May 2, 1779
Father,
These are strange days. I do not know if this journal can any longer serve as a present to you, as the situation we find ourselves in is one of the utmost sensitivity. Yet I am driven to continue with my chronicle, in the hopes that my thoughts on recent events may help others to perhaps better understand the extraordinary events in which we find ourselves.
And so, I write this while HMS Daedalus sits in port—in Philadelphia, capital of these so-called United States of Ganymede, where we will soon be forced into captivity. And yet we are not captives. Truly, it is a hard thing to explain, but I shall try to do the situation some small justice herein before we embark upon what I am sure will be one of the stranger episodes in the annals of diplomacy.
Weatherby stumbled slightly on the cobblestones of the streets, his balance poorly aided by the manacles he wore and the darkness surrounding him. Truly, he had little idea how Capt. Morrow walked so straight and tall, even while at musket-point, or how even Finch could navigate the darkened streets of Philadelphia with seeming grace. For his part, Weatherby simply wished for nothing more than to turn around and hit the Ganymedean soldier who prodded and pushed him along the streets at musket-point, but he was under very strict orders to cooperate fully. Besides, he thought rather glumly, he had used up much of Morrow’s goodwill and forbearance, if not all.
This circumstance was, sad to say, a continuance of the ill fortune that seemed to plague both Daedalus in general— and her second lieutenant most particularly—since leaving the Rocky Main behind. Four days prior, as they entered the Jovian system, the Daedalus was caught in a roiling Void storm. These were common enough—about as common as severe thunderstorms on Earth—but had little in the way of the latter’s merit. At least an Earth-bound thunderstorm would produce fresh water, always a welcome gift aboard ship. Void storms had nothing in the way of rain, unless a torrent of sun-motes counted as such, and these could certainly not quench thirst. They instead stung faces and charred wood to a small degree, like the embers cast from a fireplace, carried away by the wind.
And there was plenty of wind in a Void storm, as well as roiling currents, black clouds that blotted out the stars, and seemingly twice the lightning of its planet-bound cousin. Naturally, it was in this stew of foul weather that Mr. Plumb had ordered Weatherby to inspect the mainmast sail rigging—some sixty feet above the pitching deck. The officers regularly inspected the sails and rigging, but it was a task with which Weatherby had never become wholly comfortable, and the violent pitching of the ship made the task far more onerous.
Yet it was the men of Weatherby’s division responsible for the sails on this watch, and there would be Hell to pay if they were other than perfect. So he joined his men above, carefully inspecting each line, sail and spar. All seemed to be well.
He had begun to make his descent to the relative safety of the deck when the ship lurched violently, swaying at least sixty degrees upon its keel axis—she would’ve sank had she been at sea instead of Void. As it was, Weatherby clung to the hempen rigging near the mainmast and hung on for dearest life, eyes screwed shut in fear—and prayer.
But a sharp crack had sent his eyes open wide once more—was it cannon fire? Here in the storm? There was a sharp cry to his right, followed by shouts from the deck below. And as Weatherby turned to trace the sound, he could feel Daedalus’ momentum slowing
Next to him, the mainmast spar was hanging at a terrible downward angle, taking the wind right out of the mainsail. And there were two men of his division now atop the stilted spar, tangled in a mass of rope, canvas and broken wood that kept them from falling to the deck—but also trapped them and threatened to send them careening off into the Void if the spar gave way completely.
Weatherby began to climb upward once more, but the billowing sailcloth was catching the solar wind in all the wrong directions, and the Void storm continued to pitch the ship, almost throwing Weatherby off into the Void before he had climbed but a few feet. Saving himself by just one tightly clenched hand, the young officer managed to regain his footing and proceeded upward once more, wrapping his forearm around the rigging at each step. A shower of sun-motes swept past his face, momentarily stinging his eyes and blinding him, but he shook his head and hauled himself onto the firing platform at the intersection of the mainmast and the mainsail spar.
Off to larboard, Weatherby could see that the two men— Lamb and Weller were their names—were busy trying to untangle themselves from the wreckage of the mainmast and their own body lines, now tangled and likely compromised by the accident. Weller was the nimbler and more experienced of the two, while Lamb was a pressed man who had barely been aboard six months. Lamb was also closer to the firing platform, making Weatherby’s decision easier. He grabbed an extra body line from the mainmast and tied it around his waist before venturing onto the broken, sloping spar toward the two trapped men.
“Hold fast!” he called out as he inched his way up the wooden beam, clutching at the dangling ropes from above. “Do not move about! I’m coming!”
Lamb immediately stopped pulling at the rope and canvas around his leg, looking to Weatherby with fear and hope combined. Weller, however, kept trying to unravel his body line, which had tangled up around his arm—even though he was half-dangling from the very end of the spar, with naught but hard deck and vast Void beneath. “Weller, stop what you’re doing!” Weatherby called out, but to no avail; either Weller couldn’t hear his officer over the wind and lightning, or the experienced tar trusted his own skills over that of the younger man.
Then the ship bucked violently once more, nearly throwing Weatherby off the spar entirely, with only a rope between him and the deck below. He held on tightly, trying to stifle the protest from his stomach and nerves, and continued upward. Lamb, panicking, had begun to pick at his ropes once more, while Weller seemed to be getting free on his own—experience was winning out.
