by J. T. Wilson
Only the exercising of decorum prevented Nathanial from racing to the back of the hall to embrace his friend. Hardly wishing to risk the mocking of the captain, however, Nathanial adopted a brisk walk in line with Folkard in the direction of the voice.
What he saw was beyond his wildest imagination. There, indeed, was Ordinary Seaman Erasmus Stevenson. Seven months older, of course, rather gaunter than Nathanial remembered and wearing the scars of his ordeal with the Drobates; however there was no mistaking the man who Nathanial had befriended on his first space-faring mission.
Upon seeing Folkard, Stevenson presented his captain with a brief salute, suggesting that it was proving rather an effort even to lift his arm.
“Stevenson! By God! A pleasure to see you again, man!” Folkard said, putting Stevenson at ease.
“Can it be? I hardly expected I would clap eyes on you again in this life,” Nathanial said, taking Stevenson’s hand in a firm handshake.
“Nath…” Stevenson coughed, and resumed with a weak smile, his blue eyes dulled. “Professor Stone, as you see, I live.”
Nathanial felt an overwhelming relief that his friend was safe and that Stevenson even remembered Nathanial at all. To think of the things he must have been through!
McKittrick, reaching the front, was keen to add his commentary to proceedings. “When we saw what had happened to Challoner and Clements…”
“Yes, I think Ordinary Seaman Stevenson understands our point, Mister McKittrick,” interjected Folkard. The man was clearly in no position to learn of the dreadful fate of his comrades. “How have you survived these long months, Stevenson? I imagine you’ve had quite an ordeal.”
“To say the least, Captain Folkard,” nodded Stevenson. “I rather fancy that were it not for an inherent ability to understand these awful creatures, I would have been left for dead by now.” He scanned the group: four familiar, one unknown. “Perhaps you have felt likewise? A feeling as though a key has been held against the nape of one’s neck?”
The group’s brows in one movement knotted in confusion, save for that of Folkard, who nodded. “I have experienced this feeling, Stevenson; more than once, in fact.”
Stevenson nodded. “Some men can feel it, some cannot. I can’t suggest why that is. Professor Stone, have you any suggestions?”
Nathanial shook his head. “Perhaps after more observation I might be able to give my opinions. I cannot formulate a theory without data. Mister Stevenson, can you tell me more?”
“Perhaps it might be best,” said Folkard, “if Stevenson were to tell us about his unexpected sojourn with these Drobates. What can you tell us?”
Stevenson, however, had no opportunity to obey his captain, as it was at this point that the Drobates returned to the chamber.
They surveyed their prisoners with a contemptuous air. There were perhaps thirty who had been shepherded into this awful compound, against a mere five Drobates. It would seem that, if the group gathered together, they would overwhelm this small detachment. Yet it was clear that none of the prisoners dared to attempt a confrontation with their captors: too weak, it appeared, either physically or mentally, or perhaps wary after unsuccessful attempts in the past. There was also the matter of the unusual weapons that the Drobates held. These had an appearance roughly akin to a carbine, but with a uniquely large magazine and a mysterious metallic coil wrapped around the barrel. Sheathed on a belt around the waists of the moon men were daggers, with ornately designed hilts. The Drobates turned to regard each other, as though they were considering their options.
“Be careful,” said Stevenson at Nathanial’s arm. “The things these creatures can do!”
Folkard was holding his lower back uneasily, while knotting his brow. It was the sort of expression, Nathanial thought, that one might have if they were listening intently to a whispered conversation.
“Can you understand it, sir?” Stevenson whispered, having realised Folkard’s efforts.
“No. Can you?” Folkard hissed.
Stevenson nodded. “After a time, you learn it, sir. They intend to move us!”
“Move us? To where?”
“To a city, I think.”
Nathanial was confused. “The Drobates are speaking?”
“Not speaking as we might understand it—but yes, they are speaking. Captain Folkard, sir, you have a sensation in your spinal column perhaps? You will experience that when they communicate. It is, I think, some kind of subsonic buzzing.”
