March 24, 1779
Father,
Like many of those who sail the Void, I have often dreamed of visiting the fabled ring-cities of those Saturnine aliens who call themselves the Xan. Of course, they are also a most insular and un-welcoming breed, and with the journey to Saturn long and arduous, it is unlikely that I should ever cast my eyes upon them. Yet I imagine I would feel more welcome and much less different than I felt walking amongst the French on the streets of Paris.
I am surprised to find so many English speakers here, many of whom possess unmistakable London accents. I certainly expected a handful of Ganymedeans and other colonists sympathetic to the rebel cause, for the French king has made no secret of his desire to see our colonies parted from us. Yet there are gentlemen and ladies from England as well, and they peruse the shops and cafes here freely, as if without care for the politics of the day. Another province of the aristocracy, undoubtedly. I, for one, would never have come willingly, but such is the increasing strangeness of our quest that I find myself here regardless.
Why the carriage upon the road to Passy had been stopped, none within or without could really say, but the gendarmes had stopped it nonetheless. To passers-by, either entering the grand city of Paris or taking their leave of it, it was something best not contemplated. Those therein would certainly either be allowed to go upon their way—or they would be found out and made to pay for whatever slight they had perpetrated against His Majesty, King Louis XVI of France.
Those inside the carriage were, quite surprisingly, not acting against the king whatsoever. But they had reason to be nervous regardless.
“I can’t understand it,” Finch said to his compatriots. “Do we have the mark of Cain upon our brow? Or worse, of England?”
Captain Morrow gave him a harsh shushing. “Be quiet, man!” he whispered. “We managed to avoid the constabulary in Le Havre. This will not be a problem.”
Morrow sat back in the coach seat and pulled down upon his civilian waistcoat, adopting a look of amused perturbation, much as any gentleman would adopt should his coach be stopped by the city’s authorities for no good reason. Miss Baker looked nervous, but took to fluttering her new fan before her; amazing how a new dress and a fan could turn a chambermaid into a gentlewoman, for she fit the part exquisitely. Weatherby, seeing no other valid course of action, tried to adopt Morrow’s countenance. But he could not help but think that Le Havre was quite different from the French capital.
It had seemed easy enough over the past three days. They had rowed ashore under cover of twilight, reaching the small farming village of Heuqueville just as the Moon rose—their timing could not have been better. Pleading a broken-down coach, they arranged a ride into Le Havre upon a farmer’s cart, and enjoyed a fine dinner there. Morrow seemed quite happy to allow Plumb to take Daedalus into Portsmouth to deliver a report to Admiral Sir Thomas Pye—old “Goose Pye,” as he was known to many in the Navy, with all the regard the nickname implied. Indeed, Morrow was quite genial and witty at dinner that night, and Weatherby found himself proud to have been allowed to see this side of his commander.
The next morning found them in a coach bound for Paris, where they arrived the following afternoon. Posing as Ganymedean sympathizers, it took but a few inquiries to determine Dr. Benjamin Franklin’s locale—the village of Passy, on the road to the great Palace of Versailles. They also discovered that Franklin had just been recognized as the United States of Ganymede’s ambassador to France. Ambassador, indeed! Weatherby found the very notion ludicrous.
Thankfully, he was pondering that very thought, with something of a smirk upon his face, when the gendarme commander appeared at the door to the coach once more. “My apologies, gentlemen and lady,” he said in French, which Weatherby was barely able to follow. “But you must understand, we do not allow travelers upon the road to Versailles lightly.”
“I understand completely, monsieur,” Morrow said with a genial smile, his French seeming perfect to Weatherby’s ears. “But we are not bound for Versailles, but for Passy.”
The gendarme frowned. “You are not French,” he said flatly, not sharing Weatherby’s assessment of Morrow’s skill.
“No, we are not, monsieur,” Morrow said. “We are from Boston, on Ganymede, and we have business interests here that we must address with our new ambassador.”
“Do you have papers to that effect?” the gendarme demanded.
