March 24, 1779
Since the dawn of history, alchemists have always been circumspect regarding the location of their laboratories. In ancient days, they were shunted off to the edge of settlements, respected for their abilities yet feared as well. Those fears have never been entirely misplaced, for more than one building—indeed, more than one city—has burned due to a moment of carelessness or overreaching ambition on the part of an alchemist.
This, Weatherby considered, likely was why Dr. Benjamin Franklin was granted a pavilion away from the main house of the Hotel de Valentinois. For even such a luminary as Franklin could have a mishap. And indeed, as the group from the Daedalus proceeded into the basement of Belle Cour and into Franklin’s laboratory, the disarray in Franklin’s workspace bespoke of mishaps large and small, or so it seemed.
“I apologize most heartily for the mess,” Franklin said as he opened the door and ushered his guests inside. “I had not expected to be entertaining here this evening, I assure you!”
“Not at all, Ambassador,” Morrow said as he carefully stepped into the room, his nose wrinkling at the stench that assaulted him, akin to rotting eggs mixed with strong vinegar. “Though I confess I am unsure why we are here.”
Franklin tottered into the room and made straight for the large furnace in the middle of the chamber, where he opened a compartment and, using a fireplace poker, stoked the materials inside. From Weatherby’s reading—for he had made a study of basic alchemy as part of his supervision of Finch—he knew this to be the athanor, a special furnace for alchemical creation.
“It is often better to show, Sir William, than to tell,” Franklin said as he closed the athanor’s door. “And given Dr. Finch’s expertise, and the burgeoning knowledge of your Miss Baker, I’ll wager, they may aid in translating my work better than I might alone.”
Weatherby was quite sure he had no idea which wonder Franklin might show them, for it seemed the room was full to bursting with alchemical amazements. Shelves adorned every wall, brimming with a wide variety of glass containers and earthenware, as well as jars containing powders, liquids and, it should be said, a wide variety of plants and animal remnants. Mixed in with these were enough books to fill a university, it seemed.
There were also two notable features to the room, aside from the shelves and a couple of long worktables. One was a clockwork orrery, one far larger and more ornate than was used aboard Daedalus, and the table next to it was covered in papers and notes. The other was a curtained-off corner of the room, which Weatherby knew to be Franklin’s oratorium, where he would likely read and meditate upon his workings. More religious-minded alchemists would have a private altar as well, but he never saw such a feature amongst Finch’s belongings, and did not take Franklin for being overly pious, given his politics.
“First, some refreshment!” Franklin said. He walked over to a small table near the curtained area, which contained glasses and a decanter of wine, pouring five glasses and distributing them to his guests. “To strange bedfellows!” he said, raising his glass. Everyone raised theirs as well, though Weatherby’s heart was not in it. But he sipped just enough wine to be polite. Finch, however, merely sniffed the wine and lowered it without drinking, which Weatherby took as a good sign; even Finch’s decadent ways did not prevent him from declining to drink with a traitor to the Crown.
Franklin then approached the room’s main worktable and immediately started stacking books and papers. “Now then, I am not one for grand workings. While I enjoy discussing theory, I prefer far more practical applications of the Great Work. And one such working I performed just a few days ago was a simple tincture to aid my good friend, Madame Brillon de Jouy, in balancing her humours.” Franklin blushed slightly. “She is, not to be indiscreet, rather partial to fire and earth.”
Finch and Miss Baker smiled knowingly at this remark, leaving Weatherby rather perplexed. Finch leaned over and whispered to Weatherby: “His friend, it seems, is ruled by her passions.” Finch’s arched eyebrow left Weatherby with no further confusion in the matter.
Meanwhile, Franklin had placed two retorts upon his table; these were large glassware containers with long stems, and stoppers upon each. “I had created a similar mixture before, and wanted to keep it on hand, so I made a second batch. It is a relatively simple working, one that involves countering the effects of Venus. As such, I included a pinch of powder from Mercury’s ores and a bit of althak plant from Venus, putrefied so as to reverse its effects.”
The ambassador held up one of the retorts. “This was my original working, and the green-grey color you see here is the desired outcome. This would aid Madame Brillon in keeping her focus on more practical matters, while calming her other humours.” Again, the old man flushed slightly as he set down the container and picked up the second. “As you can see here, this new elixir is nearly black!”
