series 01 06 Dark Side of Luna

by J. T. Wilson

  Chapter Four

  “Captured!”

  1.

  (1882)

  IT WAS four or five hours past sunset, and most of the soldiers were asleep, but a small fire and its circle of light identified a sentry post.

  “I want my mommy! I want my daddy!” Annabelle bawled as she staggered toward the light

  “Hey, hey, li’l’ girl, whoa there,” a young cavalry trooper called as he and a comrade rushed toward her. “What happened to your mom and dad?”

  “I don’t know,” wailed Annabelle, before descending into incoherent sobs. “We were in the mountains and then we―we―ˮ

  “In the mountains?” said the older one doubtfully. “Why, they must be five miles from here! You bin wanderin’ all night, young lady?”

  She nodded as the younger sentry offered her his handkerchief. “I don’t know what happened, one minute we were having lunch and then―ˮ She trailed off into further sobs.

  The two sentries turned to one another. “I don’t see how she coulda got this far out on her own,” said the older of the two. “Why, the only people who’re normally around this area are Apach―ˮ But he was afforded no opportunity to complete the thought, as at that moment an arrow pierced his throat.

  Realising too late the treachery, the younger sentry turned sharply on his heel so that he might run back to camp and warn the men, only to be caught in the skull by an arrow from the opposite direction. Annabelle watched him fall, then saw flaming arrows streak through the night, turning canvas tents into infernos, and saw men, some on fire, cut down by arrows as they scrambled from their burning shelters.

  2.

  I SHOULD have warned them, Annabelle told herself. She should have remembered the Apache trap, should have told them to watch the ground nearby, send only one man to check the bodies, keep their guns trained on any spot of cover. It all came flooding back now. Too late!

  Such was the mortification which Annabelle Somerset found herself in the throes of. She hobbled downstream alongside the River of Life, to the point where her companions had lately been snatched. It was scarcely her fault that the men had been taken, of course: however, Annabelle should have recognised a ruse of this nature when she saw one and she held herself accountable for failing to do so. Had she been wise enough to recall the horrors of her youth, some good men could have been saved. What was the point of having lived through that experience if she could not now gain value from it?

  There was no question of her exposing her despair to these men; it was scarcely appropriate to break down in tears around men she had known a matter of hours. She would simply have to deal with her pain in the same manner as the Englishmen themselves would: by internalising it, however much she felt the need to weep, for her parents, drawn into a trap of a similar nature; for Nathanial, her companion over the last seven months, now seized by forces she could hardly begin to comprehend and who she felt she may never see again; for the men who she barely knew and who were largely innocent. They had, all of them, been drawn into a life that had known nothing but death and pain at every turn, from the killing of her parents by the Chiricahua to the death of Kak’hamish on Mars. Would that George Bedford had been here! Annabelle had no doubt that a word from him would have set her mind at ease.

  No. Better for him to remain as far away from the death pall which seemed to touch all those who grew close to her.

  She swallowed her emotions down. As she did, Annabelle watched and listened as the remaining men and Selenites considered their options.

  “My God! What were they?” asked Gibbs, one of the sailors of the rearguard.

  “Why not ask the ant man?” growled Henry, turning on K’chuk. “You’re from this Godforsaken place, aren’t you? Probably they’re your allies.”

  K’chuk veritably bristled at such a slur. “Not friends of Selenites! Enemies of our people. Take Selenites. Make Selenites work. Not friends. We will fight them!”

  At this exchange of raised voices, Annabelle regained her composure. “Henry, do settle down, dear man. It’s clear that these creatures are no allies of the Selenites. K’chuk, when last we were on Luna and these men we found here dead first disappeared, you spoke of Drobates. Are the creatures we saw Drobates and can such creatures be defeated?”

  “Yes, Drobates very bad, but can die,” K’chuk said. “Many have. But they are…” He struggled for the appropriate word. “They…cannot be seen. Do not fight fair. Five Selenites can beat five…” He again paused, but on this occasion it appeared that this was no language barrier, rather a refusal to speak of the creatures, almost as though to do so would be to utter an unspeakable oath.