“I am afraid not,” Morrow demurred as Finch and Weatherby shot each other a nervous glance. Weatherby had secured a pistol behind him, but he knew that using it would be a last resort and a thin chance of escape. “We were hoping—”
Suddenly, Miss Baker leaned forward, fanning herself, which prompted the very tips of her fan to glow alchemically in the night sky; it was an effect she had added to her fan while upon the road between Le Havre and Paris. “William, darling, what is all this?” she interrupted coquettishly in English, flapping her fan before her. “I am absolutely starving. Can we not go to Franklin’s house tonight?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” Morrow said, unable to keep a smile from his face. “This gentleman seems to think we should not be upon the road.” He turned to address the gendarme in French. “Please, sir, my wife is hungry, and we do not wish to be late to dinner.”
The gendarme looked at Miss Baker, who gave him a winning smile and, to Weatherby’s shock, a wink. “Well,” the gendarme said. “It is not far. But you will stop there, yes? Otherwise, you will be held in the village of Versailles should you go there.”
“Of course, monsieur. We are staying at Passy tonight. Merci!” Morrow said. He quickly closed the door, then rapped on the roof of the coach. The driver immediately snapped the reins, and the coach lurched forward out of Paris, with Miss Baker giving the gendarme a little wave of her fan as they passed.
“Well played, mademoiselle,” Morrow said, his grin growing broader. “If I weren’t mistaken, I’d say you were born and bred a gentlewoman.”
Miss Baker snapped the fan shut, extinguishing the lights at its tips. “I’ve seen my share of them,” she said, her affected airs extinguished just as quickly. “I can manage witless privilege well enough.”
They all had a laugh at this—even Morrow was a commoner by birth, while Finch seemed to delight in this stab at the aristocracy regardless of his own lineage. And Weatherby could not help but allow his gaze to linger on Miss Baker, even as hers took in the scenery of the French countryside.
The village of Passy, but a short distance from Paris, was quite handsome, having a number of noble homes therein. They learned in Paris that Franklin was staying at the Hotel de Valentinois, a palatial home offered to the Ganymedean commissioners by a sympathetic and successful French merchant. It was a fine house with many windows, situated on a hill with a splendid view of the river, surrounded by gardens and trees.
Franklin was staying in one of the smaller buildings adjacent to the mansion proper, a pavilion called Basse Cour. Weatherby was surprised at how easy it seemed to gain access to the place, though they had learned in Paris that Franklin was a very welcoming sort, and saw many of his countrymen and French supporters at all hours. What if they were assassins, hoping to remove one of the rebels’ greatest leaders? Now there was a thought. But Weatherby quickly put it out his mind, reminding himself that he was a Royal Navy officer under orders, not some dishonorable ruffian.
They were greeted at the door of Basse Cour by one Edward Bancroft, who identified himself as secretary to the Ganymedean commissioners. Unfortunately, Bancroft reported that the ambassador was not feeling well and, at any rate, was about to sit down to dinner. Morrow stressed the importance of their meeting the ambassador, even going so far as to claim they had messages of importance from Philadelphia, the Ganymedean capital, but Bancroft still put them off.
Finally, Morrow gave the man a hard stare and said, “It is most unfortunate, sir. You should know that the weather in Boston bodes ill for the harvest this year, especially the tobacco.”
This caused Bancroft to visibly start. “Ah. I see,” the man said. “This visit of yours, then, is something of an embassage?”
“Of a sort,” Morrow said simply. “Our request for an audience does not encompass the current political situation.”
Bancroft looked uncomfortable, but finally relented. “Come in, and if you would, please wait here.”
The secretary bustled off into the house while the party from the Daedalus stood waiting in a marble entry hall with a fine staircase.
“Captain,” Finch said, “if memory serves, tobacco is not grown in or around Boston.”
The captain merely smiled and said, “It is a bit of gamecraft, Doctor. This Bancroft is our man, and has been for some time.”
“A spy?” Weatherby asked, perhaps a little too loudly, earning a stern glare and a shushing from Morrow. A few minutes later, Bancroft returned and, despite the look of worry on his face, ushered them into a beautifully decorated salon that boasted tapestries, gilt and a warm fire. Therein, they were introduced to Dr. Benjamin Franklin.
