The line of men waited in silence on the main deck of the Daedalus, pistols and swords at the ready, looking into the smoke from the two ships’ guns as they waited for the men of the Chance to swarm aboard. The old hands waited calmly, having made peace with fate long ago in other battles, or in the swells of storms at sea and Void. The young ones shifted from foot to foot, gripped their weapons tight and stared wide-eyed into the fog.
Yet instead of dissipating, the fog grew thicker. “Steady, men,” Weatherby said quietly. “Let them come to us.” He was as nervous as anyone, but refused to show it.
At least until the Count St. Germain strolled casually across the deck toward him, as if taking a morning constitutional.
“My lord!” Weatherby hissed. “You should seek shelter!”
St. Germain simply walked right up to him. “In a moment. Franklin asked that I make you this.” He handed over a small glass vial.
“What is it?” Weatherby asked, eyeing the vial and the clear liquid therein most suspiciously.
“This smoke is alchemical in nature, a simple measure designed to confound matters when the pirates attack,” St. Germain said. “When you first see them about to board, simply throw this down upon the deck, and the air will clear immediately, granting us a moment of surprise. But do not press your attack. I believe we are prepared to aid you from the forecastle first.”
Weatherby looked at the little cylinder with appreciation. “Very well, milord. We will wait to advance. Now take cover, if you would, please.”
St. Germain nodded and strolled on toward the fo’c’sle, leaving Weatherby to wonder just what the man had seen in life to be so blasé about such imminent danger.
Weatherby turned back to the railing, where he saw some of the ropes thrown by the Chance crew begin to move and vibrate as the pirates pulled Daedalus closer to their ship. “All right,” he whispered to his men. “Wait for whatever comes from the fo’c’sle. When I give the word, first rank fires, then retreats to reload and the second rank fires. Then pikes and swords.”
The crewmen nodded and murmured in affirmation as Weatherby watched the ropes carefully, peering into the dark cloud for the sign he needed, whatever form it may take.
It was a grubby hand on a rope, barely visible in the fog, that did the trick.
Weatherby hurled the glass vial to the deck near the railing, where it shattered. Immediately, the smoky fog lifted, revealing several dozen men not twenty feet away, preparing to board Daedalus and, at the moment, looking very surprised.
Weatherby turned to the fo’c’sle, where he saw Finch and St. Germain pointing what appeared to be an odd-looking brass cannon at the main deck of the Chance. It had numerous protuberances upon it, some of which looked to be made of glass, of all things.
A moment later, Finch furiously turned a crank upon the side of the device—and lightning spit forth from the barrel, cascading through the pirates with a thunderous crackle.
“My God,” Weatherby breathed as he saw at least two dozen men fall. The acrid smell of ozone and burnt flesh assaulted his nose.
The flash ended only after two seconds, but its worth had been proven. Weatherby turned back to his men, who were all staring elsewhere—either at the fo’c’sle or the other ship. “Make ready!” Weatherby called.
He saw more pirates move forward to take the place of their fellows. They would still try to board.
“Fire!”
Two dozen pistols fired as one, and another dozen muskets released from the tops, where a number of marine snipers were stationed. Immediately, another score of men on the Chance fell to the volley in a chorus of blood and screams, while the rest could barely raise their own weapons.
“Second rank! Fire!” Weatherby shouted, aiming his second pistol as the first rank fell back to reload.
Another score of shots echoed in the Void, releasing more carnage upon the boarders. Several more fell—with some of them careening off into the Void— but there were plenty remaining, and several began to return fire to support those who made it aboard.
“Reload and fire at will!” Weatherby ordered as he scrambled to reload his own weapons. “Pikes at the ready! Prepare to repel boarders!”
With the weapons silenced for the moment, the pirates heaved one last time and immediately began swarming aboard, cutlasses in hand. Without thinking, Weatherby took his unloaded pistol and hurtled it at one of the first to board Daedalus, hitting him squarely in the face and knocking him back. His hand thus freed, Weatherby drew his sword and leapt forward into the growing fray.