Morrow simply frowned at this. “I’m sorry, Ambassador, but I still do not quite understand.”
Franklin nodded. “Of course, I apologize. Allow me to demonstrate. Dr. Finch, would you assist in drawing out some of this elixir?” He went over to a small cage upon one of his shelves, which contained a number of rats. Clucking softly, he managed to seize one of the rodents, bringing it to the table, where Finch had used a small dropper to gather up some of the foul-looking liquid. Taking the rat’s head between his fingers, Franklin drew the creature’s mouth skyward, where it was met by the stopper. A single drop fell into the creature’s mouth.
Franklin set the rat down upon the table, where it was immediately seized by tremors. After thrashing about for less than half a minute, it keeled over—dead.
“As you can see, this poor creature’s humours were unbalanced in quite the other direction,” Franklin said drily. “Now, why would this be?”
Not even Finch had an answer forthcoming, so Franklin gestured toward the orrery and walked toward it. “As you may be aware, our workings are governed by the movements of the planets, so it behooves the alchemist to pay mind to his astrology. Naturally, when I encountered this result, I thought that Venus and Mercury were simply in opposition to each other, or to some other force. But I saw nothing here that would indicate such.”
“So why would your working have failed, then?” Miss Baker asked, her curiosity regarding alchemical matters quite evident. “If you had followed the same procedure, you should have had the same outcome.”
“Exactly!” Franklin said. “But I did not. And whilst I won’t bore you with the researches I have conducted since, I have been able to come up with but one possible answer. It is my supposition that the powers of each of these planets has been magnified of late. A working including both of them—few workings tend to include both spheres, mind you—would result in such an over-powered and utterly useless elixir.”
Weatherby nodded. “And it seems Cagliostro has powerful materials from both worlds,” he murmured. “But what does that mean?”
“I cannot say until I hear of your travels in detail, young man,” Franklin said. “And for that, I think we should retire upstairs to dinner.”
And so it was that, minutes later, Weatherby partook in perhaps the oddest dinner of his life, hosted by a traitor, though a genial and generous one at that. The pheasant was quite delicious and, despite himself, Weatherby ate heartily. Morrow, meanwhile, relayed all that had happened since learning of Dr. McDonnell’s death on Elizabeth Mercuris, with Finch and Miss Baker chiming in as needed. Weatherby, still feeling uneasy and unsuitable to the company, remained mostly silent.
Franklin, for his part, was most keen on learning every detail, and quizzed Miss Baker upon her late master’s work, her answers to which were once again most detailed and exacting. Finally, over a dessert of pudding and port wine, Franklin spoke once more.
“So, Dr. Finch,” the ambassador said. “You of all people should know why I am indeed highly concerned about these recent events. Are you familiar with the importance of the two stolen substances, the va’hakla flower and the Mercurium?”
“I am to some degree, sir,” Finch responded. “Mercurium is the distilled essence of Mercury itself, and there is a case to be made that the va’hakla plant, being as rare as it is, may play a role in distilling the very essence of Venus. These essences would govern all of the humors of their respective worlds, and portions of the zodiac besides.”
“Indeed,” Franklin said. “Distilling the very essence of a world could very well increase the mystic powers of all materials from that world, which could very well be why my working failed so spectacularly. But I will also say this: having heard your story, I now believe that these essences may not be the only ones Cagliostro requires. I dare say that this madman is embarking upon a terrible working indeed. I believe that Cagliostro means to collect the essences of many more of the Known Worlds, if not all of them.”
Weatherby saw a genuine look of concern—possibly even horror—on Finch’s face, and noted that Miss Baker was similarly distressed as Franklin elaborated. “The Great Work of Alchemy, lady and gentlemen, is based upon the concept of essences. Certain materials in alchemy represent the larger occult forces at work in the universe, and by stripping away the crude matter surrounding these materials, their true essences may be obtained. The tail of a lizard, for example, is used in a regenerative elixir because the lizard can naturally re-grow said tail—the lizard has the essence of this ability within it. Thus, the alchemist, if truly gifted in the Humanis school, can refine this essence to reproduce the effect in a person. Now, think about the properties of these rare alchemical items, those that have distilled the very essence of an entire planet!”