He was an elderly man, looking at least sixty to Weatherby’s eyes, with a balding pate and long graying hair upon the sides. His girth bespoke of a love of dining and drink, and while he moved slowly as he rose to greet his guests, there was fluidity to his movements that hinted of dexterity and grace that yet remained to him. His eyes were bright between his rectangular spectacles, and his smile had a bit of mischief to it. For an ambassador, he was dressed most plainly, in but a simple waistcoat, linen and breeches, though the fabrics appeared to be of fine quality. He also wore an evening robe to ward off the chill.
“Edward tells me this is most important,” Franklin said as he extended his hand. “You’ll forgive me, however, if I must make this an abbreviated visit, as I am not entirely well.” The man’s congenial smile hid something, Weatherby thought, though he was not at all sure what that might be.
“Of course, Ambassador,” Morrow said. “I am Captain Sir William Morrow of His Majesty’s Ship Daedalus. May I present Lt. Thomas Weatherby, Dr. Andrew Finch and Miss Anne Baker?”
Franklin nodded, his smile disappearing quickly, as he sank back into his chair. “I see. I thought I knew your face, Captain. We have met before, in London, I should say. You were naught but a midshipman, if memory serves.”
“A mere fourth lieutenant,” Morrow said, trying to brighten matters with a smile. “I found you to be a most gracious person then, and I hope to impose upon your good graces now with a most vexing issue.”
“A vexing issue, is it?” Franklin said, looking at each of their faces in turn. “Well, I should think that you are not here on behalf of King George or his government, at least in any official capacity. With the utmost respect, Sir William, you are all far too young to be negotiators on his behalf.”
“Indeed so,” Morrow replied.
At this Franklin nodded and sighed, looking down at his waistcoat. “Very well, then. Where will you be taking me?”
Morrow started. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Please, Sir William, let us not hide behind decorum now,” Franklin said. “It is well that you introduced yourself so plainly, but do not stop there. I must assume by your dress and your late arrival, under the cover of darkness and with few people at my house, I will be leaving here your prisoner.”
Morrow took a small step backward, and raised his hands upward slightly—in surrender or placation, it seemed. “Dr. Franklin, I can assure you that our intentions are both peaceful and honorable.”
The old man shifted in his chair. “You’ll forgive me, sir, if this is not as reassuring as you might wish. If you are not here to bring me to England, or otherwise mishandle me, then please state your purpose here plainly.”
“Our mission does not fall within the realm of the current political situation,” Morrow said, “but instead involves the investigation of terrible crimes, the murderous person who perpetrated them, and matters pertaining to the workings of alchemy.”
“I see. And this young man here,” Franklin said, nodding at Finch, “is insufficient to the task? I see his hands, quite literally, in the Great Work as much as mine.”
Weatherby glanced down at Finch’s hands and, for the first time, noticed the light stains and marks upon them, likely the product of dealing with alchemical solvents. “You honor me, Dr. Franklin,” Finch said, genuine modesty in his voice, “but my small knowledge is not up to the task at ferreting out the motives of our quarry, the man who calls himself Cagliostro.”
This remark seemed to finally penetrate Franklin’s mien of imperturbable skepticism. “I know that name, and it is one I had hoped never to hear again!” he grimaced. “He was recommended to me upon my arrival here as an alchemist and physician, for my knowledge in the Humanis school is not what it should be. Yet soon after he arrived for an interview with me, I found he had secured a few of my books upon his person. Needless to say I had him summarily dismissed from my presence! So what has this cad done now?”
At this, Miss Baker spoke. “I am sorry to say, good sir, that he is the murderer of my master, and your friend, Dr. McDonnell.”
The last shred of Franklin’s reserve dissipated, and he became visibly distraught at this news. “Oh, God in Heaven! Poor Roger dead? At Cagliostro’s hand?” He spent a few moments gathering his composure. “And you must be the one of whom my dear friend Roger wrote most ardently and favorably.” She smiled at this, and Franklin extended his condolences to her, prompting Weatherby to wonder as to the nature of the relationship between Miss Baker and the deceased, and Finch’s veiled allusions as well. His musings were cut short as Franklin, sitting up suddenly, asked: “The Mercurium?”
“Gone, sir,” Morrow answered, seemingly unperturbed that Franklin knew of McDonnell’s efforts on behalf of the Crown.
“And what else?” Franklin demanded.
“Books on the topics of Venus, Jupiter and the Xan,” Finch replied. “Furthermore, the foul criminal slaughtered an innocent village of Venusians in order to obtain the rare va’hakla flower.”
