20 Million Leagues Over the Sea

by K. T. Hunter

  She nodded. Discovery was always a danger no matter the mission, and she still wasn't entirely sure she could trust this man. She was entirely at his mercy, and there was nothing else to do but trust him.

  "There is something else you can do for me," he said.

  He pulled two thick ledgers out of the pile and handed them to her. The one on top was ancient, tattered, and smelt of the sea.

  "When you have a moment, I have a slight mystery for you to help me solve. Hui has his pet projects, and I have mine. Here are two different accounts of events revolving around a certain man of personal interest to me. One was written by my mentor, Professor Aronnax. Captain Moreau has carried it with him for many years. Now it is in your care. The other is written by a source that is not quite as familiar to the public. I want you to read them both and tell me what discrepancies you find, if any. If you find any -- and I believe you shall -- I'd like for you to help me resolve them. You've spent your life gathering and calculating data for others. Let's see if you can draw any conclusions worth a damn. It is a separate issue from the Code of Life, but it does have a little bearing on our situation. You can read French, I take it?"

  She nodded as she clasped the books to her. Was he handing her busywork or the keys to the kingdom? She was a Brightman Girl pretending to be a geologist on a ship sailing the sky to Mars. Right now, anything was possible.

  "Good. At least Petunia taught you something useful. You may keep them here until after the moon crossing party. No need to lug those beasts about." He took out his pocket watch and studied the time for a moment, lingering to gaze at its interior. "In fact, let's knock off early today. It's just about time for the moon-crossing party, anyway. It will go all afternoon through the duty shift changes so everyone can go at some point," he remarked. "It seems that my initial assessment of this mission was inaccurate. This particular war seems to be an endless set of tea parties, after all."

  ~~~~

  Christophe

  "Welcome back to the Fury, gentlemen," Christophe said to the dozen midshipmen gathered around his conference table. "And welcome back to officer training. Mr. Cervantes and I look forward to continuing your education. We can't let your fellows back at the Academy pass you up." He tapped the tattered copy of The Influence of Sea Power Upon History resting in front of him. "It's been a busy few weeks since we last met, but you should have found time to read the first section of Admiral Mahan here. Yes, Mr. Dreyfus."

  The third junior officer to his left spoke in a Parisian accent. "Oui, I mean, yes, sir, I have read it. But I must wonder, what use will it be? How can nautical maneuvers be relevant out here?"

  "Captain, I must agree," added the fellow across from Dreyfus, Mr. Adebayo, who stroked the spine of his own book with elegant brown fingers. "He was required reading at the Nigerian naval academy as well. His analysis of the battle of Trafalgar is useful for warfare in the Mediterranean, but not in space."

  Christophe perched on the edge of the table behind him and beamed his smile across the group. He winked at Cervantes as he remembered their own debates on this very issue over cold bottles of ale on the Kiwi. "Excellent question. Does anyone have an answer for Mr. Adebayo and Mr. Dreyfus?"

  Silence reflected the same question in the eyes of the middies, from Desai and Holomek all the way back to Alatas and Owen at the far end of the table.

  "Mahan himself tells us in the first section." Christophe closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing his faculties to retrieve the proper memory. "'The theatre of war may be larger or smaller, its difficulties more or less pronounced, the contending armies more or less great, the necessary movements more or less easy, but these are simply differences of scale, of degree, not of kind.'"

  Christophe shared a knowing look with his first mate. He brandished the book before the group. "We certainly have changed our theatre, gentlemen, but good strategy is good strategy. That is what Mahan is trying to tell us. Our tactics may have to change as our vessels and weapons change, but the wisdom of cutting off your opponent's communications before they can cut off yours still holds water, even out here. Yes, Mr. Holomek?"

  "But how can we do that? We don't entirely understand how they communicate, aside from the telepathic theory. We cannot interfere with their wireless, because they do not use it. I mean, how do you stop someone from speaking with their mind?"

  "Again, that falls under tactics," Christophe said. "Tactics that we will have to work out ourselves. We have to start somewhere, though, and Mahan is the best source we have. As for the rest, well, we're working on it. And perhaps one of us in this very room will write The Influence of Space Power Upon History."

  Cervantes added, "We are off the map, gentlemen, and we must chart our own way from here. Therein lies the danger."