“I can’t make sense of the conversation, though, Stevenson. It is as if someone had attempted to connect a telephone call from thousands of fathoms beneath the ocean which was being conducted in a foreign language.”
It was astonishing, Nathanial thought. As perilous as their plight might be, he found himself intrigued by his kidnappers. Their method of communication—and the fact that this could be noticed and even understood by certain humans—fascinated him. To be confronted by creatures and situations like this: why, surely such discoveries were the reason that man looked towards the stars in the first place? Even in the middle of an adventure, there was something of the scientific detachment still lingering in him, perhaps.
An unpleasant rattling sound interrupted their conversation. Turning their attention again to the front of the room, they realised that the Drobates were setting about handcuffing the men’s hands behind their backs, linking them by chain in groups of six. The Selenites among the group were being chained in similar fashion but utilising two chains and two sets of handcuffs to address their additional upper limbs. Moving among the men were two unarmed Drobates, who were studying the infirm and treating any fresh wounds with a curious expression that suggested compassion. At the same time, the soldiers among them were responding to any signs of disobedience in their prisoners by roughly striking them down, thusly creating as many wounds as the medics were attempting to cure. It was all something of a queer affair.
There was a rippling of agitation among the British contingent, whose presence at the back of the hall meant that they were to be among the last to suffer the indignity of being chained together.
“Good God! These monsters intend to march us in a chain gang!” Burroughs said, not troubling to lower his voice.
“Keep your voice down, man!” hissed his captain.
“If it quells your concerns any, Burroughs, I think that they at least intend to take us alive,” remarked Nathanial, sotto voce.
The groups were starting to be marched out of the building, leaving only the British and a party of Russians, some of whom seemed scarcely mobile, let alone prepared for a lengthy hike to a mysterious city.
“Keep calm, men,” Folkard advised. “This is scarcely the time or the place to risk doing something…”
His counsel was brought to an abrupt halt by a deafening crash to his right. Astonished, the men turned in the direction of the sound to see McKittrick holding a splintered wooden chair aloft. “You’ll never take me alive, you fiends!” bawled McKittrick, running toward them and brandishing his improvised cudgel.
With astonishing speed, a Drobate avoided the club and in one graceful movement unsheathed its dagger and swung its arm in a broad sweep. A flash of silver was visible briefly before the dagger returned to the ornate scabbard. Aghast, the men returned their gaze to McKittrick. The man’s throat had been slashed and he collapsed to the floor as blood spurted fatally from the wound.
“Put your hand to the wound, Mister McKittrick!” Nathanial shouted, resisting the pull of the Drobate guard as best he could.
McKittrick was already too weak to do so, however. Unable to speak, he looked apologetically at his captain.
“No need to look so remorseful, McKittrick, you have been slain in the name of Queen and Country. Naught nobler,” Folkard responded.
“‘With heavy heart and failing light/I fear I go into the night/Recall me thus, if must you mourn/Not at the dusk, but at the dawn.’” The group turned to Burroughs, who had recited these lines. “A poem of McKitt
rick’s own, sir,” he explained sheepishly. “I thought it might be what he’d like.”
McKittrick managed a faint smile at this and died with his own words still in his ears.
6.
“I TRUST you will excuse my waking you up at this time, Major Larkins,” Bedford said when the commander of Sovereign’s Marine contingent joined them in the docking bay. “Let me assure you that I would not take such a move were it not urgent.”
“Nothing of it, First Officer,” remarked Larkins, who then nodded his greeting to Lieutenant Blake. “So those are the invaders I heard about. Nasty looking buggers, ain’t they?” he said, examining the five alien corpses now dragged into a line by the bulkhead. “And I thought the Selenites we encountered before looked rum.”