After what seemed an age, but was likely but a minute, Weatherby reached Lamb and pulled out his dirk, slicing through the offending ropes that kept the man bound to the wreckage of the mainsail. The lubberly man—why Lamb was assigned to the sails, Weatherby could not venture—clumsily grasped the rope around Weatherby’s waist and held on dearly as the officer cleared the wreckage away, freeing his leg. “Go back!” Weatherby shouted over the gale. “Head for the firing platform! Crawl along the spar!”
Lamb nodded desperately and began crawling downward, nearly shoving Weatherby off the spar in the process in his haste. But he could see that Lamb’s caution was an asset—so long as the spar held, he could make it to the firing platform and, from there, easily descend to the deck, even in the Void storm. Weatherby watched his progress for a few more moments before turning to Weller.
Weller was gone.
Aghast, Weatherby looked and saw rope, broken wood and canvas dangling from the spar just 10 feet ahead. The man had managed to free himself. And then—
Weatherby looked about, but saw no trace of the man, not even upon the deck below. But he did see Lt. Foster below, waving for him to come down. Even from his precarious perch, Weatherby could see his fellow officer’s head shake sadly. There would be no further rescue.
With resignation, Weatherby began inching his way back down the spar. He looked back to see Lamb had reached the firing platform, and was hugging the mainmast desperately as the ship swayed and heaved. This sight was quickly obscured, however, by the mainsail, which blew up and around Weatherby’s body. The young man cried out in surprise, and quickened his grip along the spar, but he could feel the sail’s weight dragging at him.
Then something hard and sharp—likely a piece of wood— sank into Weatherby’s hand. With a shriek, he released his hold for a bare moment. A quick gust of wind, a shower of dust motes and a massive pitch to starboard did the rest.
Weatherby fell as the mainsail sloughed off him, dropping twenty feet in an instant before his lifeline caught him, prompting him to nearly retch as it bit into his stomach and spun him upside down. Before he could gather himself, the rope swung him around in a wide arc—and he barely had time to blink before he saw the strong oak of the mainmast rushing up to greet him.
Then all was black.
The next sight Weatherby enjoyed—and he enjoyed it very much, for it meant he was alive—was a wooden ceiling. The next sensation was far less agreeable, for it seemed his entire body had been severely bludgeoned.
He turned his head to the right, prompting a throb of protest in his brainpan, and saw Dr. Finch mixing some sort of alchemical elixir at a bench next to him. The doctor turned and, seeing Weatherby was awake, smiled genuinely. “You’re an incredibly brave and utterly stupid man,” he said.
“More the latter,” Weatherby murmured. “Lamb? Weller?”
The doctor sighed. “Mr. Lamb is fine. Nothing an extra ration of grog cannot cure. Mr. Weller is missing and presumed lost to the Void.”
Weatherby nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. He remembered Weller as one of the more businesslike of the crew, highly skilled and respected if not widely liked. He wished he could remember more of the man, but that was all that came to him.
“Do you know how the repairs go?” Weatherby asked.
It was Captain Morrow who answered; Weatherby had not seen him, but he had been standing on the other side of his cot the entire time. “The repairs proceed, Mr. Weatherby. Our most vexing problem remains why they were necessary in the first place.”
Morrow’s tone was gentle enough, but the question was unmistakable. “Sir, I checked the sails myself,” Weatherby said. “All appeared proper to my eye prior to the engagement.”
Morrow nodded soberly. “So say those aloft as well. But the mainsail, the maintopsail and most of the rigging along the mainmast is a ruin now. Mr. Plumb has already begun investigating the wreckage to ensure there was nothing amiss aside from weather.”
The captain fixed Weatherby in his eye as he continued. “I have given you a commendation for valor in the log, Mr. Weatherby, and it is well deserved. But should an oversight on the part of you or your division be responsible for the sail giving way so completely, I will be forced to note this in the log as well.” Morrow turned to Finch. “How long before Mr. Weatherby can return to duty?”
The doctor looked discomfited at this. “He has suffered a sharp blow to the head. I should like to keep him here for the rest of the day, but if you need him sooner, I shall do my best.”
Morrow nodded. “Best you can, Dr. Finch.” And with that, the captain took his leave with a last glance at his young second lieutenant, whose pained expression did little to pierce Morrow’s inscrutably neutral mien.
“Ah, the service,” Weatherby said, laying his head back on the pillow and trying to ignore the throbbing. “One good deed deserves a poor one.”
“So it would seem,” Finch said in genuine sympathy. “Even if one of your men had been sloppy, ’tis no reason to punish you for it.”
“They’re my men, Doctor, and it is up to me to ensure they perform their duties well,” Weatherby said quietly. “But I tell you, all aloft really did seem well in hand. I’m sure Mr. Plumb will agree.”
Finch applied a compress to Weatherby’s head, one that made his scalp tingle to a degree—something laden with alchemical treatments, no doubt. He then traced a few sigils upon Weatherby’s brow using some sort of clear oil. “Are you quite sure you wish to make a career of all this?” Finch said with a small grin. “I should imagine piracy would at least be more fun.”
