It might’ve been easier if the men from the Daedalus had actually been aliens.
Section 138, subsection 1, paragraph 6 of the Joint Space Command General Operations Code states all too matter-of-factly that in an encounter with intelligent life not of Earth origin, personnel should be aware there may be pronounced cultural differences, ones that should be addressed with care and respect for those differing values.
At the moment, Shaila thought that particular regulation was a steaming load of bullshit.
“I am most sorry to say, ladies, that I find your story to be quite incredible. I have seen much of late, but to find an outpost commanded by female officers?” The young officer, who did indeed confirm he was Lt. Thomas Weatherby, shook his head ruefully. “You have me at a loss.”
Anne straightened up and turned to Weatherby. “Is it so impossible to consider that women may be as competent as men, Lieutenant?” she said, the emphasis on his rank evident to even the astronauts. “Or am I but a silly housemaid with a few magic tricks learned by rote?”
The astronauts stood together, talking with Weatherby, Finch, Anne and St. Germain—with the business end of a dozen muskets pointed in their direction from less than ten meters away. They had started to relay their story, but they were quickly bombarded with questions about their time, some 350 years later than the voyage of the Daedalus, as well as their modes of transportation, the “alchemy” involved in their weapons and, yes, their social structure. Somewhere in there, they discovered that Weatherby’s Earth had no North or South American continents. Frustration and amazement abounded, with the former growing more pronounced as the back-and-forth went on.
St. Germain finally interrupted. “Weatherby, we haven’t the time to dawdle here. Shoot them, bring them with us, I care not. We must go before Cagliostro completes his working!”
Stephane spoke up for the first time. “We can get you there quickly. We have our rovers. Our, um, carriages.”
Weatherby gave Stephane a hard look, regarding him carefully through narrowed eyes. The young officer was already quite disturbed that there were five of these strangely attired people present—including three women posing as officers!—but now… “You are French?” he asked.
“Umm…yes. But you see, in our time, the British and French are allies, and—whoa!”
Stephane’s explanation was immediately cut off by Weatherby, who raised his pistol toward the Frenchman, the barrel mere inches from his face. “The British and French are allies, are they?” Weatherby said calmly. “That’s perhaps even harder to believe.”
“Believe it,” Shaila said. Weatherby turned back to the women “officers,” only to see the Hindu pointing her strange-looking pistol at his face. “Let’s not make this hard, Mr. Weatherby,” she said, a hint of menace behind her voice.
The click of a dozen muskets came from behind Weatherby’s back, prompting a small smile out of him. “It shan’t be us to experience difficulty, milady,” he said. He did not lower his pistol, leaving Stephane frozen in place with his hands up, palms out, eyes saucer-wide.
Smug bastard, Shaila thought. At least Diaz had her zapper out and aimed as well. On wide-arc, they could probably stun most of them—but probably not all. Yet the situation seemed familiar, and she quickly remembered why.
“Fine,” Shaila said. She held the zapper out a moment longer before slowly lowering it. Looking Weatherby directly in the eye, she tossed the weapon to the ground. “We haven’t threatened you, Lieutenant. In fact, we saved your collective asses, which means what you’re doing right now isn’t very honorable.” She stared hard at Weatherby, whose hand wavered slightly even as he continued pointing the pistol. She stepped slowly around to stand directly between the gun and Stephane. “We’re leaving, and we’re going to that pyramid. I’m not even sure whether this Cagliostro guy is as evil as you say, but I’m going to find out, because that pyramid is the center of some bad things happening on my Mars. If you decide to start acting civilized, you can join us. If not, you can spend the rest of the goddamned day hiking. But you need to decide. Now.”
With that, she turned, grabbed Stephane by the arm, and started walking back to the rovers. Slowly, the other astronauts followed her, leaving the Daedalus crewmen stunned.
“Lieutenant,” Diaz said quietly, the comm picking up her words clearly. “Care to tell me what the hell you’re doing?”
“Winging it, ma’am,” she muttered. “Something I read in Weatherby’s journal. Ganymede.”
