March 6, 1779
The men of the Daedalus moved through the Venusian jungle as quietly as possible. The body of an important Va’hakri warrior—identified as such by Bacon due to the cloak of blue feathers and barbed spear adorning the corpse—was discovered just five minutes’ walk from the beach, confirming that the men of the Chance likely left naught but carnage in their wake. The Royal Navy men did not want to be seen as the second wave of attackers, and pointedly kept swords sheathed and muskets shouldered during the inland trek.
The sounds of the Venusian jungle were disturbing, full of strange twitters and buzzing, with the occasional, far-off grunt of some animal or a rapid rustling of nearby plants. Furthermore, the humid, fetid air left most of them gasping as the hour-long journey neared its end.
The next of the corpses appeared with the hazy light of day through the trees, and soon the Daedalus men were finding dead Va’hakri every fifty paces or so, then twenty, then ten. Grips were tightened around muskets, cutlasses loosed in sheathes, nerves and jitters heightened as alertness increased. Yet Weatherby wondered if there would be anything at all left to the village when they arrived. There was a prodigious number of bodies at this point; he counted at least thirty dead Venusians by the time Bacon announced the village was near.
“Finch!” Plumb called out from the lead, causing nearly the entire company of men to jump. “I see quarried stone here! What is this?”
Plumb waited—somewhat impatiently, Weatherby thought—next to the ruins of a short wall as he and Finch approached. Despite being overgrown with vines and other, stranger plants, Weatherby could see the outline of a structure of some sort, eroded by age. “I thought these little buggers didn’t cut stone like this,” Plumb said by way of greeting.
“They don’t, sir,” Finch huffed as he tried to catch his breath, then bending down to examine the stone carefully. “It’s far too old and worn to be recent work. I’ve heard some scholars suggest that the few ruins found upon Venus may be the remnants of outposts from either the Xan or the ancient Martians who disappeared long ago.”
Plumb cast a wary eye at the stone. “Just so long as they’re not around now,” he said as he began to walk again.
“Doubtful,” Finch responded as he and Weatherby followed. “Mars is a wasteland now, and the Xan do not venture past Saturn, except to their outpost on Callisto.”
“Aye, and we can’t venture there,” Plumb said disdainfully. “I never liked those Xan. Too damn mysterious, they are. Telling us where we can and can’t go.”
“Yes, well, they’re far more advanced than we, sir. And to be fair, they treat us better than we treat the Venusians,” Finch responded. Weatherby turned around to see Finch smiling at the first lieutenant, apparently enjoying the opportunity to challenge his views.
The gradual lightening of the clouds above was punctuated by the glow of fire ahead. It quickly became evident that this was more than a mere bonfire, and Plumb wisely counseled steadiness as they stepped into a clearing.
The entire village was ablaze.
There were roughly a dozen structures ringing the clearing, and another larger one in the center, all in various stages of destruction by flame. The bodies of several dozen Va’hakri were strewn about; some were burned, but it appeared most had fallen to blade or shot. As the group walked slowly forward, Weatherby blanched as he saw that the criminals who had attacked the village—certainly the men of the Chance—cared not as to whether women or children were harmed or killed.
Behind the village, shadowing it from the rising sun, were the vine-covered ruins of an ancient pyramid, the stones cracked and worn, yet piled more than three hundred feet high, in six different terraces. The top seemed to have held some kind of structure apart from this at some point, but all that could be discerned now was a pile of rubble of a different sort from the pyramid itself. The ghosts of carvings could be seen upon the stones as the group drew closer to the village, but these were only vaguely present. Some seemed to depict man-like beings, but detail was erased long ago, it seemed, and all sense of scale in the images was lost to the ravages of time.
A few groans and croaks, laced with pain and agony, competed with the crackling of flames as the only sounds to be heard. They came from a bare handful of Va’hakri still alive; Weatherby saw no more than eight left, and most seemed at least bloodied, if not hobbled to some degree. They were tending to those with greater wounds, mourning their dead, and crying out to the cloudy skies above.
Then one of them saw the group of men in the clearing, pointed, and screamed. Almost as one, the Venusians took up their spears again and charged, their high-pitched croaking rasps prompting many of the men to take a few steps back despite their better numbers and arms.
One of the men—it was Smythe, of Weatherby’s division—immediately raised his musket to respond, but Plumb quickly reached out, grabbed the barrel of the gun and pointed it toward the ground. “Stand fast, man,” he said, then turned to the rest. “Throw down your arms, quickly, all of you!”
With only a moment’s hesitation—not to be disparaged in the least under the circumstances—the men put their muskets to the ground and exposed themselves to the onslaught. Thankfully, the Va’hakri took note of this, and the charge across the clearing transformed from a full run to a cautious approach, with their spears still pointed in the proper direction. Weatherby could see a few of the Venusians gesturing to him and some of the others, then fingering the few ornaments on their bodies as they croaked back and forth to one another; the reptilians saw and understood that, at the very least, this group of men was better dressed.