Weatherby could not help but smile back. “True, but if you think our bilges smell bad, I imagine they’re far worse aboard a ship like Chance.”
“Anything at sea or Void, I believe, will have a certain putrescence attached to it,” Finch said, seemingly enjoying the banter. “Take for example, the smell associated with this whole notion of equality among officers in the wardroom. Imagine the son of a shopkeeper in charge of a nobleman!”
“My father is a shopkeeper,” Weatherby said, his grin growing wide. Any further rejoinder was cut off by the sound of the ship’s bell and the marine drum—they were beating to quarters.
Weatherby bolted upright, doing his best to ignore the throbbing dizziness produced in his head. He tossed aside the compress, grabbed his hat from Finch’s workbench and, despite a string of pleading and obscenities from the doctor, carefully picked his way up above decks, grabbing onto whatever he could to maintain his balance as the ship pitched.
Except, when he ascended to the main deck, Weatherby could see they were out of the storm, and Jupiter loomed large across the entire larboard-side horizon. The pitching was due solely to his lack of balance at the moment. He looked up to see seamen scrambling over the mainmast rigging, attempting a slapdash repair to the mainsail that would at least give Daedalus something in the way of maneuverability, if not speed. Willing the doctor’s alchemy to hurry into effectiveness, Weatherby quickly picked his way across the deck toward the ship’s stern—until he nearly bumped into a burly sailor blocking his path.
It was Lamb, giving him a pronounced salute. “Mr. Weatherby, sir, I can’t begin to thank you enough, sir, what you did for me. I’m in your debt, sir.”
Weatherby gave the man a small smile and put his hand on his shoulder. Even with his head throbbing, he knew others among his division were watching this exchange. “I would’ve done it for any man aboard, and I know you would have done so for me. Now go and mind your station.”
Lamb saluted again and scurried off, leaving Weatherby feeling immensely better about nearly everything—until he took a step and nearly keeled over the side. Grabbing at the rigging, Weatherby staggered forward, ascending the few steps up to the quarterdeck and presenting himself to Morrow, who acknowledged him with a bare nod before turning back to his conversation with Dr. Franklin.
“Ambassador, you must recognize you’re asking a great deal of me,” the captain said crossly. “And there is no guarantee that the captain of that ship will agree to it.”
“He will, I promise you,” Franklin said. “It is critical we avoid a battle here, Captain. It would only distract us from our goal of apprehending Cagliostro!”
“And what if this is a trap, after all?” Morrow demanded. “First our mainsail gives at a critical moment, and now a Ganny frigate bears down upon us. Tell me, sir, that you’ve not had a hand in this!”
To his credit, Franklin remained calm. “Sir William, should I wished to have your vessel captured, I could have easily misdirected you whilst you were in Paris, and I would be home now, sitting by my fire, playing chess!”
The look of confusion on Weatherby’s face must have been evident, for Lt. Foster took it upon himself to take Weatherby’s arm and lead him back down to the main deck and his battle station. “Ganny sighted,” Foster said quietly, pointing off to starboard, forward of the ship. “She must have kept station at the very edge of the storm, hoping for easy prey.”
Even without his glass—or much of his wits—Weatherby could see the Ganny off in the distance, and he could tell it was already much larger. With her mainsail greatly diminished and outgunned as well, Daedalus would be easy prey indeed. Hence, Weatherby assumed, Franklin’s plea for negotiation with his fellow rebels, for it would likely save them all.
A few minutes later, with Weatherby’s gun crews at the ready and the Ganny nearing all too close to firing range, it seemed Franklin finally won over the captain. “Secure the guns and stand down!” Plumb called from the quarterdeck.
A moment later, Weatherby saw that Daedalus had struck its colors, replacing the Union Jack flying from the quarterdeck with a single white sheet.
Surrender.
Weatherby’s own discomfiture was echoed in the murmuring of the men around him, but even in his still-dazed state, Weatherby could see the sense in it. With Franklin aboard, the Ganny likely would allow them safe passage or, at the very worst, allow them to make repairs and leave the Jovian system under escort. Better that than to fight a 44-gun frigate with but 28 guns and a crippled mainmast.
Minutes later, the enemy ship was close enough to identify as the Bonhomme Richard, which appeared to cheer Franklin greatly. Weatherby saw the Ganny approach cautiously, guns at the ready, and the men of his own division frowned and murmured as they watched. Daedalus had not unfurled a sail, and the guns were run back in. She was naught but an easy target, and Weatherby had to sternly order his men to remain quiet and motionless, lest the Ganny find an excuse to open fire.
Soon, Morrow and the enemy commander—Weatherby could not help but think of the Ganymedeans as anything else—were exchanging shouted words through speaking horns. Morrow brought Franklin to the ship’s railing, and enjoined him to shout through as well. Yet instead of seemingly pacifying the Ganny’s crew, the guns were still drawn, and the shouting grew more intense.
