“On a threat to both the British Empire and America?” Nathanial shook his head. “I do not believe so, Captain.”
Folkard raised an eyebrow. “With all due respect, Professor, Grant is a scientist, and I have met many in my time, and it is often the case that they will do almost anything to prove their theories, to be the first to make the greatest discovery in human history.” He stopped and turned so he was facing Nathanial. “Are you telling me that Doctor Grant is different from every other scientist out there?”
Nathanial shook his head sadly. “I am telling you no such thing, Captain; I am merely saying that Doctor Grant would not risk his niece’s life on such a mission. The potential risk of working with nastavnik Tereshkov is too great. I have never been acquainted with that man, clearly, but I have heard he is quite insane. Doctor Grant’s concern for Miss Somerset supersedes all other concerns.”
Folkard was silent, then he nodded his head slowly. “Hmm…For Miss Somerset’s sake then, I hope you are correct.”
With that, Folkard returned to his previous position next to the bosun and enquired of the helmsman their current bearing. For a moment longer Nathanial just watched, feeling rather insulted by Folkard’s accusation of all scientists. Perhaps the captain forgot that, despite his youthful appearance, Nathanial was just as much a scientist as any other he may have met. Folkard was clearly aware of Nathanial’s watchful gaze, but he chose to ignore it.
Could it be another test? Folkard continually referred to Nathanial as “Professor”, so perhaps he had said such a thing to see if Nathanial would stand up for himself. Regardless, the moment had passed them both by. He turned back to the window, and his mouth fell open at the sight that greeted him.
“Captain!” he said, his voice much louder than expected.
“What is it, Professor?”
“Look!” Nathanial pointed, his eyes still locked on the distant glow. It seemed to come from several miles away, but the greenish-white tint was unmistakable.
5.
“AIRLOCK IS not going to be necessary, sir,” said Ensign Challoner through the cable linking him to Bedford, as they neared the wreckage.
He was quite correct. Huge rents had been torn into the hull of the Annabelle, where the ship had buckled upon impact. Stevenson glanced up to the sky, and saw in the distance the small globe of the Earth. He wondered what altitude the Annabelle had managed before she had been gunned down; high enough to get a message to the Harbinger, that was for sure. At least forty thousand feet, then, and assuming the Russians hit the aether propeller first then that would have resulted in quite a rapid descent, even when taking into account the lower gravity of Luna. Flyers were not light, and without the lighter than air properties of liftwood to avail themselves of, a flyer would drop to the surface of Luna like a brick from the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
“Very well, Ensign, proceed with caution,” Bedford said, looking around. “I am certain we have all heard the rumours of the moon men, and there are almost certainly Russian okhrana on Luna somewhere, with secrets to protect. Ensign Challoner, take Platt, Swallow and Clements with you and search the aft.” He pointed to a particularly large tear in the flyer some feet away. “Stevenson and Miller with me. We’ll take the forward section. Be alert!”
Challoner and his team removed their jacks from the cable connecting the main team, and then split off. Stevenson was familiar with Challoner’s team, having served with some of them on previous assignments, but Miller he did not know. All he knew was the younger man troubled him. Even in his atmosphere suit it was clear Miller was twitchy. Once again Stevenson wondered at the wisdom of bringing such a man on a mission like this.
He looked up as soon as he felt it; it was as if the atmosphere suit had picked up the vibration that shuddered its way through the low gravity of Luna. Slowly, but most definitely surely, the Sovereign began to move away. The second team did not appear to notice, slipping out of sight behind a large piece of the Annabelle which had been torn off the mainframe during the crash impact. Bedford looked up.
“What the deuce?” he rumbled.
“Sir,” Stevenson said, “where are they going?”
“To investigate that glow, I suspect,” Bedford said, his tone severe. His brows knitted together, and pointed.
Stevenson looked, and sure enough, although somewhat hazy, a greenish glow could be seen over the tip of the crater’s lip. “But, sir, we only have less than an hour of air left.”