Finally, the two groups stood a mere ten feet apart and stared at each other for several long moments. Plumb finally broke the silence, turning to Finch while still keeping his eyes upon the angry Venusians. “Doctor, you wouldn’t know any words of Venusian, would you?”
Finch cleared his throat; he looked shaken and sallow. “A bare few, but I shall try.” The doctor pulled a small vial from his pocket and dabbed a bit of the liquid therein on his tongue. He then stepped forward, between Plumb and Weatherby, and began to speak in their odd croaking language: “Kahlak mu’u thal. Gareshn’ak Va’hakri’an uru nakha.”
At the very least, Finch’s attempt at communication did not prompt an immediate attack. A flurry of words erupted among the Va’hakri, with Finch responding as best he was able when queries were directed at him. The spears still pointed at the men, but those holding them were, at the very least, less tense. The largest of the Va’hakri, wearing a number of beaded items upon his head-frills and a short cape of blue feathers, began talking animatedly with Finch, gesturing angrily with his spear between the bodies of his fellows and the Royal Navy men.
“He is not entirely sure if we represent a threat, but will allow us to be judged by their . . . elder, I suppose, is the word. Priest, perhaps,” Finch reported after a few moments.
Before Finch could continue, an ancient, wizened Venusian appeared from a small gap in the base of the pyramid. This worthy appeared to have substantial rank amongst his people, for his headdress and cape contained a rainbow’s worth of colored feathers, and he was well draped in beads and stones as well. His reptilian eyes had bags beneath them, and his beak seemed dulled by years of use.
This elder began a slow croaking chant as he saw the dead Venusians, who were now being tended to by their brethren in the center of the village. As the dead were laid gently upon the ground, their limbs laid out in repose, the elder moved from one to the next, placing his hand upon the brow of each of the fallen. Each time he did so, Weatherby could see a large gemstone around the elder’s neck glow brightly. The young officer turned to Finch, who looked on with amazement.
“What are they doing?” Weatherby whispered.
Finch actually smiled. “Apparently, it is some ritual that has to do with joining the deceased with their ancestors. At first, I thought it simply a trite custom, rubbish really, but now I see it may be otherwise.”
“How so?”
The doctor pointed to the elder. “Note how he dips his fingers into his pouch before he touches each of the dead. I wager there is some alchemical solution therein, and it could conceivably allow him access to the dead Venusians’ memories. And if he’s able to store these memories in the stone . . . .well, I dare say the Venusians may be far more advanced in the mystic arts than we’ve given them credit for!”
Weatherby watched, more reverently now, as the elder finished harvesting the memories of the fallen. Once finished, a number of the other Venusians present began to prepare the bodies for some sort of funerary rite, washing the bodies and adorning them with various flowers and leaves.
Whilst this was happening, the elder finally turned his attention toward the humans and their Va’hakri escorts. And it appeared he was not happy. The elder began gesturing wildly at the Va’hakri warrior who had held back from attacking. The warrior responded with seeming supplication, at one point kneeling before the elder and placing his spear upon the ground repeatedly.
“Doctor?” Weatherby whispered.
Finch, eyes narrowed as he followed the conversation, leaned in toward Weatherby. “I dare say we’ve impressed the young warrior there, as he’s arguing our case fairly well,” the doctor said. “Unfortunately, the elder is apparently quite fed up with humanity as a whole. He’s going on about broken agreements and dishonor, and there’s some sentiment amongst the other tribes that an example needs to be made.”
“I assume we’re to be the example,” Weatherby said, his calm belying the sudden stab of nervousness that rushed into his heart. He had no wish to quarrel with these unfortunate creatures, but self-preservation would certainly win out.
“That is certainly a possibility,” Finch said. “Our friend the warrior, there, is actually a fine advocate. He’s noted our willingness to lay down our arms and remain respectful during their memory harvest—their words, apparently—and our generally honorable behavior. The elder recognizes these acts, but still believes we would be of greater use to his people if . . . ” Finch paused here. “Well, suffice to say, we wouldn’t survive what they have planned for us.”
At this, Plumb grew frustrated. “This isn’t going to work,” the first lieutenant grumbled. “Men, prepare yourselves. If they move toward us, attack at will and retreat to the ship.”
Finch wheeled upon him. “Sir, with due respect, this is a delicate situation. These people have seen an entire village massacred, and I believe only our continued honorable behavior has kept us alive to this point. Allow me to at least plead our case!”
Plumb opened his mouth, apparently quite ready to give Finch a solid dressing down, but then thought better of it. “You’ve one chance, Finch. Otherwise, we’re getting out of here, one way or another.”
“Even if it’s in a coffin?” Finch muttered. He then stepped forward toward the warrior and the elder. Immediately, dozens of spears and arrows were pointed at him, but he walked slowly, his hands raised and open. When he reached the warrior’s side, he went to his knees and prostrated himself as he had seen the warrior do earlier, prompting a snort of disdain from Plumb. Even Weatherby was taken aback at this—yes, there was something of nobility in the Venusians’ simple rites, but did diplomacy involve bowing and scraping before rank savages?