“Nasty enough they put paid to Able Seaman Platt, and possibly the entire landing party,” Bedford replied. “I want you to muster your entire Royal Marine contingent to launch a rescue operation. We’ll take all four cutters.” He turned to Blake. “I shall be accompanying the Marines, Lieutenant. You will command Sovereign in my absence. Once we’re away, you might stand down one watch and alternate at action stations. No telling how long this will take. Make sure you have an armed guard at this docking station at all times, however.”
“Very good, sir,” Blake answered.
“Captain Folkard ordered me to send a relief force at oh-one hundred hours if we hadn’t heard from him by then,” Bedford explained. “Given that the cutter was taken by enemy forces, I see no reason to delay the mission. My intention is to first ascertain the status of Otterbein Base. Our orders are to find Grant, but our first responsibility is the safety and security of the base. Once we know the situation on the ground, I’ll decide what action to take next. I can’t very well expect anyone else to make that decision, right?”
“Sir,” they answered almost in unison.
“Assemble your men here at twenty-two hundred hours, Major,” Bedford concluded.
“Do you feel that the landing party is likely to go far?” Larkins asked. “Should I have the men bring a day’s rations?”
Bedford grimaced. “Better make it several days’ worth. Unless I am very much mistaken, this may take us to the very heart of Luna.”
7.
CHARLES HAD, he feared, bitten off more than he could chew, not that it was his decision to take the bite, mind you. He was as handy with a small craft as any coxswain in the fleet, and he’d blacken the eye of any man who said otherwise. But piloting a cutter in a tight spot was one thing; leading a group of men—well, five men, one lady, and three great bloody ants—was a different proposition altogether. He was worried by the notion that he might not be up to the job. His father had told him, “There ain’t nothin’ Horatio Nelson Charles ain’t up to, and you remember that.” Horatio Nelson Charles! He always signed on as “H. Nelson Charles”. Let the other petty officers get wind he was named after England’s greatest admiral and he’d have to blacken half a dozen eyes, as sure as there was a hole in his bum, and maybe end up spitting out a tooth or two of his own. He wouldn’t care for that; he liked his teeth.
They reached a part of the river which broadened out and he saw an occupied island further out in the stream. From the cover of a stand of mushroom-like trees and bushy moss undergrowth they observed the island. There was no bridge to it and access was clearly by boat only. A strange metallic vessel, probably one of the submersibles K’chuk mentioned, rested moored to a pier on the near side of the island and several buildings were in evidence further toward the centre. A number of oddly-proportioned men marched outside the perimeter, carrying some sort of rifles.
“Any ideas?” Charles asked, remembering that Folkard was a keen advocate of seeking the counsel of his men before making a decision, as well as hoping that phrasing the question in that manner would disguise the fact that he lacked the slightest idea himself.
“Perhaps take a lead from Doctor Grant and construct a raft?” suggested Staples.
“Selenites swim,” K’chuk offered, to the surprise of the men. “Friends on our backs. Raft of Selenites.”
Henry pointed at the prison colony. “We would be too exposed. They could shoot us as soon as they saw us.”
“K’chuk, the Selenites know the Drobates,” Miss Somerset said. “What can you tell us that will help us here?”
“Know some, friend Annabelle,” said K’chuk. “Not enough. Drobates enemy of Selenites. Much fighting. We do not win.”
“How long have you been fighting this enemy?”
“Five generations. We know them long time.”
“Do you know where the Drobates will take our friends?” she asked.
“To city.”
“To a city? What city?”
“City of Light and Science,” said K’chuk with disgust. “Like Selenite village. But big village, for them. Many…” He paused a moment, again appearing as if there was much unspoken. “Many bad things happen there, friend Annabelle. Not good place.”
Miss Somerset nodded. “Do you know how to get there?”
“K’chuk not been there, but know way.”
“From here?”
“Yes. Down river.”
“If I may be so bold as to put a suggestion,” Miss Somerset said, turning directly to Charles, “it seems that our best solution would be to bypass the prison island, which is almost certain to be fraught with unassailable peril, and travel to this City of Light and Science. Perhaps we could obtain help from the Selenites as well. When those villains bring Captain Folkard, Nathanial and the crew there, as the undoubtedly will, we can plan the most appropriate method of rescue.”