He lashed out at all and sundry, cutting down pirates otherwise engaged with the Daedalus crew. But it only took a few moments for one of the pirates to attack him personally, lunging forward with a scream. Weatherby quickly parried the blade…
…and hewed it cleanly in two.
Both Weatherby and his opponent were stunned, but the pirate recovered a moment faster, tossing his sundered hilt aside and throwing a desperate punch at Weatherby. By reflex alone, Weatherby parried the man’s arm with his blade, which had the same effect on the pirate’s limb as it did upon his cutlass. In a spray of blood, the man collapsed on the deck, screaming.
“Well done, Anne,” he muttered, looking at the blade as the blood oozed off it completely, leaving it shining silver once again. A strategy quickly formed in his head.
He quickly dashed across the deck, hewing through the pirates at will, aiming for weapons first so that his compatriots could handle the disarmed boarders more easily, though at least a half-dozen men fell to his blade as well. A part of him thrilled at the effect his sword had upon the engagement, even as something in the back of his mind rebelled at the bloody carnage he was causing.
A sudden clang of steel on steel drew his awareness back fully, as his blade finally met resistance in the form of another. And before he could react further, a large boot kicked him squarely in the chest—right where he had been shot on Callisto—pushing him backward and prompting him to gasp for air.
A massive man stood before him, dressed in an outlandish red silk jacket and numerous golden baubles. His disheveled hair and unkempt beard could not hide the sneer he offered Weatherby, who quickly recognized the man from Venus and Callisto. It could be none other than LeMaire himself—and it appeared his blade was a match for Weatherby’s.
Weatherby assumed the en garde position, but the pirate just stood there, regarding him with the Devil’s own smile. “Your sword is better than you are, yes?” he growled in passable English. “Surrender and I may let you live.”
Weatherby shook his head. “I decline, sir.” And with that, he lunged.
LeMaire swatted Weatherby’s blade aside with a deft parry, not even bothering to adjust his stance. Weatherby tried again, and again, but LeMaire was a canny swordsman, and met every riposte with one of his own. Desperately parrying the pirate captain’s blows, Weatherby was dismayed to see he was backing up with each move, until he felt the wood of the mainmast behind him.
LeMaire stepped up his attacks, slapping past Weatherby’s parries again and again. Weatherby felt his coat rip, felt a trickle of blood on his rib cage—a very close cut that would have been far worse if not for his last-minute parry. Weatherby riposted quickly, catching LeMaire’s sword arm with a quick slash. Instead of stopping him, however, the wound only seemed to infuriate the man, who lashed out and punched Weatherby in the face with his free hand.
Dazed, Weatherby could barely make out LeMaire in front of him, sword raised to surely cut him in two. But the pirate was tackled in a blurry flash of blue, leaving Weatherby to shake his head and regain his wits.
It was Lt. Plumb.
LeMaire roared in anger and hit Plumb with the hilt of his sword, sending the first lieutenant reeling and stumbling to the railing, whereupon he was swarmed by a mob of pirates, most of whom had surged aboard Daedalus while their captain occupied Weatherby and his alchemical blade. Weatherby regained his senses and moved to help Plumb, but his way was blocked by LeMaire once more, who lashed out with his sword.
Weatherby parried the blow and prepared to riposte, but LeMaire’s massive hand was on his face in an instant, pushing him into the mainmast once more. A second later, blinding pain shot through his shoulder, prompting a scream. Looking down, he saw LeMaire’s blade sticking out of his body, pinning him to the mast. He heard his blade clatter to the deck, the nerve and muscle damage in his shoulder too much for him to hold on to it.
“So!” LeMaire exulted, standing back to admire his handiwork. “You should have surrendered.”
Anguished and in overwhelming pain, Weatherby cast about for help, but his fellows were occupied with the seemingly endless stream of boarders pouring onto the ship from Chance. Yet out of the corner of his eye, just over LeMaire’s shoulder, he saw Finch and St. Germain upon the fo’c’sle, laboring over their device. It was pointed at the main deck.
Hopefully, they would not labor much longer.