Yet Finch’s words, unintelligible to the rest of the men, seemed to have a softening effect on the Venusians. Spears were slowly lowered once more, arrows carefully stowed for the time being. The elder listened intently to Finch, then ultimately nodded. Finch turned and waved Plumb and Weatherby over. “I’ve managed to gain something of an audience for you,” he said to the two officers. “Please, try not to show disrespect, gentlemen.”
Plumb folded his arms and stood proudly before the elder half his size. “We’ve come to find out what’s happened here,” he said, slowly and a touch louder than necessary. “We do not wish you harm.”
Finch began to translate, but the elder held up his hand. “I know your words,” the creature croaked in passable English. “But I do not know your minds. Great evil has been made on the Va’hakri tribe this night. If you are of this evil, we will kill you, even if we must die as well.”
To his credit, Plumb did his level best to assure the elder that they were not responsible for the atrocity, and pointed to their laying down of arms as proof. He also added that some of those responsible had been captured. This last point seemed to assuage the creature, and after a brief discussion, the Venusian spears were finally laid to rest. The old one slumped down upon the ground and began to weep, croaking again in seeming mourning. The croaks were soon echoed by the other Venusians present around the pyramid.
Oddly touched by this display, Weatherby knelt down on one knee to meet the elder’s gaze. “Can you tell us what has occurred?”
The frail little reptilian looked up at the young man with tearful eyes. “I am the elder of our tribe. We are the teachers of our kind. We keep the words and stories. And because we learn, we dealt with you and your people when you first came here, many long days ago,” the elder said. “When these men came last night to our village, this was normal. Many come from your stone villages seeking our plants or our defeated enemies to buy.”
Weatherby was startled that this creature might facilitate the enslavement of his own people, but he said nothing as the elder continued.
“The leader of this group was different. We saw he wore fine things. He spoke our words well. But if he knew our ways, why would he ask for the va’hakla?”
“Va’hakla?” Plumb repeated, looking over to Finch.
“A very rare flower, considered sacred by the Venusian people,” Finch said quietly. “The alchemical properties are said to be immense, particularly within the schools of healing and plant life, but there are very, very few flowers that are outside the control of the tribes.”
The elder’s tearful yellow eyes regarded Finch closely, with a hint of suspicion. “You know something of the va’hakla. It is a gift to us from the world. My people not die if it was still here. It cures us, brings us life.”
Finch nodded. “Yes it does, sir. And those few of us on Earth who have experimented with it have found numerous other uses as well. But again, when a flower blooms only once every 224 days, and there are so few plants to begin with, it becomes all the more precious.” He turned to his shipmates. “A fraction of an ounce can command hundreds of pounds sterling.”
“We grow the va’hakla,” the elder said. “We tend its roots, we trim its leaves. We harvest its flowers for the good of all the people. We share much of our world with you. But the va’hakla is for our people. It is not yours. He asked for it. We said no. He kept asking. He offered us other things. He offered gold, guns. We said no. He became angry.” The ancient lizard-creature paused a moment, eyes welling up. “He spoke something in words we did not know. And then they began to kill us.”
The elder started crying again, but Plumb knelt down next to Weatherby and spoke regardless. “And your flower? Did he take it?”
This actually prompted more sobs. “All gone. All flowers. Gone. He took the flowers. He burned the plants. No more.”
“Who?” Weatherby asked urgently. “We must find him. Did he tell you his name?”
The elder straightened at this. “Yes, he said he was great among your people, a healer and wonder-worker. An alchemist. He calls himself . . . Ka-lee-oh-sto.” The creature stumbled over the unfamiliar name.
Behind the two lieutenants, Finch breathed in quickly.
“You know this person?” Weatherby asked him.
“The name is Cagliostro,” Finch said. “He is an Italian mystic and, it is said, one of the finest alchemists in the Known Worlds.”
“Might he be responsible?” Plumb asked.
“I dare say so,” Finch responded, “for I have heard naught but ill of him. His faculty with the Great Work is said to be mighty indeed, but his character is that of a liar and a thief. If the stories I have heard are true, he cares not for civility or morality, only the power that the highest truths of alchemy can provide him.”
Plumb shook his head sadly, suddenly looking quite tired. “Then we’ve bigger problems on our hands,” he said. “We must return to Daedalus and report.”
Weatherby saw the remaining Venusians begin to dig holes around the perimeter of the pyramid. Through the undergrowth, he could see a number of salvaged stones, crudely etched with sigils. A handful of other lizard-people were making new etchings on to fresh stones.
The Venusians were beginning to bury their dead.
It seemed appropriate, somehow, to allow them some privacy in this, so the men from the Daedalus took this as an appropriate time to take their leave, though in doing so, Mr. Bacon was nowhere to be found. “He probably thought we were to be skinned alive,” Plumb said dismissively, “or didn’t want to be associated with this mess should he truck with other Venusians later on.”
They were escorted back to the beach by the remaining warriors of the Va’hakri village, who did not seem to mind the growing heat and humidity, even though it left the men staggering and panting before the trek was complete. When they arrived on the beach, they were surprised to find Captain Morrow had come ashore.