Ultimately, the two ships drew alongside each other. Morrow ordered the men to stand at attention, hands visibly at their sides, while the Ganny’s crew could be seen training their muskets and cannon upon them. A gangway was secured between the two vessels, and some two dozen Ganymedean marines flooded onto the British vessel, followed by what appeared to be the Ganny captain.
“Appeared” seemed appropriate to Weatherby, for this man was dressed in one of the more outlandish military uniforms he had ever seen. The man’s hat was wrapped in gold braid along the edges, and his coat was likewise heavily adorned with braiding, piping and a surfeit of brass buttons. The man’s waistcoat was the brightest red Weatherby had seen outside of an actual fire, and the buckles on the Ganymedean’s shoes were perhaps three sizes larger than they needed to be.
Nonetheless, Morrow had come onto the main deck to greet him, and even ordered the men to pipe this popinjay aboard as if he were an allied commander instead of a traitor to the crown. “Captain,” Morrow said formally, “I am Captain Sir William Morrow of His Majesty’s Ship Daedalus.”
The man nodded curtly. “Captain John Paul Jones of the United States’ Ship Bonhomme Richard. Do I know this ship? Were you ’round Mercury two months past? There was a merchant vessel there that had behaved most curiously, as if attempting to escape us, and I would’ve taken her if not for the interference of an English frigate, much like this one.”
Morrow smiled graciously at the Ganymedean. “With all due respect, Captain Jones, I believe it is better to focus on the present and future.” Weatherby knew that Jones would not take kindly to being informed that Daedalus had indeed fired upon his ship—especially if Jones somehow knew that the engagement had robbed him of the opportunity to capture LeMaire.
“Very well, then,” Jones said dismissively. “Where is Dr. Franklin?”
“Right here, Captain,” Franklin said from behind Morrow. “And once again, I assure you that I am here of my own free will, and neither harm nor ill-fortune has befallen me.”
Jones nonetheless looked put out. “I am quite afraid I do not understand your presence here, sir. And Captain Morrow, since you are outgunned and already have two dozen of my men aboard your ship, I am unsure why there needs be a conference at all.”
Morrow refused to take umbrage at Jones’ pointed remarks. “Nonetheless, Captain, I would invite you to my cabin to confer with myself and Dr. Franklin. This way, please.” Morrow held out his hand toward the great cabin, and Jones marched toward it, acting as if he had already captured the ship.
The three men emerged an hour later, with Morrow looking perturbed, Franklin looking concerned and Jones smiling ear to ear. He approached the gangplank once more, shook hands with Morrow—who returned the gesture most perfunctorily—and reboarded his own ship.
“Take down the plank and prepare to make sail,” Morrow ordered. “We’re following Bonhomme Richard into Philadelphia. Officers and Dr. Finch to report to my cabin in ten minutes.” And with that, Morrow stalked off into his cabin, the door slamming behind him.
Plumb, Weatherby and Foster immediately began issuing orders, and found they had to raise their voices more than usual, as it seemed the men were somewhat dumbfounded at the scene that had just transpired. Nonetheless, they soon had Daedalus on the proper course, following the larger Ganymedean vessel—into the very heart of the rebellion itself.
Shortly thereafter in the great cabin, Morrow and Franklin revealed their plan. “Suffice it to say, the situation is quite imperfect and our course embarked upon only under great duress,” Morrow began. “However, we are sailing to Ganymede, and into Philadelphia itself, as a captive of the Ganymedeans.”
All assembled gasped, even Plumb, but Franklin was quick to follow up. “Now, let me be clear. This is captivity in appearance only, as it seemed the best way to secure Jones’ cooperation and allow us to fully engage the resources of my countrymen in our quest.”
“But sir,” Weatherby said, addressing Morrow, “could we not have simply enjoined Jones not to discuss our presence here, and proceeded to Philadelphia on our own, perhaps in disguise?”
Morrow glared at Weatherby for his lack of decorum, but answered regardless. “That certainly would have been far more preferable, but we are well outgunned and damaged besides. In order to keep this Jones fellow from shooting us out of the Void entirely, we had to effectively surrender the ship. Once he came aboard, Dr. Franklin convinced him of our intent and goals. And yet . . . ” Morrow had to steel himself to continue. “And yet, Captain Jones preferred to escort us into Philadelphia, so as to assure himself of Dr. Franklin’s continued safety and security.”
The lieutenants, to a man, appeared mortified, whilst Dr. Finch merely smiled. Naturally, Weatherby thought, Finch would enjoy such gamesmanship.
Franklin elaborated on the plan and its foundations: “Captain Jones is ambitious, certainly, and would love nothing more than to have ‘captured’ an English vessel. Yet if we are to ascertain whether Cagliostro has visited Ganymede, and to garner the help of my countrymen, then we have little alternative other than to follow Jones’ demands.”
“But no Ganymedean has ever captured an English ship!” Weatherby blurted out. “Surely this cannot be our only avenue!”
Morrow stood up and leaned over his desk, fixing the young man with his most stern and terrifying gaze. “Mr. Weatherby, it is the most expedient avenue that allows us to make progress upon our quest. And I expect you—all of you—to behave accordingly, and urge the men to do the same. I will not repeat this again.”
Weatherby’s face flushed red as he nodded. “My apologies, sir.”