  "And the glory!" Christophe added. "It is the price we pay for our place in history. We are the first to study matters astronautical, to explore the celestime, as it were, rather than the maritime."

  Cervantes joined in, as if on cue. "We intend to build upon, rather than replace, the existing principles of war. They may be all that will save us."

  "Can they save us if the Martians meet us en route?" asked Dreyfus. "Even though we have only one ship?"

  "There are advantages in any situation, if you look for them," Cervantes replied. "We may be more difficult to detect than a fleet would be. And they may not consider a single ship a threat. Their cylinders were mostly ballistic in nature and had only basic thrusters. We can out-maneuver them quite easily. Also, our weapons' payload is self-propagating, so we don't need as many bombs to have the same impact."

  "Can these strategies save us if there is someone else out here besides the Martians?" Holomek asked. "Or if they have ships other than the cylinders? Built from the other plans we found with them?"

  "Or if we collide with a growler? Or run out of fuel?" asked Alatas.

  "Could they have worked on the moon?" Owen had a catch in his voice. "Could they have saved Karl?"

  Christophe willed his face into a neutral expression before he locked eyes with the younger man, who had been Karl's closest friend on the maiden voyage. He could see the late midshipman's face clearly in Owen's eyes, as clearly as he saw the silhouette on the cameo that Frau Knopf wore around her throat every day.

  "No. We weren't at war with the sun," Christophe replied in a cool and even voice, "any more than foundering tall ships were at war with the icebergs that sank them. The strategies for dealing with Nature are entirely different. In fact, sometimes the best you can do is get out of Her way. We have found that in space, without the protection of Earth's atmosphere and magnetic field, doing so is far more difficult."

  Cervantes added, "It was our collective ignorance of what lies out here that took our friends from us. We could not save Karl or the rest of them then, but that experience can save us now. And so can the experiences of others. In that light, let us continue with Mahan. What can we learn from Nelson and the Battle of the Nile?"

  After an hour of Christophe rattling off pages of prose and Cervantes interpreting him, the middies filed out of the room and headed for their various duty stations. Christophe collapsed into the chair at the head of the table and rubbed the bridge of his nose. As he fought the urge to take a nap before his next watch, he felt Cervantes' gaze upon him.

  "Are you all right?" the first mate asked.

  "Well, it is the one question on everybody's mind, isn't it? They had to ask it, sooner or later. They have a right to ask it. Whether they believe my answer or not is another story."

  "I know that, amigo. But do you believe your answer?" He stepped over to the plaque mounted on the wall behind Adebayo's chair. The memorial plaque, the one that was too large and contained too many names, thumped against the bulkhead as Cervantes ran his index finger across the name Karl Knopf, Midshipman.

  "What do you want me to do? Order them to forget what happened? I can't command their feelings."

  "They should never forget what happene
d. And neither should you. It will keep them alive, every time those blue lights come on," Cervantes said as he ambled around the conference table. He stopped in front of the opposite wall and rested his hand on the mural of ships carved into it. "Yes, they do doubt. What we are doing dances on the line between courage and idiocy. But they are all volunteers, and they are still here. And so am I."

  Christophe chuckled and swung his long legs onto the top of the table. "Of course you are. You're the next Mahan!" Crossing his ankles, he continued, "I wouldn't dream of venturing without you, Miguel. You keep me grounded. Though out here that is in a purely metaphorical sense, of course."

  "Of course! Well, someone has to steer the ship while you give the ladies the Cook's Tour," Cervantes replied with the barest hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. "Besides, I wouldn't let you tilt at windmills without me."

  "Is that what we're doing? Tilting at windmills?"

  "From a certain point a view. We're voyagers in a universe that is trying its damnedest to kill us. That's why they are celebrating the moon crossing today. Why it's a crew party and not one of Wallace's. Because we have learned from this." He tapped the image of the Fury. "And because we have made it this far, this time."

  "Blast! The party! I nearly forgot!" Christophe leapt out of the chair and pulled out his watch. "Do you think the Cohort will be there?"

  "I'm certain Elias will have some of them in tow." Cervantes squinted at him with questioning eyes. "Wait, you're not planning to--"

  "When does it start?"

  "Ten minutes ago."

  The urge to nap dissipated, and Christophe burst out of the room, barely hearing Cervantes' shouted reminder that the party was not in the parlour this time.

