge crew.
Nathanial did his best to ignore his throbbing hand, and nodded. “I will survive,” he said, with a wan smile. He would have to visit Doctor Beverly again at some point, see if he could receive something for the pain. For now, though, he carried on towards Captain Folkard. “We have hit an atmosphere pocket,” he said once he reached the bosun’s station.
“Professor?” asked the puzzled captain.
“In Miss Somerset’s letters to me she told me that in the caverns beneath Luna there are pockets of atmosphere. They get more frequent and thicker the deeper you go, which is probably how the moon men survive.”
“Very well,” Folkard said, looking at Dinnick. “Bosun, instruct Boswell to deploy the air screws.”
“Aye, sir!”
“I hope you are right, Professor.”
“I am,” Nathanial said, standing up straight despite the buffering. Folkard just watched him, and slowly a smile plagued his lips. For sure the captain was getting to like his guest. Nathanial positively glowed at this thought; he wanted to ensure his own worth with the crew. He may not have been an expert on aether travel, or indeed any kind of aerial travel, but he had an amazing deductive brain and it was an asset to the mission. As, indeed, was he after all.
For a while they waited in anticipation, as the bridge continued to be buffeted by the coxswain’s best efforts with the aether propeller. Then it happened. The aether wheel froze up as the propeller was disengaged and the air screws were activated. The rocking subsided. Nathanial looked to the viewing window, and was relieved to see the rocky wall of the gorge moving away from them.
“Well done, Professor,” Folkard said, patting him on the back. “Coxswain, take over at the air wheel and continue our descent.”
“Yes, sir,” the coxswain said, and moved to more traditional looking wheel.
“If she survived the crash, remind me to thank Miss Somerset for her letters, Professor,” Folkard said, bearing his biggest smile yet.
Nathanial wanted to return the captain’s smile, but the image of Annabelle’s corpse filled his mind once more. He certainly hoped the rescue team found her.
4.
“LIEUTENANT BEDFORD, sir!”
Stevenson looked up with a start. Loud and clear was an understatement! He had been trained in the use of atmosphere suits, but the practical use of the telephonic cable was something he had not been prepared for. It was like having people talking directly into your ear or, as in the case of Miller, shouting.
Just at the rear of the small bridge, to the starboard, was the airlock, the most secure and structurally intact section of the flyer still. Miller had been sent to that room to check for extra oxygen canisters; even with the possibility of caverns with atmosphere, Bedford still insisted they locate extra supplies of oxygen. Stevenson agreed that was prudent. They only had about half an hour of oxygen left at best. The inner iron door of the airlock was open, and Miller was calling from inside it.
Bedford looked up from the station on the opposite side of the bridge, glanced at Stevenson, and indicated that he should respond to Miller instead. Without a second thought Stevenson moved from the navigator’s station and crossed the bridge. Once again it was his turn to be the star pupil.
“What is it, Miller?” he asked, as he stepped into the airlock. “Oxygen canisters not viab…” He stopped abruptly, both in speech and in actuality.
Miller stood at the far end of the airlock, by the still secure exterior door, next to a supply of more compact oxygen cylinders. They looked similar to the one resting on Stevenson’s back, although much smaller. If he had to guess, he would have estimated no more than half an hour’s worth in each. It was not, however, the discovery of the cylinders that had caused Miller to call for his commanding officer, but rather the body laying next to them.
A slender female, thin but not tiny by any means. Something like a see-through neckerchief covered her mouth and nose, a small tube protruding from it and running to a much larger oxygen canister by her side. This one, five times as large as that worn by the men, was no doubt the primary source from which the smaller cylinders were filled. A design of Doctor Grant’s Stevenson would wager, and one that could be of great benefit to the Navy.
“Sir, Miller has found Miss Somerset,” Stevenson said, making full use of the telephonic cable. As long as they were connected, Bedford would hear every word.
With a hand from Miller, Stevenson crouched to his knees and knelt beside the woman. She looked so young, probably about his own age. Her face, now bruised with dried blood caked below her nose, was quite pleasant, almost pretty he would have said if it wasn’t for the frown. He did not need to check for a pulse, not that he could with his gloved hands, to see that she was alive. That kind of frown could only come from unpleasant thoughts during unconsciousness.
“Report, Mister Stevenson.”
Stevenson glanced up at Bedford. “She is alive, sir. I suspect she scrambled to the airlock moments before the ship impacted with the surface.”
“Upon what do you base such a supposition?”
“If she had been in the bridge upon impact, her body would be as broken as the flyer. As it stands, sir, her body seems to have suffered little damage. Of course, I am no doctor, and a more detailed examination may reveal more intense internal injuries.”
“Indeed. However, secure in the airlock she would have sustained the least damage possible, while at the same time having access to her best chance of survival. These oxygen canisters.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bedford frowned. “Still…It has been a week since her distress call.”