“Indeed, Mister Stevenson,” Bedford responded. For a moment he watched the Sovereign, his expression dark. Abruptly he snapped out of whatever had besieged him and reasserted his usual commanding presence. “I suggest we proceed with haste. I suspect there are oxygen supplies in the Annabelle, unless the Russians or the natives stripped the ship after it crashed.”
A reassuring thought, Stevenson considered. He looked to Miller, and offered a smile. The younger rating was perspiring badly. Somehow Stevenson doubted it was because of the heat generated by his enclosed body. Sighing inwardly, and wondering why he had to get stuck with such a sap, Stevenson led the way once again, hoping Bedford was right about the oxygen supplies, while the lieutenant took up the rear.
Stevenson lifted his carbine, nudging its nose through the rent first. Nothing, not even a hint of disturbance. Carefully he stepped through the rent and found himself in the greenhouse, cast in shadow by the Earthlight seeping through the hole in the hull. Plants of all kinds filled the area. Once having sat in their cradles, providing the oxygen needed throughout the small flyer, they lay scattered across the metal grating that served as the deck. His booted foot crunched the dirt underneath, shattering the stems of a rubber plant. One more dead plant would make no difference now, with the tears in the hull any oxygen the ship had would have long since vented out.
He stepped deeper into the greenhouse, almost feeling the nervous breath of Miller, which was very unlikely since both of them were contained by atmosphere suits. Stevenson stopped abruptly.
He had definitely felt something on the back of his neck. He twisted his head, trying to get a look at the back of his helmet, for a glimpse of whatever it was, but he could not see.
He hooked his carbine over his shoulder and reached for the bolts securing his helmet.
“Stevenson! What do you think you are doing, man?”
Stevenson blinked, and his eyes widened at the sight of his gloved fingers that were about to unbolt the helmet, exposing himself to the vacuum. He moved his hand away slowly and turned to Bedford.
“Sorry, sir, I thought I felt…”
“Pull yourself together, Stevenson,” Bedford snapped. “You have received vacuum training, you are fully aware that the oxygenated air, and the claustrophobic conditions of an atmosphere suit, can play havoc with your reasoning.”
Stevenson looked to Miller, and was struck by the sheer dread in his eyes. He had to be an example for the younger man, otherwise Miller would crack. Stevenson nodded sharply. “Yes, sir!” He turned back to the shadows ahead and took hold of the carbine again, feeling a little more reassured by the weight of the gun in his hands.
He continued on, a small part of his mind telling him that he had not imagined the sensation. Something had definitely breathed on the back of his neck.
Chapter Four
Short of Breath
1.
THE SOVEREIGN approached the dark side of the moon, following the source of the now-absent glow. It had not lasted very long, but long enough for the navigator to get a bearing. Nathanial remained standing by the window, straining for any further sign of the glow. He could feel his heart beating faster, as excitement of potential discovery overcame him. Rescuing Grant, or at least uncovering what he and the Russians were about, troubled him less than the possibility of learning the secret of the glow. He had not been asked, nor had he wanted, to come along on this mission, but now he was here the scientist in him was taking over.
“Sir,” the coxswain said, pointing,
“I believe we have located the source.”
Nathanial peered ahead, unsure as to what the helmsman was referring, and then he, too, saw it. “What is it? An entrance to an underground cavern?”
“A gorge of some kind,” Folkard said, now at Nathanial’s side. “What do you think, Professor? At least twice the length of the Sovereign?”
Nathanial considered this. The gorge seemed to sit in the heart of the basin, a dark pit into Luna. “I would estimate at least three times that, Captain.”
“Capital! In that case it is into the gorge we shall go. Fortunately the Sovereign does not use the standard solar panel apparatus atop ship, so the narrowness of the gorge should not present a problem.”
“Perhaps not, Captain, but this ship is still powered by steam and the solar panels are attached to the antenna beneath the hull. How are we supposed to draw the heat of the sun in the gorge?”