Weatherby saw that LeMaire was now engaged—all too briefly—by a few of the men from Daedalus. Grabbing the hilt of LeMaire’s blade in his free hand, Weatherby pulled with all his might and wrenched the sword from both the mast and his body, screaming in pain as he did so. He cast it away with all his strength and, by a stroke of luck, saw it fly neatly over the side of the ship, into the Void.
LeMaire saw this and swore in French, his face the picture of rage. Shoving aside two Englishmen, he punched Weatherby in the face once more. The young Englishman felt his cheekbone crack, his teeth threatening to fall from his mouth. His feet failed him and he slumped down to the deck, his back still against the mast.
Even in his daze, Weatherby saw the electrical cannon being aimed for the main deck. He immediately curled into a ball, as low to the deck as his body would allow.
“English pig!” LeMaire roared. “Get up so I may kill you on your feet, you…”
“Daedalans, down!” Finch yelled.
Immediately, every English sailor aboard dove for the planking. Looking up, Weatherby saw the flash of white lightning, heard the roaring crackle of electricity. Screams joined the smell of ozone in the air.
And right above him, he saw a lightning bolt quickly pierce the very heart of Jacques LeMaire, who wore a glassy-eyed look of surprise on his face. A moment later, the pirate keeled forward, face-first, onto the deck. Smoke issued from a horrible burn on his back.
Dizzy and weak, Weatherby struggled to his feet, his sword in hand, and looked about for another opponent. However, the electrical cannon had done its job well, and with their captain dead, the surviving Chance men were rushing back to their ship, cutting the tethering lines as they went.
Weatherby staggered toward the quarterdeck to report. He only made it about twelve paces before he sank to his knees, his wounds finally overcoming consciousness.
Alarms layered upon alarms as the quake continued to shake McAuliffe Base, and Shaila was having a hard time keeping track of them all. Seismic monitors were first. Then the reactor alarms chimed in, prompting an automatic shutdown sequence. The sleeping centrifuges also piped up with a klaxon as they crashed to an emergency stop. Finally, the base’s containment alarms were thrown into the shrill mix. Somewhere—probably a couple of somewheres—McAuliffe Base’s atmosphere was leaking out—and Mars’ carbon dioxide and deadly cold was leaking in.
“We’ve got hull ruptures in the Hub, Billiton corridor two, and right here in the command center!” Shaila reported.
“Seal off those areas,” Diaz ordered as she gripped her command chair. “All personnel to their emergency suits, now!”
Shaila raced over to a closet in the back of the command center, ripping the door open. The emergency suits weren’t all that impressive—they only had 20 minutes of 02 in them, and they wouldn’t fight the chill for long—but it was better than nothing. She pulled out three suits and, struggling to keep her feet, started handing them out to Diaz, Washington and Yuna.
“Reactor is offline,” Washington said as he grabbed his suit. “We’re on battery now. We’ve got 24 hours.”
Then the floor stopped moving.
Shaila looked around carefully, stunned, as the quake subsided just as quickly as it started. She took a cautious breath, saw it fog up in front of her as she exhaled.
“Shaila! Get suited!” Yuna yelled.
But Shaila took another breath instead. It was cold, yes. But not negative 50 degrees Celsius cold. More like…Arctic cold. Survivable. She ran to a workstation and called up sensor data. “Colonel, base oxygen levels remain within tolerances,” she reported.
“Say again?” Diaz said as she finished strapping herself into her suit.
“We’re cold, but we’re not losing oxygen,” Shaila reported. “O2 levels are steady in here.” She looked up at the window overlooking the launch pad and EVA staging grounds outside. The window had a massive crack in it—but it was holding. “If we had a real pressure leak, that window should’ve shattered by now.”
Diaz walked over and looked at Shaila’s screen. “Get your suit on,” she ordered. “Then give me some outside readings.”
Shaila finished sliding the suit over her shoulders, snapping the airtight cowl over her head. Immediately, the oxygen from the small tank on her back started feeding her lungs, but she wondered whether it was necessary. The outside sensors confirmed her suspicions.
“Ma’am, I’m reading a massive increase in both nitrogen and oxygen outside,” Shaila reported. “CO2 levels are still beyond Earth norms, but O2 levels are within tolerances. We can breathe out there.”