  ~~~~

  Gemma

  As they made their way through the ship, Gemma and Dr. Pugh passed clusters of sailors hovering in the corridors. A current of unease flowed through their chatter.

  "Why are they so nervous?" Gemma whispered to Pugh. "It is just a party, isn't it? No hazing or anything?"

  "They are almost to the moon, and they haven't had a glitch yet."

  "A glitch?"

  He chuckled. "Nautical folk have always been a superstitious lot. Those who sail the solar winds, doubly so. On the maiden voyage, everything went swimmingly until the return trip, and they are afraid if they don't have a small glitch now, at the beginning, then something much worse will happen later. It doesn't help that there are women aboard."

  Gemma stopped in her tracks and looked up at him. She very nearly stomped her foot. "What on Earth -- pardon me, that sounds silly now -- why would that be a problem?"

  "Oh, long-standing tradition, you know. Women were thought to be bad luck back in the days of the old wooden ships. We had to jump through several hoops to convince the crew at large to let Caroline and Frau Knopf on the lunar voyage without complaint. Perhaps they were afraid that the ladies would spend too much time mooning over the captain to get their work done."

  "What rubbish," she replied with a crisp snort. She took off down the corridor again at a quick march.

  Pugh's cackling laughter echoed down the corridor. "That's what I like about you, Llewellyn. You are completely unencumbered by notions of romance." His long legs soon caught him up with her, even with his usual languorous strides. "In fact, it's your one redeeming quality."

  "I'll take that as a compliment, Dr. Pugh." Notions of romance were the last thing she needed.

  As they crossed the orrery's threshold, Caroline greeted them at the door with a handful of red and white bunting. Nigel was polishing the brass pole that held up Venus, and he was in high spirits.

  "So, it seems we shall get past the moon at last," Nigel said as he walked past her, his voice heavy with relief. He twirled his polishing rag in the air like a noisemaker. "So far, so good. The Oberths are purring along, no fights amongst the crew, and the goats have escaped their pen only once so far! It's going swimmingly. Just wish we'd have one small hitch before we cross the line. I'd be more at ease."

  There were only a handful of crewmen in the chamber so far, but more could be heard coming down the hallway. They were joking and singing songs bawdy enough to indicate that Mr. Wallace was not yet in sight, and they were dressed in a mix of duty uniforms and civilian ensembles. Mr. Rathbone pulled a fiddle out of its case and tuned it, and Frau Knopf put the finishing touches on a table brimming with pastries.

  The diminutive Thunder Child's Fury had indeed moved since her last visit. The pale ball of a moon was almost between the Earth and the sun, nearly on the other side of the planet from them. The miniscule ship, which was crawling away from Earth at a snail's pace, was just about to pass the imaginary circle traced by the slender pole holding the lunar sphere. The atmosphere held all the crackle and energy of a New Year's Eve party where everyone prayed that midnight actually arrived.

  Gemma had attended many parties in her day, but they were usually working parties for her: a bit of sleeping potion in champagne here, a bit of seduction there with a strategically placed fan or teasing glimpse of ankle, or simply the proper choice of words in the proper ear. And now twice in a week she was attending a party at which she was merely a guest. She wasn't sure what to do, so she dropped into her observational mode and scanned the room, in case there was some clue about Orion there, other than the one on the ceiling.