“Well, beggin’ you pardon, Miss, but there’s a few things wrong with that plan,” Charles said after a moment spent organizing his thoughts. “First, this here’s an isolated outpost. If you think that’s fraught with—how’d you put it?—unassailable peril, their capital city is going to be that in trumps. Second, those crewmen we found on the riverbank, they’d held them here on this island for months—unless you think they took them down to the city and then brought them back, which don’t make much sense to me. So what makes you think they won’t do the same with the Cap’n and the others? And if it’s all the same, no women’s intuition if you please.” Charles saw her bristle at that but he shrugged and went on anyway. “Third, I’d like to know where this army of Selenites of yours is going to come from. K’chuk, can you get an army of your people down here in, oh, a day or so?”
“No,” K’chuk answered, which was brief even for him. Miss Somerset looked at her giant ant friend, who would not meet her eye, and she seemed to wilt a bit.
“And finally,” Charles said, “the Cap’n killed one of them. Maybe they mean to have their revenge on him, maybe on all of them. They could be torturing him right now while we talk on about strolling down…”
“You’ve made your point, Mister Charles,” Miss Somerset snapped, eyes blazing. “So what do you propose as an alternative, pray tell?”
Charles motioned for them to follow and led the party back upriver a quarter mile or more, until a bend in the canyon completely screened them from anyone on the island. The trees had concealed them before, so long as they were careful not to disturb the foliage, but Charles was about to disturb it very much.
“This uncle of yours,” he said once they were all assembled in front of another stand of the tall, oddly shaped mushroom-like trees. “I’ll wager he didn’t make a habit of carrying pioneer tools with him when he went out on his strolls, did he?”
“Pioneer tools?” Miss Somerset asked.
“Axes, spades, that sort of thing.”
“Why no, he didn’t,” Doctor Staples said. “I’d have remembered seeing that and he didn’t take anything with him but his notes. Nothing at all like that.”
“So tell me this, then,” Charles said to all of them, “how did he fell enough trees to make a raft?”
All of them looked blankly at him and at each other, but none of the
m ventured an answer. Charles turned, put his shoulder against the trunk of a tree a good six inches in diameter, dug his feet into the rocky ground, and pushed. After a moment’s hard effort, the tree trunk splintered and broke near the ground and the tree crashed down. Charles straightened up and turned to the others.
“I noticed when we made our way through the last grove. Like balsa trees, in Ecuador, they are. As light as the logs are, they’ll make a better raft than hardwood.”
“But won’t they see the raft coming, Chief?” Henry asked.
“Yes. So for the next couple hours we build our raft, but we also knock down a few of these trees and chuck ’em in the river, give ’em a good push to get them out in the main current. Maybe they’ll figure a ledge with trees on it collapsed into the river, or maybe a flood somewhere upriver swept in some trees. Thing is, after a couple hours, they’ll get tired of figurin’ and just accept that there’s flotsam in the river today. Our raft we just use as a float, rig it up irregular-like, to look like a snag in the river, with moss on top. We swim behind it, Selenites too, I suppose.”
“And how do we steer?” Miss Somerset asked, but O’Hara answered before Charles could.
“That won’t be no problem, Miss Somerset. Chief Charles here is the best small craft man I’ve ever seen. Chief’ll sort it all out.”
Charles had joined the crew after it’s baptism of fire on Luna, and had always felt a bit like an outsider, not having a part of the stories which dominated their reminiscences. He looked at O’Hara and knew he wasn’t an outsider any more.
Chapter Five
“River of Life”
1.
BEDFORD LOOKED out of the thick glass of the cutter’s forward lower viewing port and shook his head. He expected robust security at the landing ground of Otterbein Base, but he had not counted on a mob of turbaned and khaki-clad Indian Army men swarming over the area.