  “I do agree with the ant about that,” said Henry. “If we surprise them, they’ll have to fight fair. I fancy my chances against those things,” he added, pounding his right fist into his left palm to illustrate his fighting credentials.

  “Did they look as if they would fight fair?” asked Annabelle, quenching the blood lust. “We must be realistic, gentlemen. These Drobates, then, are superbly organised, outnumber us by at least three to one, and will doubtless lead Captain Folkard and his men to a place where they outnumber us further still. A skirmish would simply be impractical.”

  “That’s fine,” Charles finally said. “Everyone’s had their chance to say their piece, have they? Lots of talk about will they fight fair, won’t they fight fair? Lots of brandishing of fists there, Henry. But look at that dead ’un the Cap’n took down. T’wasn’t a fist did that; it was a four-seven-six Enfield bullet between the eyes. I don’t give a tinker’s damn whether they fight fair or not; we ain’t gonna, understand? They like to fight close in. Don’t let ’em. Cap’n filled our pockets with Enfield cartridges, so by God we’ll fill their bellies with ’em.”

  “Aye,” O’Hara said, his first word since the attack. It came out as a low growl and he hefted his revolver. Annabelle looked at his face and saw narrow eyes and a thin-lipped, grim mouth. For all Henry’s imposing physical size, O’Hara, the smallest of the sailors present, was the more dangerous man. Dangerous men were a subject about which Annabelle knew a great deal.

  “I guess they think they have all of us,” Charles went on. “We use that, see? We follow at a distance; find out where they take the Cap’n and the others. Looks to me as if they took them right into the river, but that don’t make sense.”

  “Could they have drowned?” Annabelle asked, hurrying to the edge of the river and peering into the water.

  “Not in water,” K’chuk said. “Travel under water. They go that way.” At this last, he pointed to the ripples and bubbles forming in the water some distance away from them.

  “We move on foot,” Charles commanded. “Follow the water and make the best time Miss Somerset can manage.”

  Taking the only option available, the group marched down-river in the direction the strange creatures of Luna had gone, preparing to fight an unknown foe.

  3.

  IN THE docking bay of Sovereign, George Bedford faced an unknown foe of his own. Five in number, the invaders regarded the humans with an unpleasant curiosity as they advanced, in much the same way that a cat may size up an unusual bird with a view to its dismemberment.

  “Good Lord, Lieutenant! What are these things?” asked the bosun.

  “Selenites. Of a sort. Quite unlike those I’ve seen before, though,” Bedford replied uncertainly as he backed cautiously away from them. They certainly looked menacing enough, but were they actually hostile? It wouldn’t do to gun down the first representatives of a new tribe of Selenites just because they looked frightening, and then find out they were ambassadors of peace. His eyes were drawn to a gleam of light coming from the tarsal claw of the Selenite at the far end of the party. It clutched something that looked familiar. “Take cover!” He barked, and the four of them scattered behind winches and crates of engine parts. As they did, a loud report echoed through the dock, although the sound of the ricochet came from several feet to Bedford’s right. He tu
rned his eyes back to the Selenite invaders. “Well, that’s a hostile act, I’d say, and with a Berdan Model 1870. Open fire, Mister Barry!”

  Bedford and Barry each put several bullets into the two Selenite-types wielding firearms, clearly inexperienced marksmen, as the other three monstrosities charged them. The Selenite’s mandibles snapped horribly, hungry for the kill. Bedford realised quickly that brawling with these creatures would be suicidal: six limbs, six stone of extra weight, armour plate, and mandibles made the contest decidedly uneven. As one of the onrushing Selenites thrust at him, he aimed a revolver bullet into its knee. The creature stumbled momentarily, before aiming a powerful snap to Bedford’s head. Bedford lurched back and fired a bullet into the eye of the ant, which, now lifeless but carried forward by momentum, crashed into him and sent him sprawling.