Folkard chuckled at this. “Come now, Professor, did you not tour the engine room? We do not simply use solar boilers. Have you forgot the combustion boiler? That will be in use once the heat has run its course. I must say, despite your work on the design of this ship, you do seem remarkably lacking in the understanding of how the Sovereign works.”
Nathanial glanced around the bridge, surreptitiously he thought, but he was noticed by many of the crew who were themselves sneaking glances at the two men as they conversed by the viewing window. The navigator even seemed to smirk at the captain’s berating of Nathanial.
“You seem to forget, Captain Folkard sir, that my primary role was advancing the aether propeller’s efficiency, and I had very little to do with the rest of this ship’s functions. That was the purview of Director White, not I.”
“And a good job you did of that, Professor, very good indeed. Now then,” Folkard continued, as if he had somehow proven his point, which, Nathanial thought, seemed to be to make him feel as small as possible in front of the bridge crew. Perhaps the captain, not short by any means, did not like the fact that he was almost dwarfed by Nathanial. “If the Russians were active on the surface of Luna we would have heard word of this by now, so it is logical to guess they are working out of sight, and most likely use that gorge, or one similar, as a point of entry to the caverns that are purported to exist beneath the surface.”
“Perhaps they are also in collusion with the sub-lunar natives?” Nathanial asked. Since they seemed to be in collusion with everyone else, he thought to himself with more than a streak of sarcasm.
Folkard nodded. “Quite so, Professor. Maybe less of a rumour than we have heard?” He turned to the helmsman. “Coxswain, prepare the ship to enter the gorge.”
There was the briefest of hesitation before the helmsman replied with a hearty, “Yes, sir!”
Nathanial looked curiously at the captain, who seemed to not notice the hesitation. “What of the rescue team? We are abandoning them,” he said, his tone more accusatory than he had intended. In his mind Annabelle’s lifeless corpse was now joined by that of Erasmus Stevenson. Nathanial could not countenance such losses, and if being in the Navy meant such things then he was glad that he was not a Navy man.
“Not so, Professor,” Folkard said. “Lieutenant Bedford is a resourceful chap; he will quickly ascertain my intention and adapt his mission accordingly.”
Nathanial was quiet for a moment. He did not care for the dismissive tone in Folkard’s voice, and was reminded of the way the bridge had responded when the captain had ordered the ship towards the glow. The crew were too well trained to openly question orders, but even to someone like Nathanial, who had no military blood in him whatsoever, he could feel a change in the crew. It was almost of if they were all uncertain of their captain, but this did not stop them carrying out his orders.
“Then I trust to your faith in your officer, Captain Folkard,” Nathanial said shortly. What choice did he really have? Besides which he had been around Folkard for some time now, and believed he was starting to understand the captain a little. This was likely another of his tests.
“As you should, Professor, as indeed you should, after all your safety, and possibly that of Miss Somerset, lies in the hands of me and my crew.”
2.
GEORGE BEDFORD had his eye on Ordinary Seaman Stevenson; there was something about the lad he did not trust, and he still could not figure it out. It was much the same with Professor Stone, which disconcerted Bedford. He liked to have the cut of a man’s gib, but with Stone it was not his concern since the professor was a guest of Captain Folkard and thus not his responsibility, but the personnel on the ship were very much Bedford’s concern. He had to trust, implicitly trust, those who worked beneath him on his ship, and Stevenson was something of a mystery. He came recommended highly enough, the boatswain had served with him before on their previous assignment, and thus far Stevenson had given no reason for Bedford’s ill feeling. Nonetheless, still it was there. So far Stevenson had performed admirably; taken the lead on more than one occasion. He was good officer material. Even now he led the way as they walked through the damaged flyer, his carbine held before him.