“We were considering a search party,” Morrow said, failing to keep his consternation from his voice. Weatherby saw his crisp uniform and ramrod posture and wondered whether the captain would even allow himself to perspire. “I do hope you spent your time productively.”
Plumb’s report, however, assuaged the captain of time well spent, and Weatherby was surprised to hear commendable words about himself and Finch from the first lieutenant. Morrow was heartened to see that they had made friendly contact with the Venusians, for, as it turned out, he had some plans for them—and for their captives from the Chance.
A few minutes later, the officers of the Daedalus lined up on the beach as Captain Morrow formally presented himself to the Va’hakri warrior and the few remaining members of the tribe, with Finch’s linguistic assistance. Morrow spoke words of condolence, and swore justice on the perpetrators and friendship between His Majesty King George III and the Va’hakri people. Through this, of course, the Va’hakri looked confused and, truth be told, slightly bored.
Then Morrow made an offer.
“These men have committed grievous crimes against your people,” Morrow said, nodding toward the bound pirates who remained prisoner on the beach since they were taken captive. “Their lives are forfeit should we bring them to justice on Earth. However, their crimes against you are far greater.”
The warrior nodded, a quizzical look in his reptilian eye, as Finch translated, then responded with a series of croaks and grunts. “He agrees that the men are evil and should be killed for destroying their village and taking their sacred flower,” Finch reported. “But he says they are your people, and yours to deal with.”
Morrow stood up taller. “No, sir. I hereby remand them to your custody, so that you may carry out justice as you see fit.”
Finch turned from the captain with a slight smile and translated. The reptilian looked surprised, but nodded quickly at Morrow, then let forth a staccato barrage of chirps, croaks and grunts to his fellow Venusians. The surviving Va’hakri whooped and shook their spears—and the captives from the Chance paled considerably.
“You can’t do that!” one of them yelled, his Irish brogue coming through. “They’ll skin us alive, they will!”
Any further attempts at pleading for clemency were overrun by the swarming Va’hakri warriors, who immediately grabbed the prisoners and began dragging them away toward the village, the smoke from which was still visible in the sky above the jungle. Weatherby closed his eyes against the sight, but could not close his ears against their screams.
“Jupiter!” the Irishman called as he was pulled into the dense trees. “They make for Jupiter! Save me and I’ll take ye there!” A few moments later, the screams had faded into the distance, and the Daedalans prepared to return to the ship.
“’Tis a rough justice, sir,” Plumb said, though the first lieutenant didn’t seem to be harboring any question about Morrow’s decision; it was more an observation.
Morrow frowned. “Most certainly. But it sounded as though the Venusians were quite ready to make war upon mankind anyway. If these pirates serve as their example, then so be it, and relations between the tribes and our fellow men may yet be salvaged.”
A half-hour later, they reassembled in Morrow’s cabin to plot their next course of action. Whilst they were indeed scheduled to make for the Jovian system, Morrow was quite alarmed at the Chance’s newfound ability to make the Void from anywhere upon a planet’s seas. The tactical gains by any party possessing such a secret of the Great Work would be nigh insurmountable, and Morrow was keen on hearing Finch’s learned opinion of the matter.
Yet Finch had little to add. “We witnessed a stunning display of high alchemy in their escape, sir,” the alchemist said, looking at his feet awkwardly. “And yet they seem to seek more. The va’hakla plant is said to have prodigious properties, and yet I cannot fathom how the va’hakla plant and Mercurium might be used together. Indeed, they would seem to cancel each other out, as they are from different worlds and governed by different houses of the zodiac and differing humours besides. If Cagliostro is indeed planning a great working of some kind with these two materials, I cannot see what it would be. They are both quite rare, and both still very theoretical in their uses. Whatever he is planning, it is on a scale I’ve not even heard of.”
“So who can help us?” Morrow asked. “What of your teachers, Doctor?”
Finch smiled slightly. “In alchemical circles, Captain, we have a saying: Those who cannot Work, teach. Without boasting, I am more a master of the Great Work than they, and if this problem escapes me, I hold no hope for even the chair at Oxford. The greatest alchemists do not deign to teach publicly, but are often private individuals, like the late Dr. McDonnell.”
The captain turned to Miss Baker, who was invited to join them due to her familiarity with the late Dr. McDonnell’s work. “Did your late master have any correspondence with other alchemists? Perhaps one might be able to answer our questions and, in doing so, help thwart this criminal.”
“There is but one that comes to my mind, sir,” she said quietly, “but I wonder whether he will be disposed to help us, for I am sorry to say that he is no friend of His Majesty.”
Morrow raised an eyebrow. “Is he French, then?”
“No, sir, although his latest letter came from Paris, where he is assigned as a commissioner of the Ganymedean cause.”
“Surely,” Plumb said with recognition, “such a man won’t help us. Even if we were to gain audience, he’s a revolutionary of the worst sort. He’ll laugh us back to the Channel.” At this, Weatherby and Foster looked at each other and shrugged, though it seemed most of the others in the room knew of the man in question.