Morrow stared a moment longer before continuing. “We shall be in Philadelphia in three days. At that time, we will present ourselves to the authorities there to discuss the matter of Cagliostro. Once we have completed our inquiries, Dr. Franklin has guaranteed that we shall be free to continue on elsewhere as we see fit. And if that guarantee is not enough to appease his countrymen, then I promise you all we shall earn our freedom by force if need be.”
Morrow issued his orders: All weapons were to be stowed and the men cautioned to behave accordingly as they followed the Ganny into the enemy capital. The officers were dismissed, but Morrow had Weatherby tarry behind.
“Sir?” the young man asked nervously, knowing full well what was about to come.
The captain stepped around from his desk and planted himself mere inches from Weatherby’s face. “Mr. Weatherby, I fully expect that I shall not have to defend nor reiterate my orders to you ever again,” he said.
“Aye, sir,” Weatherby responded, his back stiff and eyes fixed on a point just below the captain’s eyes.
“I had originally thought to leave you in command of the ship whilst Plumb and I ventured ashore to meet with the Ganymedeans. Yet with your outburst here, I see now you are most unready for such a task. So you will accompany us instead, so that I may keep my eye on you and you may yet prove some worth to me. But I warn you, I will not tolerate anything further from you. Have I made myself clear?”
“Aye, sir.” A thin sheen of sweat began to gather on Weatherby’s brow.
“Good. Get out.”
Weatherby saluted and quickly retreated, only to be met by Lt. Plumb outside the great cabin. “With me,” the first lieutenant ordered, and Weatherby dutifully followed him down into the wardroom, where Forester and O’Brian were lounging about whilst off duty. “Get out, you buggers,” Plumb snarled. The youngsters needed no further exhortation.
After they clambered out the door, Plumb wheeled on Weatherby and put a massive fist into the younger man’s stomach, sending him sprawling into the wall, coughing and clutching his midsection.
“Now you listen to me, you little shite,” Plumb hissed. “Captain’s too good a man to say it, but you’re a prissy little bastard, too full of yourself. Your head’s caught between your books and that damned girl we have aboard. If I ever catch you questioning the captain again, I swear I will break every bone in your body. You got that, Tommy boy?”
Weatherby nodded, still sputtering and trying to catch his breath. Before Plumb stalked out, he boxed the young man’s ear for good measure, which sent the junior officer to the deck, unconscious once again.
Three days later, marching through the midnight streets of the rebel capital, Weatherby’s head was still tender, despite Finch’s best efforts. It wasn’t the first beating he had endured during his time in the service, but it was perhaps the most effective, given his previous injury from the adventure on the mainsail spar. While Mr. Plumb had found no wrongdoing on the part of any man aboard, Weatherby had chosen not to speak one whit to him nor Morrow since then. Although he continued to question the wisdom of any surrender to these traitors, he kept his opinions well concealed. Or so he hoped.
Yet even while brooding over the intolerable situation, Weatherby found himself surprised at the neat and orderly city before him, for he expected the heart of rebellion against the Crown to be a place of the worst sort. Philadelphia’s streets were broad, the buildings almost uniformly brick. There were many parks and open spaces, and a cheerful bustle of late evening activity as the Daedalus “captives” made their way toward the Pennsylvania State House, led by a proud John Paul Jones and a cloaked and disguised Benjamin Franklin. The taverns seemed particularly boisterous, and there was a steady stream of people about—even a few free Venusians, it seemed—doing business under Jupiter’s unblinking eye. The gas giant was at least ten times larger in the sky than was the Moon as seen from Earth. Next to it, tiny Io was an angry crimson dot, Europa a small white snowball.
It took but ten minutes for the Daedalans—Morrow, Anne, Finch and Weatherby—to arrive at the Pennsylvania State House. It struck Weatherby as too small and parochial to be the very epicenter of planetary rebellion, but it did have a certain charm regardless. It was but two stories tall, primarily red brick, with a pitched slate roof and a tall, white wooden bell tower. St. James Palace, it was not.
Once inside the building, Franklin took off his hat and cloak, much to the surprise of those present inside. They were, of course, immediately sworn to secrecy and pressed into service. The word was passed regarding their arrival, and soon Franklin and Jones were invited into one of the hall’s main chambers, therein to consult with their conspirators, Weatherby guessed. The Daedalus party remained in shackles, under armed guard, in an anteroom. Morrow was silent, and thus they all were.
After this private meeting, which lasted many minutes, the Englishmen were ushered into the room—some kind of parliamentary chamber, though rudimentary at best. There they found Franklin and Jones in the presence of two others, one of whom sat at the room’s central desk looking quite dour, and the other, attired as a military commander, who ordered their manacles removed and rose to greet them.
The man behind the desk was John Jay, the current President of the Second Ganymedean Congress and, thus, the political leader of the rebellion against the Crown. The officer identified himself as Major General Benedict Arnold, commander of the Ganymedean forces in the Philadelphia area.