“Well, they are not shooting,” Stephane noted as he looked back repeatedly. “I can now say that I do not like having a gun pointed at me.”
Shaila turned around and saw Weatherby and his alchemists arguing animatedly, with their men standing around, weapons lowered.
“We should be able to at least get out of here,” Shaila said. She reached Rover Two, got in, and revved the engine. “Let’s go.”
Stephane took the passenger seat and Shaila tore off, leaving the other three to pile into their rover. She headed straight for the Daedalus contingent, covering the ground in mere seconds and skidding to a stop.
“Last chance, Lieutenant,” she said curtly, reaching down to pick up the zapper where she had thrown it. “I can take two, and the colonel’s got room for one more.”
Weatherby looked at the rover, and then at the hills in the distance, where the Martian ruins were. “And how quickly can your…carriages…cover the distance?” he asked.
“Twenty minutes, maybe less.”
Weatherby looked at St. Germain, who nodded, and at Finch, who merely shrugged. The other rover pulled up, with Diaz looking expectantly at the British officers from different centuries.
Weatherby turned to Anne. “Miss Baker, I—”
“Go,” she said simply, with something approaching kindness. “There’s but room for three, and you need both Finch and the Count with you.”
“But your safety,” Weatherby said. “Alone with the men?”
She shook her head sadly, smiling. “Have you learned nothing of me at all? After all this time?” She patted the hilt of her smallsword. “I’ll be fine. Go.”
Weatherby nodded and gave her a small smile before turning to his men. “Mr. Smythe, if you please?”
“Aye, sir?”
“I am leaving Miss Baker in your care. If any ill befalls her, no man here will go unpunished. And after that, you will deal with me. Personally.”
Smythe saluted—as did all the men.
“You know,” Shaila said, “the wreckage of the Chance is about two clicks northwest from here.”
Smythe looked at her oddly. “Clicks?”
“Sorry. About a mile, give or take. You can shelter there. We didn’t find any survivors.”
Weatherby nodded. “Make for the Chance. Set up a perimeter and defend yourselves until we return.” Finally, he turned to look at Shaila one last time. “Lt. Jain, is it?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded at St. Germain, who strode toward the second rover. “Well, if nothing else, you certainly talk like a sailor. Dr. Finch, if you please.” He motioned for Finch to take one of the back seats. “Given that you have indeed saved our…asses…we shall accept your invitation. Shall we, Lieutenant?”
Shaila gunned the motor and took off, the force of which shoved Weatherby into his seat. The officer looked over at Dr. Finch, who couldn’t stop smiling at the incongruity of it all.
“I like her,” Finch said, nodding toward Shaila as they sped off. “I think the service has held up well over the past 350 years.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Shaila said primly. “And we don’t slap people around any more either.”
Finch laughed heartily at that. “Oh, Weatherby! You wrote about that, did you? And here I was so cautious about not reading your journal, even as I wrote your eulogy!” The doctor leaned forward between Stephane and Shaila. “Of course, you thus know I am nothing but a wastrel and a terrible influence, much to my eternal pleasure and my lieutenant’s immense consternation.”
Weatherby grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back into the seat. “You have since comported yourself admirably, Doctor. I was merely frustrated at the time. And besides, that was to be a most private journal, for my father.”
“Sorry about that,” Stephane said. “When a strange book shows up on Mars dated 350 years ago, you cannot help but read, yes?”
“I suppose,” Weatherby said, nonplussed.
The next twenty minutes were spent in a barrage of questions and answers from both sides of the dimensional divide. Weatherby was particularly interested in the zappers—most likely to gauge the relative strengths of their weapons should things fall apart—while Finch was fascinated to discover that the Martian atmosphere was not normally breathable. Shaila was interested in the creature they just slew, which was apparently one of the few indigenous fauna left on Mars, and one that was keen on expanding its diet, according to Finch.
Shaila’s comm interrupted the give and take. “Diaz to Jain, come in.”
“Jain here, Colonel,” Shaila responded.
“Give your guests some headsets. We need to fill you in on what our experts have been chatting about.”