This prompted more silence and deep thought from Franklin. “Very well,” he said finally, before turning to shout out the doorway. “Edward?”
The secretary entered the room once more. “Yes, sir?”
“We’re having guests for dinner,” Franklin said. “Please see to the arrangements. Oh, and tell those outside that they may stand down for the time being.”
“Very good, sir,” Bancroft said, hurrying out of the room.
“Those outside?” Weatherby said.
The Ganymedean smiled. “There are old men, and there are revolutionaries, sir, but there are few old revolutionaries. And one does not become such without knowing when to take precautions.”
Finch nudged Weatherby and nodded toward the window, whereupon the young officer spied two men in the shrubbery—aiming muskets through the window at the Englishmen.
His attention was drawn back to the seated Franklin, who uncocked a pistol pulled seemingly from nowhere and set it upon the table.
“Well then,” Franklin said, rising slowly from his seat. “Before we dine, there is something I would like to show you, for your unfortunate news fits all too well into some of my alchemical inquiries of late. If you please?” He waved his hand toward a door into the rest of the house before tottering off.
With an arched eyebrow, Morrow motioned his officers and Miss Baker to follow.
July 26, 2132
This is amazingly stupid, Shaila thought as she lowered herself into the lava tube for the third time. The first two times she was in here, she was in an earthquake. She wasn’t feeling particularly lucky about the third.
Yet seeing the wall at the end of the cavern drove her to climb down that rope. She thought back to her training, the holovids and, in some cases, 2-D videos of exploration on a dozen planets and moons. Nothing—nothing—came close to what she saw on the ’bot’s video feed.
Yes, it was stupid. As her boots crunched down on the cavern floor, she fully expected the cave to fall down on her head at any moment. But she had to see it. Had to record it. Had to know what was going on. It was why she went into space. For the first time since all this craziness started she felt certain of things, and it was no use denying the impulse. Moreover, she knew the answers were down here. Somehow. If she had paused to take stock of that certainty, it would’ve scared the hell out of her how logically baseless it was. But she was in no mood to contemplate.
With Yuna reporting no increase in seismic activity or radiation levels, Shaila set off into the cave as fast as caution allowed, which resulted in a kind of shuffling hop-walk, her feet staying close to the cavern floor. She would’ve loved to just bounce her way to the sensor—it would’ve taken only a minute—but there were still plenty of rocks rolling around in the cave, and it was hard to see them in the dim light. She paused a moment to take a sensor reading on one of them as it languidly rolled past her feet, but there was no discernible difference between the rock and the rest of the cave.
Except, of course, that the rock was moving to begin with.
“Give me an update,” Shaila said, continuing her shuffle.
“Nothing material,” Yuna replied. “Then again, we’re using the existing sensors, not the ’bot, so it’s hard to determine what you might experience when you get closer. But for now, you’re in good shape.”
“Roger that.”
Shaila arrived at the last sensor suite in the array. A quick scan of the sensor’s touch screen revealed all was in working order. She wrestled the sensor into her arms, cursing as she did so; on Earth, it would’ve weighed 50 kilograms, but on Mars, it was a mere 17 kilos. Still, it was bulky as hell. She took a few tentative steps forward—and slipped on a rock rolling out under her foot, barely catching herself.
“Shit!” she swore reflexively.
“What? What is it?” Stephane asked.
“Easy, Steve. I’m good, all’s well,” she replied. “Can’t see my feet carrying this thing. Got caught up with a roller underfoot, that’s all.”
“Be careful, will you?” Stephane replied, sounding peeved.
“Didn’t know you cared,” Shaila said, smiling despite herself. “Just going to have to take it slower, that’s all.”
Shifting the sensor in her hands, Shaila started forward once more, carefully sweeping her feet in front of her with each step as she proceeded into the darkest part of the cave, her helmet lights the only illumination. The wall was still a couple hundred meters ahead of her, making for very slow going. At least the light from the previous day’s cave-in was giving her a better sense of location within the cavern.
“I see the ’bot,” Shaila reported. It was ahead of her, about 45 degrees to her left. “No lights on it. Probably no power. I’ll check it out when I come back.”