Weatherby forced himself to greet both men cordially, and perhaps succeeded in some small part. Morrow and Finch, of course, were far more gracious, which Weatherby attributed to their more cosmopolitan experiences, and Anne was greeted with naught but kindness. Weatherby would have argued against her accompanying them, but Franklin thought it useful, and the young officer was in no position to argue the point.
President Jay was obviously ill at ease with their presence—or perhaps simply perturbed at being roused in the middle of the night—but Gen. Arnold was genial and accommodating. Weatherby assumed this was professional respect and courtesy when not engaged in conflict, something most officers aspired to, yet few achieved.
“There has been activity here in Philadelphia pertinent to our quest,” Franklin said with nothing in the way of preamble. “There has been murder, and theft besides!”
Morrow looked surprised. “But how can we know it is Cagliostro?”
“Who else?” Franklin said. “The goals and the means fit the crime. General, would you be so kind as to give our guests a summation of what has transpired?”
“Of course,” Arnold said. “Dr. Franklin told us of the Chance, and while no such vessel has made port here, a similar one, calling itself Liberte, was here just two days’ prior. I remember its name only because of the terrible events discovered in the wake of that ship’s rapid departure.
“Our harbormaster reported that Liberte had come in from Io, and certainly she smelled most prodigiously of sulfur, I’m told. But the harbormaster was surprised to find very little Ionian sulfur-iron aboard; as you know, there are few exports from that blasted world, and that’s one of them. But it’s not for us to tell a captain how best to do business, so the ship was allowed to make port.
“Not four hours later, the ship suddenly made sail without warning,” Arnold continued. “Again, this would not be taken amiss in most respects, except that shortly thereafter, we discovered a most heinous crime had been committed. As you know, gentlemen, the rare Aquila gemstones can only be found here on Ganymede, and are mined in the western parts of Virginia and Pennsylvania. As our chief port, Philadelphia sees much trade in these valuables.
“As I was saying, a terrible crime was discovered shortly after the ship’s departure. Jonathan Wilkes, one of the most prosperous men in the Aquila trade, was discovered dead in his warehouse, with his most recent shipment of gemstones taken. While the latter is a great monetary loss, this murder is far more onerous. I should think that this Cagliostro person may be responsible, if the Liberte is indeed your quarry,” the general concluded.
Morrow considered this thoughtfully. “This does appear to fit in with the modus operandi of our quarry,” he said. “Then again, Aquila are quite valuable, are they not? How do we know that this is not simply mere theft, and unrelated to our task at hand?”
Arnold nodded in acknowledgement of Morrow’s question. “Method, of course, is everything, Captain. Wilkes kept his stones in perhaps one of the finest iron chests ever wrought, at least to my eyes. It was Ionian steel, thick enough that the chest, no bigger than your sea chests, had to be carried by four men.”
“Ah, I see it,” Finch said. “You found the chest corrupted and seemingly melted.”
Franklin flashed the young alchemist a winning grin. “Well done, Doctor! Cagliostro used a bit of his stolen Mercurium to hasten the corruption and rust of the iron. He must have been at wit’s end to use such telling means to open the chest, for it puts us squarely on his trail once more.”
“But where does this trail lead?” Jones asked. “Once again, I remain unconvinced. Yes, this Cagliostro is a fiendish sort. But he could be anywhere by now.”
“He has been to Io,” Franklin said. “And now Ganymede. I suspect he wishes to visit the other two Jovian moons. That leaves Europa . . . and Callisto.”
At this the room hushed a moment. Callisto was the express province of the denizens of Saturn, those enigmatic creatures that called themselves the Xan. Sir Francis Drake was the first to encounter them in his charting of the Jovian system two centuries past, and was told in no uncertain terms that colonization of that world would not be permitted. Since then, embassies and expeditions had been sent regularly by the great powers of Earth, and all were summarily rejected without even being received by the Xan in person.
And of the handful of martial expeditions that were launched, it sufficed to say that the Xan’s alchemy and knowledge far outstripped that of humanity, much as humanity’s was far superior to that those of the Venusians. The belligerents were never seen again.
“We cannot go to Callisto again, Franklin,” President Jay said finally. “Our embassy was rejected just last year. I doubt they shall appreciate another such visit.”
“We shall go, then,” Morrow said. “England’s ties with the Xan are tentative, certainly, but we are an established power amongst mankind.”
Jones turned on Morrow. “I am still not quite convinced we should let you go, Captain,” the Ganymedean said. “Whatever this rogue has planned, it does not change the state of affairs between England and Ganymede, and you and your men have seen too much of our city already!”
Franklin drew himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his stick. “Captain Jones, we have discussed this. This matter is far more serious than the current conflict! We must be allies in this!”
“Do we indeed?” Arnold said from his seat, leaning back and eyeing the English delegation warily. “With all due respect to our guests, if this Cagliostro fellow is amongst Jupiter’s moons, then he is our problem. With your help, Dr. Franklin, I believe this is a matter that the United States can manage on our own.”
“And in doing so, we increase our naval power considerably with the capture of an English frigate,” Jones added.
Franklin looked aghast, but Weatherby saw the guards in the room had taken a firmer grip upon their weapons. And President Jay, seated behind his desk, began to nod slowly.
For once, even Finch looked upset. A shame, Weatherby thought, that it took rank betrayal to finally perturb him.