Shaila nodded at Stephane, who produced a pair of headsets from the rover’s emergency kit. “Gentlemen, if you would put these on, like so.” Stephane pointed to his own headset, still hooked up to his suit.
“What do these do?” Weatherby asked, doubt in his voice.
“They allow you to speak to the people in the other rover,” Shaila said.
Finch grabbed his and put it on, the wire trailing forward to the rover’s control panel. “I say, can anyone hear me?”
“I hear you,” Diaz said. “Where’s Weatherby?”
Finch grabbed the headset, took Weatherby’s hat off, and handed the headset back. “They’re asking for you.”
The lieutenant put it on carefully, as if he were wrapping some dangerous creature around his head. “Now what do I do?”
“I hear you, Lieutenant,” Diaz said. “The Count here and Dr. Greene have been sharing some information. Let’s give them a listen. And keep the chatter down. One speaker at a time. Dr. Greene?”
Greene went first. “Well, we’re finding some common ground between our modern physics and the Count’s alchemy. There are definitely some theoretical underpinnings for both that could allow for multiple universes or dimensions, as well as non-linear space-time constructions.”
“The nomenclature is different, of course,” St. Germain said, sounding put out that he had to explain himself to his lessers. “In the end, however, both alchemy and their ’quantum physics,’ as they call it, can account for the space between spaces, and the joining of those different realms by means of Will and Work.”
“However,” Greene added, “it seems as though there needs to be folks on both sides of our respective…dimensions, I guess…in order to create a link.”
“The boxes. The EM fields,” Shaila said.
“So it would seem,” Yuna replied, still sounding somewhat doubtful, despite it all. “And the Count here believes that these aliens from Saturn placed this other person, Althotas, between our world and theirs, requiring these two particular worlds to interact in order to free him.”
“Why our worlds, then?” Weatherby asked. “Why not any other?”
“Sympathy, as Dr. Finch can tell you,” St. Germain said. “Our two worlds are somewhat similar, in that there are human beings, and something of a shared history, different as those elements may be.”
“In our 22nd century terms, these particular parallel universes may have shared a common origin at one point, and a particular event that, on the quantum level, split them apart ages ago,” Greene added.
“So there are two groups working together in two separate dimensions. How do they know to work together?” Stephane asked. “It is not as though they can talk to each other between universes, yes?”
“Yet Cagliostro has bragged throughout the Known Worlds that his ’ascended master,’ as he calls him, has communicated with him extensively,” St. Germain said. “I believe that this entity, imprisoned between universes, can yet exert his will into both our realms, though in a limited fashion.”
“So who’s he talking to here with us?” Shaila asked. “And how?”
“We don’t know,” Greene admitted. “Given the disparities of the basic principles of time and space between our two universes, Althotas could have laid the groundwork for his reemergence on our side of the portal a very long time ago. Or last week. We just don’t know.”
“Yeah, but at some point, someone would’ve had to come to my base to lay out that damned ring,” Diaz said. She flipped a switch on her comm. “Diaz to McAuliffe, over.”
“McAuliffe. Adams here, over,” the base replied.
“Adams, I want you to pull all the suit-beacon data we have going back as long as you can—call Houston for the archives and make it a priority request. Run a search for anybody who’s been anywhere in the affected area at any time, with any kind of pattern or regularity, since the very first crew arrived—hell, since the first Mars landing. Combine that search with the radio signature I’ll be sending you in a moment. Over.”
“Colonel, that’ll take some time,” Adams said.
“So get started. Diaz out.”
Weatherby tapped Shaila on the shoulder. “Who was that?”
“Our base of operations is about 25 kilometers from here. About 15 miles, give or take. We have at least a dozen other people stationed there.”
Weatherby sat back in his seat again. “This is truly a wonder,” he said quietly, watching the Martian terrain speed by at a dizzying pace.
“I find it gratifying,” Dr. Finch replied, clapping the lieutenant on the shoulder. “Cheer up, old boy. Their wonders and our wonders may yet carry the day.”