As she progressed, she saw higher piles of rubble on each side of her, even as the path before her seemed to be less strewn with rock. It was as if there was a path of some kind laid before her, leading to the wall. That was nonsense, of course. But then, the wall itself wasn’t supposed to be there, either.
Finally, off in the distance, she began to make out the dim outline of the wall. After confirming once again that there were no spikes in seismic or radiation activity, she steeled herself and took a step forward.
Another rock skittered into her boot, causing her to jump slightly. She lifted her boot and watched it roll out from under her, toward the wall. The rock, about 15 centimeters in diameter, rolled up to the wall and then, defying gravity itself, rolled right up the vertical surface, disappearing over the two-meter high top.
“Creepy,” she said, the radio carrying her voice to her colleagues above. “I wonder what’s on the other side.”
“Is there a way to see over it?” Stephane asked.
“Don’t know. Let’s get this sensor down first.” Shaila kept moving forward until she found a spot she felt would allow for maximum camera coverage. “Greene, how’s this for placement?” She figured that, with his background, he should know a thing or two about camera angles.
“Good. We can see about twenty meters of the wall, top to bottom, too.”
“All right. Status, Yuna?”
“Rate of increase unchanged,” Yuna said. “Atmospheric pressure now up to point-one-eight psi—that’s a record for Mars. Seems the increase is mostly nitrogen at this point.”
“Which means?” Shaila asked.
“No idea,” Yuna said. “A gas deposit, maybe? Planets can still surprise you, even when you think you’ve seen it all.”
“So I’ve heard.” Shaila put the bulky sensor down on its stubby, sturdy legs. “Sensor’s down. How’s it look?”
“Perfect,” Stephane said. “Now please get back here.”
Shaila gazed at the wall in front of her. “Not yet. I’m already here. Might as well have a look.” She stepped around the sensor and walk-shuffled over to the wall. It looked like a loosely packed pile of rocks that nonetheless seemed to be almost perfectly straight and smooth. Looking left and right, she saw that the walls of the cave itself had changed somewhat, with two large indentations forming on either side, just before the wall. This was definitely an unstable cave—she should’ve been running for the skylight, if she hadn’t been so stupid to come down in the first place. But if the very cave itself was changing, then it stood to reason that the ravine nearby had also been part of the changes going on. That was, oddly enough, reassuring.
“Do not touch anything,” Stephane warned. “We don’t know how stable it is.”
Shaila stopped about a half meter in front of the wall and leaned in toward it. “All right, let’s see. Certainly seems like just a pile of rock. Surface is rough and uneven. Doesn’t seem to be anything holding it together.” She looked to her left and right. “Seems pretty straight, though. I’m impressed. How’s seismic?”
“Unchanged,” Yuna said.
“Good. Hang on.” And with that, Shaila crouched down low . . . and jumped.
On Earth, the average person can jump about two-thirds of a meter. Shaila was in better shape than the average person, and enjoyed the benefit of Mars’ low gravity. She jumped nearly two meters off the ground, and looked straight ahead to see what was over the wall.
“Oh, my God!”
“What?” Stephane said. “What is it?”
Shaila pulled her portable sensor out and adjusted its settings so it could capture video and send the feed up to her colleagues. “This is crazy. Look.”
She jumped again, the sensor slightly over her head.
Before her feet touched the ground, she heard the gasps over the comm. “What the hell is that?” Greene asked, sounding awe-struck.
Shaila jumped a third time. Before her, she saw the ghostly outline of a second wall, set off from the first by about twenty meters and cloaked in a pink-grey light from the new hole in the ceiling of the lava tube, where the surveyors had fallen. Above that second wall, she thought she might have seen a third.
“It’s a structure of some kind,” she said.
She crouched to jump again, but was interrupted by Yuna. “EM and Cherenkov readings are starting to climb higher than baseline. I really think it’s time to go.”
Shaila thought about this a moment. The first two quakes were preceded by a blue flash. That represented a buildup of enough Cherenkov radiation to result in the appearance of blue in the visual spectrum.
A buildup . . . .
“I’m out,” Shaila said, turning and hop-skipping back through the cave. “Update your readings as I go.”
She hadn’t gotten more than fifty meters before Yuna came on again. “EM and Cherenkov levels at the wall still rising slightly higher than before.”