Morrow seemed to consider Plumb’s words, but said: “I met him once, years ago, before the war broke out. Whatever his politics, I found him to be most kind, genial and upright. His charity on Ganymede is well known, and his scientific and alchemical knowledge is impressive. What say you, Doctor?”
“The man’s reputation is impeccable, both in character and in knowledge of the Great Work,” Finch replied. “And of the handful of alchemists I would consider capable of aiding us, he is the only one we might easily track down. His personal interest in the matter can only help as well. And if I may, I would stress that such powerful and rare materials in the hands of someone of Cagliostro’s reputation should be seen as a dire threat. He may yet sell his secrets to an enemy power, or his purpose may be even more disturbing.”
Morrow nodded at Finch, taking it in for a moment. “Mr. Weatherby, what is our distance to Earth? And to Jupiter?” he finally asked.
“The planets are well aligned, sir. We could make the Channel in less than three weeks,” he responded, thankful he remembered to check the orrery prior to coming to the cabin. “Jupiter would be three months from here. However, I believe that if we tarry on Earth a few weeks, her path would take us within a mere five weeks of Jupiter.”
“And thus we may detour and save a few weeks in the process,” Morrow said as he rose from his chair. “It’s your watch, Mr. Weatherby. We shall make for Earth, and the Channel. While Mr. Plumb takes Daedalus into Portsmouth to report, we shall attempt to visit Paris, God help us. Dismissed.”
Weatherby caught up with Finch outside the great cabin. “Doctor, who is this alchemist to whom you referred?”
Finch smiled. “Why, Mr. Weatherby, do you not read the London papers?”
“Apparently not closely enough,” Weatherby grumbled. He was much more interested in news of battles and war than politics. “Who is he?”
“Benjamin Franklin,” Finch replied, “certainly the most skilled alchemist to ever come out of the colonies. It’s really quite a shame he’s thrown in his lot with the rebels. They’ve sent him to France to negotiate for aid on their behalf.”
And so now we are on to Earth, and to France. I admit, I’ve had little truck with alchemists, and find their ways most peculiar. Yes, of course, every ship in His Majesty’s Navy has an alchemist on board, and those of third-rate or higher often have two: one to maintain the ship and another to act as surgeon. Yet despite my interactions with these—and my recent oversight of Dr. Finch—I am lost quickly where the greater mysteries of alchemy are concerned.
In my limited experience, there seems to be two types of workers in the Great Art. There are those who treat it as simply another science to master, much like the mathematics used in navigation or shipbuilding. And there are those who seem more akin to mystics than men of Reason. I would number Dr. Finch a rarity in that he seems to be an amalgamation of the two, when he is inclined to give an opinion.
This Cagliostro seems to be of the mystical bent, and a wonder-worker of his caliber, I am told, could do much with the powerful items he now possesses. With Dr. Finch at a loss as to his aims, I am truly concerned that we have taken a truly dangerous quest. Why in Heaven would men meddle in such matters to begin with?
And, furthermore, to have our hopes hinge on the knowledge of a traitor to the Crown? There may be worse fates, but none come to me at the moment. Is this what we must resort to?
July 26, 2132
The staring was really getting to Shaila.
It started the previous night, with her JSC colleagues and subordinates at the sleeping centrifuges. They looked to her—chief ops officer, acting number two—with the obvious questions in their eyes. Why the reactor alert? What’s going on? She refused to meet their gazes, sealing herself in her pod as she looked forward to the heavy press of increased gravity lulling her to sleep.
It resumed in the morning, from the moment she got out of the pod, through her morning shower routine, and all the way through the entire JSC wing. It wasn’t entirely bad—they were looking to her for answers, much like any junior officer would when regarding a senior officer. But given that her answer to last night’s fiasco would be “I fucked up,” and the larger answers regarding the cave and ravine weren’t there, Shaila opted for silence.
It got worse in the Hub, where the overnight smelting shift was coming off duty and the morning diggers were getting ready to head out. That was at least thirty pairs of eyes, all fixed on her. Conversation stopped, fingers were pointed—literally in a few cases. The questioning stares were supplemented and obscured with harsher overtones: fear, anger, doubt, derision. She was sending Alvarez home, after all, and most of them didn’t care to mull over the fact that she was the one who was physically attacked first.
She had hoped to see Stephane at breakfast, as usual, but a quick scan of her inbox told her that he and Yuna would be in the lab this morning, and would rendezvous with her at the cave. From the timestamp on his message, it was quite possible he was up all night trying to figure out what was going on, but all he could say thus far was that the ravine hadn’t changed since yesterday afternoon, which was a positive sign.
Despite Stephane’s not-quite-perfect English, his e-mail had a very distinct tone to Shaila’s eyes: strictly business. Of course, he could still be pissed, or he could just be giving her space. What’s worse, she found herself caring which it might be, which only irked her further. Sure, he was charming, and was one of the few people on base who could make her laugh regularly. But still . . . he was a dilettante, nothing more, even if he was shaping up to be a pretty good geologist.
Over a particularly bland tofu scramble, Shaila quickly finished scanning her morning messages—status reports, shift-change requests, a note from her mother in Birmingham, all unanswered for now. She dumped her tray and headed over to the lab where Stephane and Yuna had set up shop.