  Pushing his fallen opponent aside, he turned to see the two ratings grappling with the other ants while Barry tried to reload his revolver with trembling hands. The bosun swung his spanner with both hands, bringing it down with a powerful overhead blow into the forehead of the attacking red Selenite, which crushed the creature’s head and brought it to the deck in a spray of vile fluids. Beyond him the other rating struggled in the grip of the remaining ant’s mandibles, plunging his screwdriver again and again into its eye and skull. Bedford took careful aim and fired a bullet into the ant’s thorax, which staggered it, and then he fired another which brought it down.

  “Lieutenant Barry, inspect the cutter for any more of those creatures,” Bedford instructed the officer of the watch. “In the event that we are now relieved of the company of these monsters, please arrange for the disposal of these bodies.” Barry finished loading his revolver and clicked it shut before advancing on the open hatchway

  “Tempting to put their heads on spikes or summat. Send ’em a message,” the bosun offered, although Bedford did not intend to let any other intruders get close enough to appreciate the display.

  He walked over to the seaman who a moment earlier had been held aloft by an ant, and who now stood looking at the gore-covered screwdriver in his hand. “Able Seaman Platt, that was a close call. It would seem trips to Luna do not agree with you. Do you need to attend the infirmary?” Bedford asked, noticing the spreading red stain on Platt’s jumper. “Get Doctor Beverly here at once,” he shouted to a group of sailors who had heard the sounds of gunfire, but who had arrived too late to contribute to the fight. He lifted Platt’s jumper and realised immediately that Beverly would stand no chance of rescuing the seaman. The mandibles of the Selenite had evidently connected inside his abdominal cavity.

  Platt’s eyes turned to him as the colour drained from his face. “Thank you, sir. Those were two good shots.” His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed. “Damn this rock!”

  Bedford grabbed him and lowered him to the deck, but by the time he finished doing so the seaman no longer had a pulse. It was amazing that Platt, having suffered the wound, had been able to fight at the ant at all, or stand here. He had died heroically. The Admiralty didn’t award posthumous decorations, except for the Victoria Cross, and they’d never approve that for this action. Still, Bedford would mention the lad in his dispatch, and his family and all their friends could read their boy’s name, and what he’d done, in the London Gazette. Nothing the Admiralty could do to stop a mention in dispatches.

  “Barry, is the cutter empty?”

  “Seems to be, Lieutenant,” the officer replied. “No sign of those devils.”

  Bedford nodded. There was no telling what had befallen Ainsworth or the others, but clearly someone had trained at least one of these Selenites to pilot a cutter, and then armed them, albeit indifferently, for an attack. That they were armed with Russian Berdans, which he had recognised from the distinctive pear-shaped bolt handle of the Model 1870, provided more than a hint as to the architects of the scheme. He hardly believed that a contingent of five would be dispatched and realistically be expected to overthrow a ship of the size of Sovereign. No, this was clearly a diversion, an attempt to keep Sovereign’s personnel off balance and in a defensive posture. There was a peculiarity about this group, in both its hostile manner and its nauseating appearance, which he did not like. Well, if they wished to engage in psychological warfare, they would find no purchase with George Bedford.

  “Sub-Lieutenant Barry,” he called.

  “Sir!”

  “Back to the bridge and sound action stations, if you please. Then give Lieutenant Blake and Major Larkins my compliments and have them join me here.”

  4.

  HIS LOCATION was a mystery. The group had, each of them, been knocked unconscious by a blow by some blunt instrument. By the time they regained consciousness, they found themselves on the beach of a large island, and doused with water to revive them. How far from their colleagues they had travelled, and by what method, none of them could say. As for the present, however, they found themselves dragged into consciousness and marched towards a nearby group of buildings. Every one of the buildings was austere, made of carved stone blocks, devoid of windows or character. It seemed that their captors had no spoken language; Folkard gestured to his comrades to remain silent themselves, aware that it did not necessarily follow that their captors were deaf or ignorant of the English language.