“Bullshit,” Diaz whispered. Yet she was looking over Shaila’s shoulder at the exact same data. “Sensor malfunction?”
Shaila ran a quick diagnostic. “Negative, ma’am. All sensors systems nominal, except for the ones that fried yesterday.”
Diaz stared at the screen a moment longer, then activated the base comm. “All personnel, remain in your emergency suits for the time being. Damage control teams, repair all hull breaches immediately. Seal off all unnecessary areas, including all Billiton corridors. Stand by for further orders.”
The colonel turned to walk away—and tripped. She staggered a few feet before recovering herself, then turned to Shaila with a look of confusion on her face. “What the hell was that?”
“Um…you tripped, ma’am.”
Diaz shook her head angrily. “No, dammit. I need a gravity reading.”
Shaila frowned as she turned back to her station. That was the only thing that the base sensors couldn’t measure—nobody really expected Mars’ gravity to change. Shaila thought a moment, then started to access the computer that ran the emergency transports; it was a standard-issue plugin module used on the Moon and on space stations as well as on Mars, and it had a gravity sensor in order to calculate proper escape velocities. It took a few creative subroutines and one outright hack, but she managed to get the sensor to play ball.
What she found was nothing short of impossible.
“Ma’am, the transport computer sensors are reading 59 percent Earth gravity,” Shaila said quietly.
Washington stood up and, crouching down low, leapt as high as he could, his arm raised high. His fingers barely brushed the ceiling. “Wow. If I did that normally, I’d plant my face up there,” he said.
Yuna, meanwhile, slowly walked toward a chair and gingerly sat down. “I wondered why I felt so tired,” she said.
Shaila suddenly remembered—Yuna hadn’t been in anything stronger than Mars gravity for years. “Oh, shit. What can we do?” Shaila asked as she clambered over to Yuna’s side.
“There’s a case in my day room, bright yellow—a powered exoskeleton I use for physical therapy,” Yuna said, suddenly looking years older. “If someone could get it for me, I should be OK.”
Shaila nodded and jabbed a button on the comm. “Jain to Durand, over.”
“Durand here,” Stephane responded a moment later. “What is going on?” He sounded amazed, worried, concerned—all of it.
“Shut up and listen,” Shaila snapped. “I need you to go to Yuna’s day room. There’s a case in there, bright yellow. Has a suit in it. Get it and get your ass up to the command center now.”
“I will,” Stephane responded. “Durand out.”
Shaila gave Yuna a pat on the arm. “It’s coming. Just try not to move until he gets here.”
She turned to Diaz, who was sitting at the ops station, looking dazed. “Orders, ma’am?”
The colonel shook her head as if to clear it, gathering herself as best she could. “Washington, get a report out to Houston ASAP. Let them know where we stand, remind them evac is not an option at this time, and ask for recommendations, for what it’s worth. Jain, coordinate damage control. Get the place buttoned up again.”
Shaila nodded and headed for the door, but stopped to regard Diaz again. “Ma’am, if I may?”
Diaz turned and gave her a weak smile. “Sure. Why not?”
Shaila straightened up. “Once we’re buttoned up, recommend we EVA to the pyramid site, ma’am.”
“Really,” Diaz said, the smile fading. “Why?”
“For one, unless we get the reactor back up, we’ve got less than 24 hours before we lose battery power and start to freeze. If we’re going to investigate this thing, we don’t have much time left. And honestly, I still think that whatever’s causing this crap is there.”
“The guys in Weatherby’s journal,” Diaz said.
“Aye, ma’am.”
Diaz looked at Shaila closely for a moment, seeming to take her measure. “All right. Recommendation noted and officially under advisement. Seal the base, then we’ll talk.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Shaila turned to leave, but Diaz spoke again. “Why’d you call Durand instead of Levin?”
Shaila stopped in her tracks. She hadn’t even thought about it. There was a crisis, and she knew he’d be nearby. Of course, everyone else was down there, too, including the base doctor.
“Don’t know, ma’am,” Shaila answered stiffly as she hustled out the door.
Diaz smiled after her.