He wasn’t there, and neither was Yuna. Evan Greene was, however. “Morning, Lieutenant. Durand and Hiyashi told me to tell you they were heading to the cave,” Greene said as he slowly panned a portable holocam around a six-wheeled robotic probe, the one Harry had offered.
“Looks just like the old Opportunity,” Shaila said, trying to make small talk. And to be fair, it really did indeed look like the early 21st century rover, now gathering dust some 2,500 kilometers to the north of McAuliffe.
The little six-wheeled robot on the table was roughly a meter long and a half-meter wide, with various probes and cameras tucked into its chassis. The six wheels were individually articulated, to make it easier for the ’bot to scoot through rocky terrain—perfect for the lava tube. It also had two strong lifting arms, for moving and storing rock samples.
“Well, it’s lighter,” Greene said. “Only about 65 kilos, and runs on battery instead of solar—kind of important for a mining probe.”
“Why didn’t they just take this with them?” Shaila said.
Greene gave one of his gleaming smiles. “Because I wanted to get holo of it getting loaded up, the trip to the cave—all of it.”
“Right. Of course.” Shaila said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Just about. We’re going call out each of the features of this probe on the holovid—graphics, description, the works,” Greene said.
“Lovely,” Shaila said, grabbing a work cart from the storage area of the lab.
To his credit, Greene offered to help load the ’bot onto a transfer cart, but in the Martian gravity, it wasn’t really necessary. Besides, Shaila was determined to accept as little help as possible from him. Together, they rolled the probe down the JSC-only corridor and into the Hub, where the ops officer on duty—Adams this time—had their pressure suits ready to go and their rover on standby.
“Thanks for agreeing to do this,” Greene beamed as he prepared to suit up. “I’m excited about our little trek.”
She grabbed her suit and pulled it over to the bench next to his. “Just following orders, Dr. Greene. You need a hand with that?”
He deftly pulled the top half of the suit over his chest and expertly flipped the seals closed. “I’ve logged 200 hours of EVA time, Lieutenant. Earth-orbit spacewalks, Europan ice, you name it.”
Shaila shrugged into her own suit. “Fair enough, doc. Let’s get out of here, then,” Shaila said, sealing her helmet. Out of habit, she checked Greene’s suit as well; it was in perfect order. “Comm channel three, radio check, over,” she said absently, the routine engraved in her brain. “Sorry, I mean, we’ll be on channel—”
“Comm channel three, I hear you five-by-five, over,” Greene responded.
Maybe he really did know what he was doing, Shaila thought. “So what are you, former military?” she asked as they entered the airlock.
“JSC Civilian Corps,” he replied before a deafening whoosh marked the evacuation of breathable air from the chamber. “It never really took.”
“Why not?”
“Look around, Lieutenant,” Greene said as they exited the airlock. Personnel transports packed with miners headed off down the access road, while a massive hauler filled with ice rolled past. “I wanted to do science, not play corporate contractor.”
The two headed toward one of the rovers parked outside. “Everyone has bills to pay,” Shaila replied. “That’s why I’m chauffeuring you around.”
Rover Three looked somewhat like a late 20th century pickup truck, with a flat bed in the back for loading gear. Shaila placed the ’bot in the back, securing it with cargo straps under the watchful gaze of Greene’s holocam. He even panned around as she closed the tailgate and got in up front. She resisted the very childish—and very tempting—impulse to flip him the bird. Instead, she revved the motor and took off down the access road toward the cave.
It wasn’t a silent ride, but it wasn’t overly uncomfortable either. Greene piped up occasionally with questions about the geography they passed, as well as the mining operations. He expressed grudging admiration for Billiton Minmetals’ efficiency—they launched a couple thousand metric tons of deuterium, uranium and other valuables back to Earth each month. Shaila deferred much of the mining questions to Harry Yu’s people, but found herself warming up to the conversation when topic turned back to the unique features of the Martian landscape.
“Hey, Lieutenant, can you do me a favor?” Greene asked.
“Aren’t I doing you one already?” Shaila asked.
She heard the scientist chuckle. “All right, fine. Another favor. That ridge over there, does it overlook the base?”
Shaila already knew where this was going. “Yeah, and one of the launch pads for the ore-hauler pods. Lemme guess.”
“Five minutes,” Greene promised. “I just need a few shots.”
Shaila wheeled the rover off the access road and toward the ridge. “You got three.”
She eased the rover to a stop about ten meters from the edge of the ridge. Beyond it, she could see one of the Billiton launch pads in the background, and McAuliffe itself behind that. She had to admit, it was kind of pretty in a space-geek kind of way, and Greene was impressed enough to quickly hop out of the rover and start setting up his tripod.
As Greene began recording, Shaila pulled out her datapad and went through her e-mail again. Stephane and Yuna were at the cave and ready; she told them she’d be a few minutes late due to Greene’s detour. And Diaz forwarded a reply from Houston with regard to, well—everything.