July 27, 2132
The rover sped across the Martian plain on what passed for a beautiful morning on the red planet. Shaila was oddly chipper; despite the reactions she got from Yuna and Stephane, she was still convinced that the strange EM boxes were key to solving whatever was going on. Moreover, she was actually out doing something about it instead of sitting on her hands or making the base look pretty.
Of course, she also had to explain to Diaz why the hell she was suddenly so chummy with Evan Greene, especially since she had all but wanted to hide from him the day prior. The colonel approved their EVA, but made it crystal clear to Shaila that while Greene was cleared for the investigation of the lava tube, she was not. Of course, if Diaz knew Shaila was withholding a potentially pertinent clue to this mess— even if no one else thought it was pertinent—she’d be on the next transport back home.
But Shaila was energized now. Her career could very well be ending anyway. Might as well go out with a bang. Besides, she had enjoyed reading the journal the night before, and was eager to see what Greene thought of it. On the one hand, she thought it was stupid to think that the book was related to the EM fields, because it made no sense. But the fact was that she thought she saw it the first time, and then it was there the second. It was beginning to creep her out, no matter how strange and intriguing the book’s writing had become.
“Benjamin Franklin? Ganymede? Crazy,” Greene mused as he read the transcribed journal from the passenger seat. Shaila had the computer photograph and transcribe each page as she progressed, and downloaded it to Greene’s datapad before they left McAuliffe, copying Yuna and Stephane as well. She wanted them to know she was at least doing something.
“Oh, I know,” Shaila said over the comm. “A Royal Navy officer’s personal log from 1779 . . . in space . . . with alchemy . . . and reptile men on Venus. Awesome, in a drug-induced sort of way.”
Greene smiled. “Well, I’m no book critic, but I’ve read better. More importantly, how’d this thing get in that cave?”
“Don’t know,” Shaila admitted. “It was me, Steve and Kaczynski the first time, and Yuna was down there the second time. Far as I know, that’s it.”
“Huh. You writing a novel?”
“Oh, no. I’d be horrible. As for anyone else, I don’t think Stephane could manage the idioms, and Kaczynski isn’t romantic enough. Yuna? Doubt it, plus I think I caught a glimpse of it before she got down there. That means someone put it there, and someone managed to tag it with both Cherenkov radiation and an EM field. Who and why?”
“Good question,” Greene said. “I mean, first off, you don’t just go and ‘tag’ something with this kind of radiation, or with an EM field without a discernible source. Pretty interesting, really.”
“You’re the scientist. I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” Shaila said. “Any theories on the box we dug up?”
“Yeah, but it’s pretty out there,” Greene admitted. “When there’s nothing in the mainstream that seems to work, you have to go to the fringe.”
“Hey, I’ve got earthquakes on Mars, geographic features shifting all over the place and a big-ass wall building itself in a cave. Go for it,” Shaila said.
“Fair enough. Let me tell you about tachyons. A tachyon is a hypothetical subatomic particle that can travel faster than light.”
“Except that nothing can travel faster than light,” Shaila interrupted.
“Like I said, hypothetical. But quantum physics allows for the possibility that space and time are not universal constants, and thus allows for the possibility of faster-than-light particles.”
“So how does a particle get to move that fast?”
“It’s a chicken-and-egg thing, really,” Greene said. “Do you bend space, and thus seem to bend time as well? Or do you bend time, and thus move through space at a seemingly faster-than-light pace? Or is the distinction moot?”
“I vote moot,” Shaila said as she deftly guided the rover around an outcropping of rock. “So are tachyons the cause of this faster-than-light movement?”
“More like a byproduct,” Greene said. “The more energy you expend—and you’d have to expend a lot to start warping space-time—the stronger tachyon emissions you’d get. And as you already know, when you have charged subatomic particles moving faster than the ambient light around them, what do you get?”
Shaila grimaced. “Cherenkov radiation. And if you expend energy in those quantities, you’re probably going to get some residual EM fields, too.”
“Bingo. Well done.”
“So what are you saying? That there’s some kind of space-time rift going on here?” Shaila asked.
Greene paused and looked hard at Shaila. “Umm, no. Not at all,” he said, sounding as if Shaila wasn’t taking his findings seriously. “But I imagine that someone might be playing around with a lot of energy. And those boxes generating the directional EM fields could very well be some kind of primitive particle accelerator, designed to speed up particles, smash them into each other and create huge amounts of energy that could theoretically shed tachyons.
“Of course, we can’t actually detect tachyons because they’re still theoretical,” Greene added. “But we can see the Cherenkov radiation. Now, I don’t know why this book would have similar readings, but it’s a start.”
Shaila felt he might be onto something. Smashing up molecules would probably do the trick, energy-wise, especially if you managed to weave it through the Martian terrain. “So what the hell is a homebrew particle accelerator doing on Mars?” Shaila asked.
“Hey, I just came up with the theory. Up to you to prove it,” Greene said.
“Well, it’s the best explanation I’ve heard since this whole thing started,” Shaila said. “Particle colliders can throw off some serious energy. If it’s not properly shielded, well, I can imagine it might shake things up around here.”