“But to what end, sir?” Morrow asked, looking slightly perturbed. “It’s all well and good to engage in such pursuits, but we haven’t the slightest ideas as to what purpose they would be employed, do we?”
“The purposes are many, Sir William!” Franklin said. “Since the motions of the planets rule our workings to a large degree, he who has the essence of those worlds in alchemical form can, under the right circumstances, bring the divine quintessence of Creation to bear, and possibly shake the very foundations upon which the Great Work is based! Every humor and impetus in the universe would be open to him!”
“So what is his aim, then?” Morrow countered. “Does he work on behalf of a foreign power? France or Spain, perhaps? Surely such alchemical wonders would turn the balance of power throughout the Known Worlds, and it is that balance that most concerns me here, not some theoretical arcana.”
Franklin smiled, shaking his head ruefully. “I must honestly state that the danger Cagliostro presents is one not tied to politics. Whether he is in the employ of a nation or simply furthering his own ambition is immaterial. Cagliostro, I believe, has only his own agenda in mind, whether or not he has accepted the backing of a nation.”
“He has two such essences,” Weatherby said, his pique breaking down as his interest grew. “How many more does he require?”
Finch answered before Franklin could. “One for each of the Known Worlds remaining to him: Earth, the Moon, the Sun, Mars, Saturn, and Jupiter.”
“I fear he may already have at least one other,” Franklin said, a distressed look upon his face, “that of Earth.”
“How do you know this?” Morrow snapped.
“Some years ago, this Cagliostro was the student of perhaps the greatest alchemist among mankind, the one who calls himself the Count St. Germain. They traveled together for a time, and St. Germain saw promise in young Cagliostro, and took him as his apprentice. A short time later, St. Germain made his crowning discovery, the Philosopher’s Stone. Are you familiar with it?”
Everyone nodded; even Weatherby had heard of the wild tales surrounding this prized alchemical discovery. It was nothing less than the means to transmute lead into gold and, some said, the means to transmute the very soul of the alchemist into something far more sublime and, perhaps blasphemously, divine. Likewise, the tales of the famed Count St. Germain were many, though most were too fantastic to be given much in the way of proper consideration.
“The Philosopher’s Stone is many things, but most importantly, it may very well be the Earth’s planetary essence,” Franklin said. “It was a supreme accomplishment for St. Germain, perhaps the greatest working ever done by man. I had occasion to meet the Count not two years past, when he recommended a young officer to our cause on Ganymede. Yet the Count himself was in a most foul humor, and when I pressed him as to his disturbance, he confided in me that his student, this very same Cagliostro, had fallen in with a new mentor of some sort, one of mysterious origin and means. Cagliostro stole the Stone and went off with his new teacher, leaving St. Germain years of work ahead of him to replicate his discovery.”
“And so our criminal has three of these essences. How many more might he possess?” Morrow said.
“Well, the essence of the Sun is quite simple, for it is simply the light and warmth which it gives off, so we may consider that among his prizes. Now, given the thievery from my poor colleague’s library, I would venture to say that he has yet to visit Jupiter or Saturn,” Franklin said. “As to the latter, he will have an extraordinarily difficult time dealing with the Xan people upon their home world. As you know, Captain, they do not wish to truck with us except in the most limited fashion. I can count upon my fingers the number of times they have accepted a delegation from humanity, and none have even laid eyes upon them uncloaked. With their advanced engines and alchemy, he cannot take what he needs by force, either.
“So I find it highly doubtful that he would attempt to bring about a working that would envelop the Xan as well as mankind,” Franklin said. “To do so would be true madness, and Cagliostro is many things, but not a fool. Thus, I should think he will indeed make for Jupiter, and it is there that we might, with luck, find this devil. My friends, I must thank you most heartily for bringing this matter to me. I see now that your words are true and your mission quite just.”
“We appreciate that, Ambassador,” Morrow said genially. “I know such a leap of faith could not have come easily.”
Finch cleared his throat. “I dare say faith had little to do with it. Isn’t that right, Dr. Franklin?”
The ambassador gave Finch a sidelong glance and a cunning smile. “Indeed, Dr. Finch. Why did you not say anything?”
“Because trust is all too fleeting when people are at war,” Finch said. “And because we genuinely need your help.”
Morrow turned to Finch with a look of alarm on his face. “Explain yourself, Doctor.”