“Currently, we have no theories with regard to seismic anomalies, electromagnetic anomalies or Cherenkov radiation presence,” the mission liaison officer-on-duty wrote. “Working group established; will advise. Continue investigation. Allow mining operations so long as seismic anomalies are confined to current affected area.”
It was just what Shaila expected: We don’t know. Status quo for now until you either solve it or everything really goes to hell. At which point, we’ll blame you. She made that last bit up, but she wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how it panned out.
“Lieutenant, can you come here a second?” Greene said over the comm. Shaila looked up to see him about 15 meters away, fiddling with his holocorder.
“Sure,” she replied, climbing out of the rover. As she walk-skipped over, she saw him picking up the tripod and moving it back and forth, left and right. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve got something here I’ve never seen before,” he said. “Maybe you know what it is.”
Shaila was immediately on guard. “Mars isn’t supposed have anomalies, you know.” Houston’s archaic terminology seemed to be contagious.
“Seems to have plenty, lately,” Greene said, pointing to the small flip-screen on the holocam. The middle of the screen was obscured by a line of fuzzy static.
Shaila looked at him quizzically. “Bad imaging chip?”
“No. Keep looking at it.” Greene picked up the tripod and moved it back and forth. The line moved toward the top of the screen as he moved the camera toward him, then back down as he held it further out. In the course of about eight centimeters of movement in either direction, it disappeared entirely.
“Huh,” Shaila said, unimpressed. “Wonder what that is.”
“Holocams don’t get static, Lieutenant,” Greene said. “Pixilated, sure, but not static.”
He had a good point. And the stationary nature of the effect meant that it wasn’t Greene’s equipment, but something there that was affecting it. “Doc, can I see the camera?”
Greene stepped back from the tripod and waved her toward it. She did the same thing he did, moving it back and forth. Sure enough, there was a fixed point of interference—a spot on the ground, seemingly, that created the line on the screen.
“All right, so Mars has an anomaly every now and then,” she said.
“No kidding. This equipment is rad-hardened, so I’m at a loss.”
Shaila jumped back to the rover to fetch a sensor pack. It was standard issue on every rover, and while it didn’t have all the geological settings the surveying sensors had, it had a better range. Thankfully, once she got back to the camera, the little sensor didn’t disappoint.
“I’ll be damned,” she muttered.
“Trace electromagnetic field readings?” Greene said. Shaila turned to see him looking over her shoulder.
“Apparently,” she said, her voice neutral. “Wonder why.”
Greene picked up the camera again, this time moving it sideways a half-meter in each direction. “It’s a line,” he said. “A very narrow band of EM radiation.”
Shaila’s mind flooded with possibilities: a fissure in the Martian crust with a pocket of magnetic material below? Some kind of electrostatic effect between the base’s AOO sensors? She moved the sensor around the invisible line as best she could. “It’s not extending upward. Seems to be under the ground,” she said. She turned to look at the holovision host. “You’re the physicist. What do you think?”
Greene arched an eyebrow and grinned slightly. “Sure you don’t want to just report it to Houston and keep me out of the loop, Lieutenant?”
“You already know about it,” she parried. “Might as well get some use out of you while you’re here.”
Greene started walking off with the tripod, keeping an eye on the flip-screen to keep the static in view. “All I know is that highly focused EM fields like this aren’t found in nature. And most electronics radiate EM omnidirectionally, in a sphere.”
“I know what omnidirectional means,” Shaila groused, following Greene as he walked. “Where are you going?”
“End of the line, I suppose,” he said. “If it’s not natural, and it’s not omnidirectional, then it’s in a line for a reason. Why else would you place a perfectly straight line of EM energy in the middle of nowhere?” She could practically hear the grin in his voice. Scientists and their curiosity . . . .
The line continued across the ridge, then down into a gully. As they picked their way down the rock face, they saw the line on the screen grow larger; Greene theorized that as they descended, they were getting closer to the line of EM that, for now, still apparently resided under the Martian surface.
“How far under, do you think?” Shaila asked.
“Dunno,” Greene replied. “But it would have to be pretty focused and very powerful to have this kind of effect on the holocam. Like I said, it’s rad-hardened. Either this is a whopper of an EM, or the EM is a byproduct of something else that your sensor isn’t picking up.”
Shaila suddenly had a thought. “So why aren’t our suits affected?” Shaila asked. “I mean, they’re rad-hard, too. But if it’s affecting the camera....”
“Good question. I have no idea. Could just be that the EM that the camera normally gives off is somehow interacting with whatever’s underground in just the right way to produce this effect. And that sensor reading is pretty faint. You had to be right on top of it to get anything. Base sensors wouldn’t pick it up.”
Shaila clambered down to the floor of the gully. “You know an awful lot about the equipment around here.”
“It’s my job,” Greene said simply. “I cover space exploration. And remember, I’m former JSC. I still have friends inside. I keep up on things.”
“I’m sure you do,” Shaila said.
Greene turned toward her, the camera momentarily forgotten. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What way?”
“The colonel told me not to ask about it, but I wasn’t going to anyway.”
Shaila’s heart started beating faster. He must have misunderstood her snark for something else. “Ask about what?” she finally said.