“Yuna, you’ve been quiet,” Diaz said. “What do you think of all this?”
It was several moments before Yuna spoke. “I cannot deny that the theories put forth here have some merit,” she said tentatively. “I am, after all, sitting in a rover with the famous Count St. Germain, with my helmet off, breathing the atmosphere of Mars without ill effect. But our assumptions about what has occurred, and what this Cagliostro may be doing, are just that—assumptions. I would recommend we proceed with extreme caution, rather than shooting the place up when we arrive. An alien life form may be arriving in our universe, and I believe we should independently verify its aims before anything else.”
“Madam, you fail to appreciate the depths to which this madman will take us,” St. Germain said, his voice dripping with scorn even over the comm. “I for one will not stay my hand against him. He has stolen my life’s work, murdered several people and a great number of Venusians, and may yet have caused great tension between all of humanity and the Xan of Saturn. If you are able to subdue him with your devices, then I shall acquiesce to that. If not, I will shoot him myself.”
A cross-chatter erupted immediately over the comm, with Yuna, Greene and St. Germain arguing vociferously over the proper course of action.
“Stop it!” Diaz shouted. “All of you! That’s a goddamn order!”
St. Germain made a tentative sound, as if he were planning on further rebuttal, but stopped. Shaila guessed her commander’s don’t-you-dare look worked on 18th century alchemists as well as wayward astronauts.
“Now listen up,” Diaz said. “If we’re attacked, we fight in self-defense. But until such time as we are attacked, we make peaceful contact and try to figure out what’s going on. If Cagliostro is there doing bad things, then we take our shot. If it’s at all possible to take him alive, we do that.” The colonel paused to catch her breath. “Lt. Weatherby, as commander of the Daedalus, do you concur?”
The young lieutenant straightened in his seat. “We certainly have disparate views as to the best course of action, but this seems a workable compromise. However, should Cagliostro be an immediate threat, I say his life shall be forfeit in the name of the greater good.”
“Fine, so long as we determine that threat on scene,” Diaz said. “And again, non-lethal force whenever possible or practical. That goes for you too, Count. Besides, you’ll probably want to know where your Philosopher’s Stone is. Let’s try to keep as many people from getting dead as possible. Meantime, I’ve got one more question. What happens if Cagliostro is there right now, doing whatever mad-scientist plan he’s got going, and we stop him? Will our universes still overlap like this?”
“If his ’working’ is the cause, then my guess is that the overlap will recede,” Greene said. “How long that will take, I don’t know. Our universes started colliding well before Cagliostro even got here, so the whole time continuum is definitely skewing non-linear. If we stop him before he finishes, the overlap could reverse itself at the same pace, or quicker. No idea.”
“Or the damage may already be done,” St. Germain said. “The rift may be permanent, although I believe it will likely be confined to this area of Mars.”
“Nice,” Shaila said. “At least we can visit each other.”
They parked the rovers about a half kilometer from the pyramid itself, using the foothills of Australis Montes as cover for their approach. Lying down on one of the ridges to stay out of sight, they took in the view ahead.
And it was incredible.
Rising nearly several hundred meters from the ground, the step pyramid was perhaps one of the most ornate stone structures Shaila had ever seen. The six major tiers of the pyramid were covered in additional stonework now—staircases in the middle of each side leading to the top, flying buttresses everywhere, some sort of pillared cupola on top. The entire structure was liberally inlaid and trimmed in what appeared to be pure gold. It was a mishmash of styles, as if each of Earth’s ancient cultures had contributed something to the building, yet they all seemed to work together.
“It appears the main entrance is there, at the base where the dry canal leads up to it,” Weatherby said as he peered through his spyglass. “I see four men on guard there, pistols and cutlasses. Likely crewmen from the Chance, I’ll wager.”
“At least they won’t have reinforcements,” Finch said; the astronauts from McAuliffe had filled them in on the fate of the Chance en route.
“All right,” Diaz said, sliding back under the cover of the ridge. “I’d like to go say hi. Jain, you and Weatherby take up position over there, on that bit of high ground to the left. Yuna, take my zapper and take the Count with you over to the right, behind that boulder. Durand, you’re with me, in case I need a translator.”