“I detected an unusual scent within the wine served in the ambassador’s laboratory, which is why I abstained from it,” Finch said. “A hint of earthy and minty notes, along with a touch of something floral—pennyroyal and violet, yes?” he asked Franklin.
“Well done, Dr. Finch,” Franklin said, his smile growing wider.
“As I thought. These herbs are associated with Libra, and as such can govern truth-telling, among other things,” Finch said. “The ambassador, I think, simply wanted to assure himself of our veracity.”
Franklin clapped his hands. “Exactly right! And I’ve also found that this particular admixture does wonders for the digestion as well. Sir William, you have found a most worthy alchemist indeed!”
Morrow was less impressed. “Dr. Finch, we will have words about this later,” he said ominously.
Finch merely nodded, while Weatherby glared at him with utter disdain.
At this the meal ended on a somewhat awkward note, but Franklin nonetheless offered them rooms for the night. “We may be on different sides when it comes to politics, lady and gentlemen, but there are some matters that are far beyond the conflicts of ideology and government,” he told them. “And I should hope that hospitality may be as universal as the Great Work. In any event, we must be united against Cagliostro. While he may not know we are onto an inkling of the work he intends to do, his escape from Venus has ensured he will move quickly now. So sleep well here tonight, and tomorrow we shall make for Le Havre with all due haste.”
“We, Dr. Franklin?” Morrow asked. “Surely you don’t intend to accompany us.”
“My good Captain, I must insist upon it,” Franklin replied. “There are perhaps only a handful of students of the Great Work who are adept enough to divine Cagliostro’s ultimate goal. In fact, I should say that there were three, up until poor Roger’s demise. Now there are two: St. Germain and, without undue boastfulness, myself. And only the Almighty knows where St. Germain is.”
“Ambassador, you would put yourself in the hands of His Majesty’s servants to do this?” Weatherby asked incredulously. “We are at war, after all. By rights, we should deliver you to London for your crimes against the Crown!”
Morrow winced, but Franklin merely smiled. “My dear boy, I certainly would not wish that, of course, but these are dark times indeed. I have already determined that you are men of honor, thanks to the elixir placed within your wine. So if you can vouchsafe for the suspension of the conflict among us and my return to Paris unmolested by agents of the Crown, then yes, I shall do it.”
Part of Weatherby felt chagrined, for here was someone quite ready to suspend his political leanings for a greater good. On the other hand, he forced a truth elixir upon them as well. “My apologies, sir,” he said simply.
“Not at all, Mr. Weatherby,” Franklin said, giving the younger man a clap on the shoulder. “You are a credit to the service, I have no doubt. So what say you, Captain? Shall I accompany you, or shall I be forced to make arrangements on my own? For either way, this is a matter of critical importance, and I feel most obligated to unravel it.”
Morrow shot Weatherby another hard look before responding. “I shall still have to report on this to the Admiralty, Ambassador. Your service and cooperation will be noted, as will our agreement to bring you back to France and resume the political status quo when we are done. Is this acceptable to you, sir?”
“Of course. In fact, you may relay your message through Edward if you like. I understand he’s quite adept at such communications.”
This shook Morrow visibly, albeit for the barest hint of a moment. He quickly regained his composure. “I do not understand.”
Franklin’s smile was both genial and mischievous. “Captain, I am well aware that Edward Bancroft is in the employ of King George’s servants. It’s all right. You may use him for your message.”
“But Dr. Franklin, if you know the man is a traitor to your cause, why keep him in your employ?” Weatherby asked, now even more confused as to the workings of spies and politics.
“Mr. Weatherby, I shall respond to your question with one of my own. If you knew that it was likely your enemies were spying upon you, would you rather know the identity of the spy and keep him close, or do away with his presence and risk a spy with whom you are not familiar?”
Weatherby could not help but concede the point, though he despaired at the transparency Bancroft obviously showed in his duty to England, and hoped other spies in His Majesty’s service were far more adept at concealing their allegiances.
On the other hand, as Morrow pointed out after Franklin retired for the evening, the situation must be dire indeed. “Obviously, Franklin is a passionate supporter of his cause, ill-advised as it might be,” Morrow noted. “And yet he has quickly given up an immense advantage against his enemies by revealing his knowledge of Bancroft’s activities. Whatever Cagliostro has planned, it must be quite serious for Franklin to exhibit this much concern.”