  Mr. Humboldt ambled along the brass pathway of Earth's orbit, on the other side of the sun from the rest of the group. He wore a cobbled-together ensemble consisting of a wrinkled wool waistcoat that had last seen daylight before the Martians had landed and a pair of ghastly jacquard-woven purple and green paisley pants. They had been meant as a rebellion against the Ministry of Culture's fashion guidelines, but they were so cruel to the eyes that even the Rational Dress Society would not defend them.

  Humboldt stumbled a bit as he came around the track, further soiling his poorly tied ascot with his spilt drink. Gemma suspected that there was more than just tea in his cup. He staggered up to Caroline, who had finished with the bunting and returned to the circle of planets. With the hairs on the back of her neck rippling across her skin, Gemma slipped over to join their conversation.

  "Scuttlebutt has it that Pugh raised him," he said in an exaggerated whisper. "Adopted him, you might say. Found him, see, in what was left of Luxembourg City after the Invasion. They got hit hard by the Black Smoke. Almost nobody left. Dr. Pugh was in the first group they allowed in after the tentacle-heads died. He either found him, or found his mother about to give birth to him. Not sure which."

  "So Cap'n's an Orphan?" Caroline asked, with a bit of water gathering in one eye. There was a quiver in her voice, and she rested her fingers on her chest. "Like us?"

  He hesitated before answering. His eyes darted right and left, as if looking for the subject of his conversation, who was not yet in the room.

  Gemma desperately wished that Caroline had not asked Humboldt about what was obviously her favourite topic. She squinted at him in warning, but he ignored the look and kept talking, enjoying his enraptured audience.

  "Well, like you and Nigel, yes. Sort of. But bloody rich, though. There was a lot of bees and honey in that city before the Invasion, if you take m'meanin', and most of the buildings was still standing when it was all over. Just the folks was dead. The gold was still there, see, and they took it all."

  More crewmembers filtered into the orrery, bringing a murmur of treasure and adventure with them, as well as the low-grade anxiety about the lack of any incident so far. Their mutterings echoed among the planetary flowers in Nigel's little garden. Some of them cast ogling looks in Gemma's direction.

  Mr. Rathbone played the opening bars of a tune, "Jack Star's Shanty", which had been a popular number at the Cirque du Lune. Nigel sang the shantyman's portion in a surprisingly agreeable voice while others called back the chorus.

  Humboldt's gaze flickered over to his crewmates before he waddled over to the turning orb of the Earth and stabbed his
finger in the general direction of Western Europe.

  "Why d'you think the TIA picked it as their headquarters? Didn't have a lot of building to do, just clean up and move in. Turned from a ghost town into a bloody world capital. Where do you think the money to fund this mission comes from? The Crown contributed some, so did the Vatican Bank, sure, but most of it came from the TIA proper. It ain't got no taxin' power, and there's no tributes nor aid from the rebuildin' countries. It's all found gold and profits, see? In fact, I hear that the TIA is sending aid to them."

  He leaned in closer and nudged Gemma's upper arm with his elbow. Ignoring her smouldering don't-touch-me stare, he blathered on. "I think they gave him a big allowance out of it. He's got his own little boat, y'see, what they call the Kiwi Clipper."

  He leaned still closer to Gemma. She wrinkled her nose at the close proximity of his liquour-laden breath and his hair pomade. Faint flashes of the face of the Man from Shanghai flickered in the back of her mind. That man had smelled of the same pomade. She stiffened out of pure instinct.

  "Must've been the same time you was learnin' how to dance, love." He grasped Gemma's wrist. She could feel white heat pricking the back her eyeballs. She couldn't stand for him to bring that up, not again, especially in front of Caroline.

  "Don't touch me," Gemma growled in tones low and dangerous.

  Caroline started at the sound of it, but Humboldt just chuckled and held on. He waggled his shaggy eyebrows at the young Boolean. Every word he spoke brought the ghost of Shangai closer.