“Yeah, but I ran the numbers. If this thing is a particle accelerator, it’s still not powerful enough to cause earthquakes, unless it hit some pretty specific geologic points. My thinking is there’s something still missing in the equation.”
Shaila glanced at the rover’s readout. “Only one way to find out. Coming up on the coordinates now.”
A light breeze swept across the Martian plain as Shaila pulled the rover to a stop about ten meters away from the coordinates she got from Harry’s suit beacon log. They’d have to do some poking around, because the coordinates were a bit too broad to pinpoint the exact locations, but that’s why she brought Greene’s once-confiscated holocam with them. They got out of the rover and started surveying the area—Shaila with a sensor pack, Greene with the holocam. Shaila tried to look for signs of Harry’s visit, but it had been months ago, and even with Mars’ weak atmospheric pressure, the light breezes and subsequent dust devils—a problem for Mars explorers since the first 21st century rovers touched down—would’ve been more than enough to erase boot and rover tracks.
After a few minutes, they decided to tackle things in a much more methodical manner. They spread out several hundred meters apart, moving in a zigzag pattern toward each other to cover the maximum amount of territory.
“It was easy to find last time,” Shaila said about ten minutes later. “What the hell’s the problem now?”
“Maybe the boxes were shut down somehow,” Greene said, his eyes fixed on his cam screen. “I mean, who knows whether this thing’s been on the whole time, or whether we just got lucky?”
“It’s out here somewhere,” Shaila said. “Keep going. Harry was doing something out here.”
Another fifteen minutes later, the two met by the rover, having covered 500 square meters of territory without so much as a beep from the sensor or a glitch on the holocam screen. “Maybe we’re not going about this the right way,” Shaila said. “Let’s switch. I’ll go back where you came from with the cam, you head to where I started with the sensor.”
Greene handed over the cam. “Just don’t erase the tape, OK? This could still be big.”
Shaila’s rejoinder was cut short by a sudden flare on the holocam screen. There was a flash of very familiar static off to her left. “Greene, I got something.”
She turned in the direction of the flicker she saw, and was rewarded with a vision of the rover, about four meters away. There was a very thin line of static running under it.
And the line was growing bigger.
And brighter.
And Greene was only a meter or so away from the vehicle.
“Greene, jump away from the rover!”
“What?” he said, turning toward her.
“Jump away from the rover! Now!”
He didn’t need further prompting, leaping as far back from the rover as he could—several meters thanks to Mars’ gravity—and landing on his side. Shaila saw her holocam’s viewscreen turn white, and she could feel it start to vibrate in her hands.
And then it died.
A wisp of smoke curled up out of the camera. She looked up and saw a very similar trail emanating from the rover’s electrical motor.
“Greene, report,” Shaila said as she leapt toward the rover.
“I’m here,” Greene said. “Sensor pack is offline, though.”
“Suit check,” she said curtly.
“Checking,” Greene said as he got to his feet. “All systems normal.”
She finished her jump-sprint over to him and nonetheless took a look at his chest and gauntlet monitors. “You’re all right. I think we just saw a major EMF spike.”
Greene fiddled with the sensor pack once more. “Yeah. Right before the sensor was scrambled, it recorded a large buildup of EM energy. And it was directional.”
Shaila looked over his shoulder at the screen. The data showed a linear spike of energy that appeared to travel toward their area . . . and right under the rover. Then the signal scrambled for several seconds. By the time the sensor’s computer righted itself, the energy spike was gone.
“That’d explain the holocam,” Shaila said, holding it up. “Fried. Most civilian holocams aren’t rad-hard like our suits.”
“Yeah, but a sensor pack? The rover?”
Shaila shrugged. “Turns out we parked the bloody rover right over the line. Probably too much for the shielding to handle. And the sensor pack didn’t fry. It just got confused for a bit.”
Greene holstered the sensor. “Well, we found our EM line. But now we don’t have a rover.”
Shaila grinned at that. It was well over 25 kilometers to base. “Oh, come on. Lovely day for a walk in the sun.”
“Can’t we just call and have someone come get us?” Greene said, sounding slightly petulant.
“And explain to Diaz what we were doing out here?” Before Shaila could continue, her comm beeped.
“McAuliffe to Jain, McAuliffe to Jain, priority one, over.” She recognized Finelli’s accent.
“Shit,” Shaila said, keying her comm. “Jain here, McAuliffe, go ahead.”
“There’s been an accident at Billiton Site Six,” Finelli said. “Multiple injuries. Report there immediately to assist. Over.”
Shaila looked at Greene with dread. Site Six was an underground mining operation in the foothills—and right on the border of the decagon they had mapped out last night. “Our rover’s malfunctioned. We’ll have to go by foot. You have rescue teams on the way? Over.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Finelli said. “Please get there as best you can. McAuliffe out.”
Shaila keyed up a map on her datapad. “Six kilometers. Let’s get moving. Maybe we can hook up with the rescue team on the access road.”
“You think it’s related,” Greene said. It wasn’t a question.
“If it is, I’m going to bring Harry up on charges,” she replied, already bouncing across the terrain at full speed.