We are back aboard Daedalus as I write this, with an avowed traitor to England as our honoured guest. Mr. Plumb was successful in obtaining our orders from the Admiralty—we are to make haste for Jupiter, and attempt to track down the miscreant Cagliostro, particularly to obtain any Mercurium he may possess, along with the formulae for its production and the means by which Chance escaped directly to the Void from Venus. We may enlist help from any Royal Navy vessel we encounter as well.
I can see Earth from the gunport in the wardroom as I write. I shall miss home dearly, for although it was a pleasant surprise to visit unexpectedly, the visit was all too short. I fear it may be a long time yet before I see her again.
July 26, 2132
Shaila heard the soft beep-and-hum of the medical sensors before she even opened her eyes. In her half-conscious state, she nonetheless seized on two likely facts: one, she was back on base, in the medical berth; and two, she was going to catch hell for her jaunt in the cave.
She opened her eyes and saw Diaz looking down at her, the colonel’s face lined with worry and frustration. Right on both counts. “Ma’am,” Shaila murmured.
“Lieutenant,” Diaz said. “How you feeling?”
It was a good question. Shaila paused a moment to take stock. “Sore as hell. Chest hurts. Knee feels fucked up.”
Doug Levin entered her field of vision. “Not bad, kiddo,” the doctor said. “Bruised ribs, cracked kneecap. You missed the concussion, though.”
“That explains the dizziness,” Shaila said with a weak smile. “So much for the medical career.”
Diaz raised her eyebrows. “We’re gonna have a talk about career later, Jain. For now, you should be thankful you didn’t get your skull cracked open. That was the biggest quake yet. There’s a kilometer-long crack in the roof of that lava tube, and now there are three new ravines around it. Fucked up thing is, they’re going off in different directions nearly in a straight line.”
Shaila fought to focus. “The sensor at the wall?”
“Gone,” Diaz said. “We’ve only got two boxes left up and running in there, and all they seem to be doing is measuring increases in EM, radiation and atmospheric pressure.”
Shaila nodded. “How’d I get out?”
“Durand. Soon as the quake stopped, he was down the rope before Yuna and Greene could stop him,” Diaz said. “And I’ve had to order him back to work so he’d stop hanging around here moping after you.”
“Really?” Shaila said. “Maybe he’s not such a piker after all.”
“His heart’s in the right place, but he’s young and dumb and has problems following orders,” Diaz said. “Sound familiar?”
Shaila nodded. “A little.”
Diaz gave Levin a glance, and the doctor took the hint, busying himself elsewhere as the colonel took a seat on Shaila’s bed. “I told you I was running out of plays, Jain. Now I’ve got you disobeying direct orders not to go down into that cave.”
Shaila wanted to explain why, but the words wouldn’t come. The sense of rightness she had felt in the cave was evaporating quickly. And she was damned if she was going to talk about voices in her head with her pissed-off C.O. Or some old book, for that matter. “I know. I’m sorry. You saw the holos?”
“Yeah,” Diaz said, relenting a moment. “Crazy shit. Steve and Yuna are busy slicing the data seven ways to Sunday. But in a month or so, it won’t be our problem anymore.”
Shaila struggled to sit up. “What do you mean?”
“We packed everything off to Houston after they hauled you back here. JSC is sending a full survey team, launching tomorrow. They’ll be here in a little more than four weeks.”
This wasn’t entirely surprising, given the fact that some kind of structure was spontaneously building itself in a Martian lava tube. But it still pissed Shaila off. “Well, we’ve got four weeks to figure it out.”
“No, we don’t,” Diaz said. “That cave is hands-off from now on. The ground is too unstable to even get close. So we’ll make do with the sensors we have and let the survey team handle it when they get here. Yuna and Steve will keep at it as best they can without going back down there,” Diaz said. “You, on the other hand, will go back on duty.”
“But—”
“No buts, Jain,” Diaz said, standing. “You disobeyed my orders and went and got yourself laid up, and endangered Durand and the rest of your team in the process. You’re out. You can focus on getting the base spruced up for our visitors.”