“I suggest this canister,” at this Stevenson indicated the large one, “clearly contains more oxygen than it would appear.”
“Yes, that would seem reasonable. Doctor Grant is quite the genius it would seem.” Bedford was pleased. “Excellent. Try to revive her. Miller, I want you to locate the rest of our team. We have what we came for, now it is time we found those caverns Doctor Grant spoke of, from where we shall wait out the return of the Sovereign.”
Stevenson patted Miss Somerset gently on the cheeks in an effort to revive her from her deep sleep. He glanced up, noting that Miller had yet to move. The young rating was looking down at Miss Somerset.
“You have a problem with your hearing, Mister Miller?” Stevenson asked, before he realised he was over stepping his authority. He looked to his lieutenant, but Bedford was regarding Miller with steel in his eyes.
“No,” Miller replied, “but…alone?”
Stevenson understood Miller’s hesitation. There was something a little unnerving about the crashed flyer. He hadn’t felt anything unusual since that occurrence in the greenhouse, but he was still convinced that somehow they were not alone. Nonetheless, Miller had been given an order.
“Yes, alone. If there were anyone else here, we would know by…”
Once again Stevenson’s words were cut short. This time, though, it was not the sight of a body that had interrupted him, but rather a reverberation so powerful it almost knocked the three men off their feet.
“What was that?” he asked, and he struggled up.
“Miller, remain here, protect Miss Somerset,” Bedford said. “Stevenson, you are with me.”
Stevenson removed the jack from Miller’s helmet and raced out of the airlock. He found Bedford advancing towards the rear of the flyer. “Sir?”
Bedford removed his derringer from its holster. “Felt like something was ripped from the hull, Mister Stevenson,” he said grimly.
“Another breach. Russians?”
“Let us hope so, I would not like to consider the alternative!”
5.
THE SOVEREIGN steadied its descent at twenty-two kilometres. There was still plenty of gorge below the ship, but it had become too narrow for the great flyer to go any further. There was talk of releasing a cutter, since the Sovereign carried two for emergency purposes. They had been especially designed for the Sovereign and were more advanced and larger than the standard two-person cutters, with enough space in the rear of each to carry twenty standing men, and fitted out with light armaments for defence. Using a cutter would mean further exploration of the gorge, but Folkard had decided that he wished to proceed on foot. This was a task made simple by the fact that they had spotted an entrance to a cavern along the port side of the ship a couple of kilometres before the gorge got too narrow. It was decided, however, that a small team, complemented with Royal Marines, would take a cutter deeper into the gorge to ascertain if there was a Russian presence at the lowest level.
They were now walking through the ship, as the Sovereign climbed the two kilometres back up to the cavern entrance, just Nathanial and the captain, and one seaman, on their way to the open deck. Nathanial was not entirely sure he liked the idea of just stepping into the sub-lunar caverns. He was not wholly familiar with all the rumours, but he knew enough to find the thought of venturing out there a bit daunting.
“Captain, are you quite sure this is wise? Surely my deductive brain would be best suited on the bridge?”
Folkard laughed at this. “Stuff and nonsense, Professor. As I explained earlier, when we discover Doctor Grant I will have need of your deductive brain to tell me exactly what Grant is up to. I am not a stupid man, Professor, but neither am I a scientist. I hardly suspect I will get much understanding from Grant, and especially not from Tereshkov, but I am counting on you translating it into layman’s terms for me.”
“I see. In that case, I hope I serve you well.” Nathanial hoped he sounded sincere, but he was not overly impressed by the role Folkard had assigned for him.
“And besides, Professor, I have every intention of making an adventurer out of you yet. Who is to say what we may discover in these sub-lunar caverns? Indigenous life forms hitherto unknown, perhaps the real source of the glow? This is why we are out here, after all, for the adventure, the exploration.”
“Something tells me, Captain, you would have been better suited to the life of a space mariner.”
“Between you and me, I quite agree, however here I am, captain of the most advanced aether flyer ever built.” Folkard glanced behind them at the rating that followed. “I am sure I can count on your discretion, Able Seaman Ainsworth?”
The seaman nodded in a very serious fashion. “Of course, sir.”
Nathanial was amazed how Folkard seemed to know the names of every member of his crew. He had been on the ship no longer than Nathanial, and none of the crew wore name badges, yet somehow it seemed as if Folkard had some kind of special sight when it came to the names of his crew.
“And here we are,” Folkard said, reaching for the steel wheel that secured the door. Without further preamble he turned the great wheel and wrenched the door open. “Welcome to Luna, Professor!”
As the lunar air swept in through the door the first thing Nathanial noticed was the smell. His hand immediately went to cover his nose. “Good Lord, what is that?”
“You expected Luna to smell like Dover? Ah, Professor, you are now in an alien world.” The captain took a deep breath, and his nose twitched. “However, I will admit that smell is rather rum,” he said, and stepped out on to the deck.