  As to their captors, the bipedal creatures’ physiques were roughly akin to human. The dimensions, however, differed grotesquely. The skull was longer, with an extended forehead, while the length of their arms exceeded that of their legs. Together with the shape of their craniums, they were ape-like in appearance. It was clear by sight alone, however, that this simian appearance was not coupled with an intellect comparable to the baboon. Their eyes betrayed an intelligence and complexity of a superior race. Most striking of all their features, however, was in the tone of their skin. It was of a faintly bluish cast, yet the colour was pale enough to give them an almost translucent quality, revealing a network of veins and arteries below the surface. They wore tunics made of a material one would call silk were it not for its singular iridescence. Their overall appearance was at once both fascinating and repellent. Clearly these creatures were not the same as the half-man half-ant skeleton seen earlier by the river.

  When they reached the buildings, they found themselves rudely bustled into a large chamber of substantial depth and height which already contained a dozen human prisoners, and perhaps a score of Selenites. The men were gaunt, with long beards and hair, and dressed in rags. Folkard heard some of them exchange quiet remarks in Russian. He was not so able to tell the physical condition of the Selenites, although they did not display the same rich coloration or energetic movements of K’chuk and his companions. There were also, he noticed, a few Selenites of a different sort, ant-like in overall form but different in coloration and other anatomical details.

  While the prisoners were allowed to mingle as they pleased, it was notable that each group kept their own counsel. The dejected expressions on the men and the downbeat body language of the Selenites indicated beings who had been imprisoned for some time, to say nothing of the reek of putrescence which recalled the most rancid inner-city gaol. A disturbing number of the group appeared to be crippled in some respect, or else lunatics. Beyond the wailings and soliloquies of the insane, however, the most lucid of the group remained eerily silent.

  Folkard took it as a given from the despondent atmosphere that any attempts at remonstrating or even bargaining with their kidnappers would be futile. Instead, he reasoned that it would be worthwhile seeing whether any of the group―be they Selenite or even Russians―would be willing to lay differences aside for the sake of escape from these dread creatures.

  McKittrick appeared to be demonstrating signs of mental strain already and he had no intention of allowing the man to slip further into the abyss of mental incapacity.

  “Do any of this group speak English?” Folkard barked. There were feeble cries from the back of the hall, barely audible over the groaning of the insane, which ha
d to be taken in the affirmative. “No more? Very well. I am Captain Jacob Folkard, of Her Majesty’s Aether Ship Sovereign. It is not my intention that we linger in this glorified school dining hall longer than necessary. I shall need some information first in order to facilitate an escape.”

  5.

  NATHANIAL RAISED an eyebrow at the obvious optimism of Folkard. He recalled being in a similar situation on their last adventure on Luna, which led to him and K’chuk attempting to navigate a mining vehicle while Folkard impersonated a Russian sub-lieutenant. Such adventures seemed almost quaint now. Though it was less than a year since he first set foot on Sovereign, he had seen and done so much in that time that it were as if twenty years had passed. Compared with the ordeals of dragging a delirious woman across the Martian desert, unlocking a mystery on a space station and confronting dinosaurs on Venus, sitting in a mining vehicle with an excitable ant seemed like small change. The unnecessary cost of human life had moved him deeply and left him acutely sensitive to the uselessness of hostility. He decided he should make a resolution: only when it was absolutely necessary was he prepared to do battle. Of course, that necessity seemed to be occurring more frequently than he was strictly content with. This would never happen in Putney.

  “Who here can tell me of the enemy we face?” Folkard demanded.

  “They call themselves the Drobates, sir,” replied a distantly familiar voice.

  It was a voice that Nathanial had heard before and he found himself so preoccupied with the voice of the speaker that he could barely comprehend the words. The voice was one that he felt he surely must be imagining; a voice from beyond the grave, perhaps, or at least that of a man long since disappeared. That there was the possibility that the voice was not merely imaginary but was, indeed, the real voice of a man with whom he could finally enjoy a reunion…why, his heart leapt to even contemplate it! He could barely conceal a smile.