A million arguments flooded into Shaila’s head, but between the previous night’s reactor scare and today’s adventure, she knew she was playing with a short deck. There were no other options but acquiescence and humility. Besides, she had the journal, and possibly the EM fields to figure out. Technically, neither was an explicit part of the investigation. “All right,” she said quietly “Sorry, ma’am.”
Diaz eyed the younger officer warily for a moment. “All right. For the record, I’m glad we got the holo, and I’ll chalk this up to young-and-dumb, meaning it’s not going on your record. But you’ve officially used up all the goodwill and rule-bending you had coming to you.”
“Aye, ma’am,” Shaila said. “Thank you.”
Diaz nodded and left, leaving Shaila to wonder just how long she’d be able to maintain a career at this rate.
An hour later, Shaila was on her feet, much to Levin’s consternation. Her knee throbbed in protest every time she tried to put much weight on it, but Martian gravity was kind to injuries, and barring a direct order, she wasn’t about to spend the rest of the evening moping around in bed. A few hops around the medical berth were enough for her to get the hang of one-legged propulsion, and she was out the door five minutes after that, Levin’s warnings about taking it easy ignored as she skip-hopped down the corridor to the Hub. There were things to look into.
Unfortunately for her, the first person she ran into was Harry. And he was not happy.
“This is how you iron things out for me?” he grumped without preliminaries. His frown lines were deeper than usual, and the bags under his eyes belied his stress levels. “You realize what we’re having to do now?”
She gave him a hard look and kept going as fast as her knee allowed. “I’ve been laid up, Harry. So no, I’ve no idea.”
“JSC has imposed top-level safety precautions. You know what that even means?” He didn’t bother waiting for Shaila to respond as he fell in beside her. “It means I can barely extract a tenth of what we’re used to doing at the sites we already have because of all the safety checks, and Diaz isn’t letting anybody within twenty kilometers of that cave. We have to drive way out of our way just to get to the damn sites now. How long are we going to have to do this?”
“Beats me,” Shaila said, a true statement that nonetheless brought on a little sense of satisfaction. “Like I said, I just got out of medical. And it’s not my problem anymore. Diaz took me off the investigation.”
Harry fixed her with a truly withering gaze. “I thought we had an understanding.”
Shaila stopped and turned to him, more than happy to find an outlet for all her anger and frustration. “You had an understanding. I didn’t say ‘boo’ about it. Besides, I understood you wanted me off this investigation anyway.”
“That’s before I realized you’re basically all I’ve got, Jain, and that ain’t saying much,” Harry growled, his finger pointing at her chest while he stared, red-faced, into her eyes. “If we can’t get out from under these stupid safety regs and get back in that cave, everything goes to shit here. And my report to HQ isn’t going to be kind to anyone, especially you.”
Shaila frowned right back at him. “Threats instead of bribes, Harry?”
“Both. You want the money? Then do something productive to get us back up to speed again. Otherwise, I will fucking torch your career. My guys are pissed. The foremen can barely keep them in line. You want them taking over? It’s four weeks before we get backup, and they’re ready to cut some corners to get back on schedule. I hear Alvarez is—”
Harry’s rant was cut off by the shrill cry of klaxon alarms piercing the normal din of activity in the Hub. “Christ! What now?” Shaila said.
It didn’t take her long to find out.
McAuliffe Base had four twenty-person emergency transports available—enough to get everyone off planet— located in the back of the Hub. All you had to do to get off Mars was to hop in, press a few buttons, and the computers would automatically start a launch sequence and plot a course for insertion into Earth orbit.
And a group of eight miners was busy shoving past anyone in their way as they clambered into one.
“Shit.” Shaila immediately tried to dash over, and nearly fell onto her side. She lurched back to vertical and began one-hopping over, her comm already in hand. “Ops, this is Jain. Override emergency launch sequence!”
The miners quickly got aboard, one of them punching Lt. Adams squarely in the face in their effort to get out. Shaila couldn’t immediately recognize anybody in the mass of dirt-and-stubble faces, except for Alvarez, already at the controls. Idiot.
“Roger,” Finelli responded. “Attempting override now.”
Shaila made it to the transport hatch just as it began to close, and immediately felt a meaty fist hit her squarely in the chest, sending her sprawling three meters backward, right into Harry. They both fell backward onto the deck, a tangle of limbs and obscenities.