“Wonderful,” Durand muttered.
Diaz whacked him on the arm with a grin. “Greene, Finch, stay out of sight.”
“So long as my lieutenant concurs,” Finch said, pointedly looking toward Weatherby.
“Agreed,” Weatherby said. “But you are taking an awful risk, Colonel. They will not be keen on negotiation.”
“It’s my job to try,” Diaz said. “Places, everyone. And remember, non-lethal attacks if need be.”
Slowly, the combined force of astronauts and sailors took position around the pathway leading to the pyramid’s entrance. Thankfully, the canal had been seemingly carved out of the Martian bedrock, leaving plenty of places to hide along its sides. They managed to get within twenty meters before Diaz radioed ready.
Shaila and Weatherby saw her gingerly step down from the top of the ridge onto the canal bed, aiding Durand down as well. Thankfully, the canal curved slightly, masking them from the entrance until about fifteen meters away.
“Ready, Steve?” Diaz asked over the comm.
“Terrified, but ready,” Stephane reported.
Shaila smiled. “Newbie,” she said, intentionally allowing Stephane to hear her. He gestured something unkind at her, but she could see him smiling.
“He is not a brave man?” Weatherby asked, nonplussed.
Shaila keyed off her comm before responding. “He’s a scientist, Lieutenant,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “He’s never been shot at in his life. But he’s held up pretty well so far.”
The young Royal Navy officer frowned, but said nothing as he watched Diaz and Stephane walk steadily toward the pyramid entrance.
“Hello!” Diaz called out. “We mean no harm!”
“Bonjour! Nous ne veux de mal!” Stephane echoed just as loudly.
Shaila saw the four guards at the pyramid doors immediately go for their weapons, aiming their pistols down the walkway. “They’re ready to fire, ma’am,” Shaila reported over the comm.
“Roger,” Diaz said tersely. “Steve, get up against the wall. How do you say, ’Don’t shoot?’”
“Ne tirez pas,” Stephane said, huddling against the wall behind Diaz.
“All right,” Diaz sighed, then stepped out slightly from behind her cover, arms up. “Si vous plait, ne tirez pas!”
Smoke immediately erupted from the muskets, with the popping sound of their firing reaching Shaila a split second later. Diaz immediately threw herself behind the cover of the wall and started retreating back down the canal. “Plan B, guys!” she shouted over the comm.
“Roger,” Shaila replied. “Taking ’em down,” she added for Weatherby’s benefit. She then aimed and fired her zapper—just as Weatherby’s pistol barked. She hadn’t even seen him aim.
All four guards went down quickly. Two remained twitching on the ground in immense pain, while two were very still, blood pooling beneath them.
“Shit,” Diaz said, running back up the canal as the rest of the group assembled. She wheeled on Weatherby. “What part of non-lethal don’t you get?”
“They were firing upon you, madam!” Weatherby said, standing his ground. “Any man who fires upon an ally, let alone a woman, deserves no less!”
Diaz looked ready to clock Weatherby in the head, but apparently thought better of it and visibly calmed herself. “They probably heard those shots inside. That’ll make peaceful contact a lot harder now.” She held out her hand to Yuna, who surrendered her zapper.
“I have no interest in peaceful contact,” St. Germain said, smoking pistol in hand. “He is ripping open a gate to Hell, I tell you!”
“Then I want to see el diablo himself before you fire again! You got me, chief?” Diaz barked.
Stunned, St. Germain said nothing.
“Jain and I will take point,” Diaz said. “Guys with flintlocks behind us. Use those damn pistols in self-defense only, and only if our weapons don’t work. Clear?”
Weatherby frowned. “I hope for our sake, then, their numbers are few inside. If not, I will order my men to fire.”
Diaz shook her head but said nothing as she turned to the doors and walked toward them. “Hinges are on the other side. No sign of a handle or doorknob.” She reached the doors, carved with ornate sigils, and gave them a shove with her shoulder. They didn’t budge. “Stone. And heavy as hell. Sensors?”