“Seismic? Psi?”
“Rate of increase unchanged.”
Shaila kept moving. “You think my proximity to that . . . thing . . . seemed to bring about the increase?”
“Possible, but without further testing, it’s hard to say,” Yuna said.
“Should I go back and test it?” Shaila said.
“No! Too dangerous,” Stephane interrupted. He was really starting to get nervous, Shaila thought. Then again, she thought she probably ought to be far more concerned that she currently felt.
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving and—wait,” she said. “The ’bot.” She spotted it and headed over. “I’m going to have a quick look, see if I can bring it along.”
She skidded to a stop in front of the disabled probe and knelt down before it, sensor still in hand. “No power. Something fried it.”
“We have a camera on the wall, Shaila. I really think you should just leave it and get back up here,” Yuna said.
Shaila grabbed the ’bot by its still-extended neck and lifted—a little too heavy and bulky to carry. She then pulled on the neck, watching as it rolled along with her arm. “Negative. The wheels aren’t frozen. It’s coming with me.”
She began to pull Dolomieu along with her, which slowed her down slightly. But she felt salvaging the ’bot was the best option. If they could figure out what happened to it, they could fix it up and use it again.
She continued hop-shuffling back—less hop, more shuffle now—passing the first of the sensors they had placed the last time. Here, the cave was more recognizable, with the detritus of the earthquakes far more random and scattered. Exactly what you’d expect. Not structured at all.
“Cherenkov spike,” Yuna reported. “Fifteen meters, bearing oh-nine-zero.”
Shaila looked off to her right and immediately recognized the pile of rubble there. “That’s where Ed got buried,” she said. It was also where she heard her own voice in her head, and that was enough to get her moving. Shaila let go of the ’bot and covered the distance in a few hops. “Did the rad levels spike again just now?”
“No, elevated but steady,” Yuna said. “What are you doing?”
Shaila knelt down in front of the rubble. “I thought I saw something first time we were down here, after we moved Ed.” She started to use her gloved hands to sweep away the rocks. “I wonder if it’s there. Maybe it’s causing the spike.”
There was no comment on this from Yuna or Stephane; they probably thought this was an unnecessary detour and a rather bad idea. They were probably right, but Shaila kept digging.
Two minutes later, her gauntlet brushed against something flat. “Found something,” she said, brushing dust and rock from the surface, finding the edges.
“What is it?” Stephane asked.
“. . . where I shall leave it.”
The voice came into Shaila’s head just like it had the first time—but this time it wasn’t hers. It was a man’s voice, barely heard in her mind, as if she was eavesdropping on a conversation occurring in another room, or on the other side of the cave. She paused to look around, but found nothing. Her heart started to race, and for the first time, she wondered whether the immensity of everything going on was really starting to get to her.
“Shaila?” Stephane asked again. “What did you find?”
Shaila shook her head to clear it, then slowly lifted the object from the rubble. “It’s a book.”
She turned it over in her hands: Leather cover, slightly beaten up from the quake; fine quality pages . . . .
“Say again?” Yuna said.
“There’s a book down here,” Shaila replied. “I wonder if Ed brought some kind of notebook or something with him.” She flipped through the book, but couldn’t find any writing anywhere. “It’s blank.” She pulled out her sensor and waved it over the journal. “You’re right. I have elevated EM and Cherenkov readings centered on this. Higher than ambient, but not enough to give me any kind of blue light.”
“Suggest you leave it and get moving,” Yuna said, a slight quaver in her voice. “The cave’s still unstable.”
“Negative,” Shaila said, sliding the book into her carryall. “It’s coming with. I’m outta here. Get a rope lowered so we can get the ’bot back up there and—”
She looked down to see pebbles skittering past her feet, bouncing slightly off the cavern floor. And she caught a flash of blue from somewhere she couldn’t quite place.
“Shay!” Stephane called. “Move!”
Shaila jumped up and dashed toward the skylight, leaving Dolomieu behind. She didn’t need to see the dust cascading down from the ceiling to know what was coming next.
She didn’t make it in time. A huge weight crashed into her back, sending her sprawling down onto the cavern floor. The last thing she saw was a large rock falling inches from her helmet visor.