Suddenly, Stephane appeared in her field of vision, making for the door as quickly as he could, one of the company’s laser drills in hand. He propped it between the closing hatch and the doorway, likely hoping that the obstruction would circumvent the launch cycle and freeze the transport in place.
Shaila knew it wouldn’t work. “Steve! No!”
An eruption of airflow burst around her head. The transport hatch itself was closed, but the drill succeeded only in keeping the airlock open. And now McAuliffe’s atmosphere was rushing out into the freezing Martian surface.
Stephane managed to press his back against the wall, holding on to one of the equipment lockers to keep him from getting sucked outside. He looked to Shaila with terror. “What do I do now?” he yelled.
With a grimace, Shaila leapt upward on her good leg and allowed the flow of air to whoosh her toward the hatch in seconds. She aimed herself right at the laser drill, which was already starting to crumple under the pressure. Grabbing the tool in both hands, she swung her lower half toward the door and, using both legs, pulled for all she was worth. Stephane joined her and they heaved together.
A moment later, Shaila was on her ass, at least five meters from the hatch, a destroyed laser drill in her hands. The hatch was closed, the atmosphere saved. And her knee was killing her.
“Shay!” Stephane scrambled off the floor a few meters away and ran toward her. “Are you all right?”
She tossed the drill aside and lay back on the decking. “I’ve been better. What the hell were you thinking?”
The Frenchman’s face grew red. “I was trying to stop them,” he said, indignant.
“Leave it to the pros next time, will you?” She clambered ungainly to her feet, brushing aside Stephane’s outstretched hand. “We could’ve been killed.” She plucked Stephane’s comm out of his breast pocket. “Jain to ops. Status.”
“Override failed,” Finelli reported, frustration evident even over the comm. “Transport launched.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Roger. Jain out.” She shoved the comm into Stephane’s hands. “Well, we’re screwed now.” She saw Harry walking over, fury on his face, and met his stare with one of her own. “Don’t,” she said sharply, stopping him in his tracks. “Do not say a word.”
With that, she hopped, one-legged, toward the stairs leading to the command center. For the next hour, she coordinated damage control teams, grilled her subordinates on what happened and issued a report to Diaz, who was grim but surprisingly subdued. The colonel dismissed Shaila without comment, leaving her even more frustrated.
Having little else to do, and with her knee protesting vehemently, she slowly made her way back to her day room, resisting the urge to stop by Levin’s office for some painkillers. She was in a foul enough mood to appreciate the lingering pain, and her record was in enough tatters without it seeming like she was looking for some chemical R&R after the shit hit the fan.
Shaila’s day room was just as she left it—a total mess. Coveralls and exercise clothes were strewn about. The couch/cot contraption—which did neither function particularly well—was considerably mussed. Atop the cheap armoire-dresser against the wall was a small statue of a ten-armed Indian woman—Durga, a favorite of Shaila’s mother—between two candles, all of which were half-covered by a Birmingham City Football Club scarf. Shaila’s desk had a holopicture of her parents upon it, but little else besides data chips and a couple of datapads scattered across the surface. The holopic of her one-time artist boyfriend was firmly buried in a desk drawer, along with four years of memories and a good year’s worth of disdain.
Given that she had little in the way of personal effects, the note on her desk stood out: “Il ya un cadeau pour vous dans le laboratoire de confinement.—Stephane.”
Naturally, she had no idea what it said, though she figured it had something to do with the base containment lab. Why couldn’t he have just sent an e-mail? Regardless, her datapad helped her with a quick translate query.
“There is a gift for you in the containment lab.—Stephane.”
She eased herself down onto her daybed and frowned. If this was some convoluted, Gallic attempt at seeking forgiveness—or worse, more ill-fated flirtation—Shaila would shove him out an airlock, sans suit.
Nevertheless, it only took five minutes’ worth of staring at Durga’s serene smile and wavy arms before she was up again, hopping awkwardly to the containment lab. Unlike the main lab, it was rarely used; there was little on Mars these days that required the kind of quarantine the lab afforded. She entered to find the lights on, which wasn’t too surprising, as Stephane had likely been in there a short time ago.
Her eyes were drawn to one of the lab’s two containment units. Inside, lit from overhead, was the book she had found, sitting closed and looking for all the world like a refugee from an ancient library. The computers were already running a diagnostic on it, and Shaila ambled over to take a look at the readout, grateful that Stephane had secured it for her.