Yuna held up her sensor pack. “Several heat signatures inside, at least six up against the other side of the door. One of them looks large, and odd. Not moving like the others.”
Finch ventured a look at the sensor pack screen. “Amazing,” he breathed. “It is as if you can see inside.”
Diaz looked up at the door in irritation. “Fine then. Jain, you and Weatherby go around the sides, see if there’s another way in.”
“That will not be necessary, madam,” St. Germain said, kneeling on the ground and fishing through his backpack. “If you can but give me a moment’s time, we shall gain entrance through these doors soon enough.”
Diaz looked questioningly at Shaila, who merely shrugged. “We’re sitting ducks out here, Count, so make it quick,” Diaz said.
“Sitting ducks?” Weatherby asked.
“Never mind,” Shaila said.
Weatherby gathered the guards’ weapons, distributing pistols and swords to the astronauts—all of whom looked perplexed as they weighed the weapons in their hands. As he did so, a very familiar leather-bound book fell out of his pack.
“You know, that could be where I found it,” Shaila said, eyeing the book on the floor of the canal. She then caught herself, realizing what she had just said.
It was the same inflection, the same tone, the very same words that had intruded into her thoughts the first time she was in the lava tube, three days prior.
“Miss Jain?” Weatherby asked, stepping in front of her and breaking her reverie.
“What?”
“Found what?” he asked.
Shaila struggled to compose herself. “Your journal. I found it right here, when this was still a cave.”
Weatherby stared at the book for a long moment. Despite himself, he was impressed with the Hindu woman’s courage and seeming competence, and she had indeed somehow found his journal. If time itself had truly been twisted and bent, then it stood to reason that their aid now was a direct result of their obtaining his diary.
“Then this is where I shall leave it,” he said, giving Shaila a small smile. “So you can find it later. Or three days ago. Whichever applies.”
Shaila blanched as her mind snapped into focus. “…where I shall leave it.” That’s exactly what she had heard in the cave when she found the book. She thought she was going a little crazy at the time. Now…perhaps not. She couldn’t explain why it was happening, but the fact that his words were echoed in her head a few days ago was…OK. It fit.
After a moment, she managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
The Count, meanwhile, was mixing various liquids and powders from a small kit in his bag. Within a minute, he was vigorously shaking a glass vial of something that smelled god-awful. “Ladies and gentlemen, we should retreat down the canal somewhat.”
Everyone clambered back down the dry canal bed and crouched down. St. Germain joined them last, still shaking his concoction. “Put your heads down,” he said, throwing the vial at the door and covering his own head with his arms.
Everyone huddled against the side of the canal. Shaila thought there would be some kind of explosion. Instead, there was a loud hissing, effervescent sound that lasted about six seconds—followed by a massive rumbling. Dust and rock billowed down the canal; screams echoed from inside the pyramid.
The explosion came afterward. Shaila felt intense heat wash over them, even from their position away from the doors. And then all was silent.
St. Germain poked his head around the corner to look at his handiwork. “It is done. We must still proceed cautiously, however.”
The doors had collapsed inward in a pile of rubble. Shaila could see parts of the doors that looked like they had been eroded by some kind of acid.
“Not bad,” Diaz allowed. She then tapped Shaila on the shoulder and pointed to the right side of the door, and motioned for Weatherby to take the left. In a few moments, the group had split up on either side of the doorway, weapons at the ready, as the dust settled.
There was silence from inside.
Weatherby and Shaila peered into the hallway beyond. The doors had collapsed upon four or five men—it was hard to determine exact numbers in the rubble—along with some kind of contraption made from wood and metal, now charred beyond recognition. “Greek fire, I imagine,” St. Germain murmured.
The hallway stretched out toward the center of the pyramid, covered in darkness.
Nobody from either century was willing to take chances. The group slowly entered the corridor. Weatherby grabbed a torch from a sconce on the wall, lighting it while Shaila flicked on the flashlight on her left gauntlet.
Together, they crept slowly into the heart of the Martian pyramid.