In Bedford’s experience, though, most men proved to be brave when they held a weapon in their hands; even cowards. It was as if by the very presence of a tool of death they tapped into something primal. Bedford had never been a believer in God, despite his parents’ continued attempt to instil in him strong Christian values, and when he had discovered a copy of Darwin’s book at the inquisitive age of fourteen so much had made sense to him. All one had to do was look around, see what was happening on Mars between the Red Devils and the Earthmen. He was reminded of Mister Kipling who, upon returning from Mars, had a poem published in The Times only a few months ago; Earth Man’s Burden.
“Take up the Earth Man’s burden,
Send forth the best ye breed.
Go bind your sons to exile,
To serve your captives needs;
To wait in heavy harness,
On fluttered folk and wild.
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Red Devil and Earth Child.”
The poem went on to describe the need for the people of Earth to go out and educate and spread their culture among the natives of the other worlds. It was something Bedford agreed with wholeheartedly; mankind was born to be superior to all of nature.
Which brought him back to Stevenson. This was a young man who knew the truth, who saw the nature of man. He took to the ladder fearlessly, regardless of the potential risk of entering the vacuum in only an atmosphere suit, when more experienced ratings stood to one side, hesitating. Now, despite, of perhaps because of, the risk he led the way through the wreckage. Perhaps armed Russian okhrana awaited them in the shadows, or maybe even those moon men of which they heard such horrific tales. Cautious Stevenson may have been, but if his reactions were not extra sharp he would soon fall before a superior force if one awaited them. Yet onwards he continued.
Certainly something about Stevenson did not sit well with Bedford, but he was developing a growing respect for the young man. Miller, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Still too fresh, but ideal material for shaping into the kind of officer Bedford himself had become over the years. In fact, Miller reminded him a little of himself at sixteen, before he had met Jacob Folkard. Back then, twenty years ago, Folkard had been very much like Stevenson, officer material from the moment he stepped aboard ship. A pity his discipline had declined with his age.
The lab had been empty of bodies, just more collateral damage. Bedford had little interest in the advance of science, except for where it contributed to the continued might of the British Empire, but he expected that Doctor Grant’s flyer would have a well-stocked laboratory, and he was not disappointed. Bedford could not identify most of the equipment, although he was certain he did see a new ratchet-operated aether wheel. Smaller than the one on the Sovereign bridge, but Bedford would wager it was no doubt a more advanced design. They soon continued on, through the common area to search th
e captain’s quarters. At least, to Bedford’s mind the small room on the port side would have been the captain’s quarters had this been a more official ship, but as it stood it was quite clear that the room they had entered was the personal quarters of Doctor Grant.
The room was, as anticipated, quite a state. Papers lay strewn across the floor, the cot ripped from its moorings.
Once more there was little of interest to Bedford, but Stevenson had other ideas. He walked deeper into the room, to peruse the scattered papers. After a few moments, and mindful of the depleting supplies of oxygen, Bedford stepped further into the room, leaving the ever-nervous Miller on guard at the door, and tapped Stevenson on the shoulder.
“If you are quite finished, Mister Stevenson, may I remind you that we are not here to gather information, but rather to discover if Miss Somerset survived the crash.”
“Yes, sir,” Stevenson said, looking up from the papers, “sorry, sir, but it occurs to me that if Miss Somerset is not here then we can at least return to the Sovereign with information that may be of some help to Professor Stone.”
Bedford had to admit, to himself at least, that he approved. “Be that as it may, we have only a limited supply of oxygen…”
“That’s the thing, though, Lieutenant,” Stevenson said quickly, and Bedford did not much care for the interruption, but he did not draw attention to it, after all it would be good for Miller to see the difference between a seaman out of his depth and a seaman born to be an officer. “According to these notes we may not need to find extra canisters,” Stevenson pointed out.
Now Bedford’s interest was piqued. “If you would care to explain?”
“According to Doctor Grant’s notes here, there would appear to be several grottoes and caverns beneath the surface with a gravity of thirty percent to Earth’s. That’s only ten percent less than Mercury, unless I am much mistaken.”
Journey to the Heart of Luna Page 7