The book was, in essence, exactly what you’d expect from an old book. Mostly organic—the leather cover and paper would certainly be the culprits. Some trace iron and other organics—likely the ink. A light emanation of Cherenkov radiation . . .
. . . was sure as hell not what you’d expect. Neither were the trace electromagnetic field readings.
Shaila turned, excitedly, and in doing so jammed her knee into the lab’s small worktable. Swearing viciously under her breath, she grabbed at the small metal box that had started falling due to the impact. Hopping on one foot, she caught it before it hit the floor and started to place it back on the table, until she noticed the rust-red dirt clinging to it.
The box was roughly a half-meter long, half again as wide. On either end was a pair of protuberances that immediately caught her eye. One looked like an emitter nozzle that Shaila had seen on any number of lasers, including the drill she had wrenched from the airlock door not too long ago. The second was a tube of some kind that uncomfortably reminded her of the barrel of a very small gun.
She set the box back on the table. Someone had already taken the screws out of the sides of the box and, most likely, had opened it. Shaila did the same, half expecting to be electrified or irradiated at this point in the very long, tedious day.
Instead, she found what appeared to be someone’s engineering experiment. She immediately recognized the guts of a high-end laser drill, attached to the two emitters on either end of the box. The tritium batteries were a given, too, and they looked like they’d been wired together in a very ad hoc kind of way. But then she spotted a small containment field generator, attached to a simple glass vial. And she had no idea why the length of the lower half of the box was surrounded by a series of well-polished mirrors which seemed to focus light toward the tubes at either end.
The door swished open behind her and she started, almost whacking her knee again. Frowning, she turned and saw Evan Greene enter the lab.
“Got turned around?” Shaila asked, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice as she casually reached over to dim the containment unit’s light over the book. Greene didn’t need to know about that one right now.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d be here,” he said with his customary grin. He keyed the door shut behind him. “I see you found our little contraption.”
“From our jaunt this morning?”
“Yeah.” Greene’s face turned serious. “I think you have a problem here, Lieutenant.” “What kind of problem?”
Greene walked over and picked up the device. “I assume you got the drill figured out. You know what the other thing is?”
“No, but I bet you do.”
“It’s a directional electromagnetic field generator,” he said, sounding a touch too dramatic for Shaila’s taste.
“That makes sense,” Shaila shrugged. “That explains the fields, right?”
Greene sighed. “No, it doesn’t make sense. In order for this particular device to work, you need more generators out there to create a link. It’ll only work in tandem with others.”
“So there’s more of them out there?”
Greene put the device down and used the workstation to call up a map of the outside terrain. There were several markings on it. “We found the device here, right? And it angled off 36 degrees in this direction. If you figure there are emitters on either side of this thing, you can get a 36-degree angle from one to the other.” He traced his finger off into the distance, the computer creating a red line in its wake. “That means that there are at least two more devices on either end of this angle, right?”
“At least,” Shaila said, starting to follow along. “And the other points on the map?”
“A decagon. A ten-sided geometric shape. It doesn’t make sense to create an angled linear EM field, because most practical uses would generally be point A to point B. But what if it were a ring, and these lines were long enough . . . ?”
The computer filled in a series of red lines, forming a ring across the Martian terrain. The lava tube was inside the ring.
“How certain are you about the placement of these boxes?” Shaila asked.
“Certain? No way. But we know that the line you and I followed was at least three kilometers long. Even if all the lines were just three kilometers, the cave would be just outside the ring. And I’m betting it’s inside.”
Shaila looked hard at the little box on the table. “Where’d this come from?”
Greene picked it up again. “That’s the other thing. This is totally homebrew. Tritium batteries scavenged from pressure suits and datapads. Magnetized iron alloy coating on the directional focus mirrors—probably came from older laser drills. The box looks like an old sample case. And all the serial numbers have been removed.”
That last bit sealed it in Shaila’s mind. “So somebody built those out of spare parts, specifically so they couldn’t be traced, and built a ring of directional EM fields out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Exactly,” Greene said. “Now, there’s a million perfectly good scientific uses for a ring of EM energy. But inside this particular ring, it seems like all hell’s breaking loose.”