“Atlantis.”
The word hung between them for several seconds. “Good,” she finally said. She saw compassion on his face, and was surprised at how much the look pissed her off.
Greene turned back to his camera and started walking again, the line of static still in view. “That whole thing will come out eventually, but it won’t come from me,” he said nonchalantly.
Shaila stood stock still for a few more seconds, fists clenched, before she finally started walking after him.
Greene went on calmly. “What sucks is that the JSC does so few exploratory missions to begin with. And when one goes south, they cover it up, and send the survivors out to pasture. Or, in your case, to Mars.
“I don’t have all the details, but I don’t want them. It would jeopardize what little real science JSC still does. And it wouldn’t be fair to those who didn’t make it back. Or to you, for that matter.” He paused to see if Shaila would respond; she didn’t. “Anyway, you don’t have anything to worry about from me, Lieutenant.”
They walked on in silence for several more minutes, climbing up the other side of the gully and onto a plateau. One of the base’s AOO sensor poles was about three hundred meters ahead, and they were on course to walk right into it.
“Maybe it’s some kind of interference from the equipment up there,” Greene said.
Shaila struggled to bring her mind back to the task at hand. “Still doesn’t explain the narrow band,” she said. “I assume that equipment would give off EM omnidirectionally, just like anything else.”
“True,” Greene said. “But anything’s possible. It’s the start of an explanation.”
Sure enough, the line led right to the pole. Greene started walking faster, and Shaila had to skip-jump to keep up with his long strides.
When he stopped suddenly, about four meters from the pole, she nearly ran into him. “What is it?” she asked, annoyed.
“I lost it.”
Shaila looked at the flip-screen, which showed a perfectly pristine view of the tower ahead. “Where did you lose it?”
“Don’t know. Let’s backtrack.”
They turned and retraced their steps, easy enough in the red dirt despite a light Martian breeze. It only took about four strides before the line reappeared.
“There we go,” he said. “And it didn’t just stop. It turned.”
“Turned?”
“Turned. Roughly 36 degrees to the left, away from the base. Looks like it’s heading off that way.”
Shaila pulled a map of the area from her datapad, half-expecting the line to lead directly to the mystery cave. Instead, it headed off . . . nowhere. If the line had previously slid neatly between the base and the mining ops, this new line basically headed off into Mars’ no-man’s land. “There’s nothing out that way,” Shaila said. “No mining ops, no nothing.”
“Does it intersect with another tower?” Greene asked.
“No, don’t think so. And besides, the line turned before we reached the tower.” She turned to look back at where they had come from. “Let me see that camera.”
Greene surrendered the holovid to Shaila, who went back to the point where the line diverged. “Look at that,” she said, pointing to the flip-screen.
Right where the line angled off, a small ball of static appeared, slightly wider than the lines itself. As Greene took the camera back, Shaila used the sensor pack again. “And it’s omnidirectional, too,” she said.
Greene looked down at the readings. “There’s something under there.”
Shaila frowned. “So it would seem.” She flipped channels on the comm. “Jain to McAuliffe, over.”
“McAuliffe to Jain, go ahead,” said Finelli, who had the day’s ops watch.
Her first instinct was to have the base tell Stephane and Yuna that they’d be delayed again, and to ask to speak with Diaz. After all, this was a random encounter with an EM field, and the cave also carried an unusual EM signature. But after a moment, Shaila knew that getting the ’bot to the cave and figuring out what was going on down there was still her biggest priority.
“Finelli, have Adams suit up and head out to these coordinates with a shovel,” Shaila finally said. “There’s something buried under the terrain here. I want him to dig it up and bring it back under quarantine. Over.”
“Roger that,” Finelli said. “How will he know where to dig?”
Shaila took out her roll of duct tape and made a quick X with two strips. She pinned it to the ground with the pen she kept in her carry-all, then placed rocks on each of the four ends. “Tell him X marks the spot. Jain out.”
“Now wait just a minute,” Greene said, his voice rising. “I want to know what this is.”
Shaila walked off toward the rover again. “Sorry, Doctor. Duty calls. Chances are, whatever’s going on in and around that cave is going to take priority.”
“Lieutenant, I shouldn’t have to remind you that I’ve been afforded total access here,” Greene protested, hurrying off after her.
Shaila turned back to him. “Look, doc. This is interesting, OK? Not part of our usual day-to-day. But there’s a cave out there that’s doing some really crazy shit, and I need to figure that out.” She started to stalk off again, but turned back. “And I’m going to need to borrow that camera.”
Greene considered her skeptically for a moment before handing over the camera. “OK, but I play ball, and this EM field we’ve found turns out to be something interesting, I want in. And I’ll want it on the show.”
It was probably the best deal she was going to get. “Fine, pending the colonel’s approval. Until then, don’t distract my people with this. It’s probably nothing, and we have far more serious problems to deal with. Clear?”
“Clear. Can I have my holotape, at least?”
“Hell, no.” Shaila gave him a flash of a wicked smile and headed back toward the rover again, tripod in hand and a frustrated holovision personality in tow.