by J. T. Wilson
“Have a care, Coxswain. Let’s not crush any sowars today when we set down,” he said and the helmsman smiled slightly in reply. The cutter settled gently to the gravel landing ground and had scarcely come to rest when Bedford heard an insistent banging on the main hatch. A Marine corporal undogged the hatch and swung it to the side to show a European of medium height and swarthy complexion in khaki drill and an officer’s Sam Brown belt, but no badges of rank on his bush jacket.
“Who’s that and what’s your purpose?” the man demanded.
“I am Lieutenant Bedford of HMAS Sovereign, and I’m here to see Captain Folkard.”
The man nodded. “Harrison, Punjab Frontier Force, and officer commanding, Otterbein Station.”
“Ah, Colonel Harrison, of course. I did not expect the commanding officer to meet us, sir.”
“Didn’t intend to. We’ve suffered a security breach. Regrettable. Losses, you know, losses all around.”
“Losses all around?” Bedford asked, and he felt his heart accelerate. “The young lady in the party was not…”
“What? There’s a lady down here, too? Damn me if I can keep track. But no, it’s your young officer, Ainsworth. Identified him from his papers. Sorry, one of those damned ants got him. Chopped him up rather badly. Care to look? No? Just as well. Private Anil Singh suffered the same fate. Ghastly. Good chap, Singh. Why’d your people take the cutter away and leave this Ainsworth behind alone, eh?”
“Our people did not take the cutter. The Selenites, probably the ones who attacked him, did. Five of them, with Russian-made Berdans. They took the cutter up and attacked Sovereign.”
“What’s that? Ants with Berdans? Well then, where are your people?”
Bedford stifled an exasperated sigh. “They are still here, Colonel. As I said, I came here to find my captain. I take it you haven’t seen him?”
Harrison looked around, as if he might find the others from Sovereign standing within arm’s reach, then he looked back at Bedford, his expression a mixture of irritation and confusion. “Well damn it, man, if they’re still here, who flew your cutter full of ants away?”
“One of the Selenites, I imagine, as only they were on board when they docked with us.” Bedford no longer kept the sarcasm from his voice, but it was lost on Harrison, as a good deal else seemed to be as well. Bedford caught a faint odour of gin on the colonel’s breath.
“What? No. Ants can’t fly one of those cutters. I’ve never seen one at any rate,” Harrison declared and then nodded forcefully, as if that settled everything.
Bedford judged Harrison the sort of man who considered the absolute boundaries of possibility to be the things he had actually witnessed with his own eyes. Bedford thought that made Harrison a singularly bad choice for lunar duty. Well, that was the Army for you.
“I wonder, Colonel, if you could have your men clear enough of the landing ground for my coxswains to bring the other three cutters down? One of the men is new to his job and I wouldn’t want him to injure any of your sowars.”
Harrison turned away to clear his men off the field as another man, of slighter build and in a suit coat instead of khaki, trotted up from the direction of the main building. He paused for a moment to catch his breath and mop his brow with a handkerchief, and then extended his hand.
“Professor Robert George, director of the base,” he said. Bedford shook his hand and introduced himself and again asked after the landing party.
“Captain Folkard and his men, and Doctor Grant’s niece, have gone in pursuit of Grant. Three Selenites accompanied them. They have been gone some hours, I know not in what direction.”
“You do not think they have approached the Heart?”
“The Heart is made up of many parts, Lieutenant. Colonel Harrison has posted guard details at those nearby parts we know of, but I doubt any man, even Grant, knows where every piece of the Heart is located.”
Bedford frowned. He hadn’t really expected to find Folkard and the others here at the base, but he had hoped for more useful intelligence than this. The Marines poured out the open hatchways of the cutters and now formed a double line on the gravel landing ground, barked into place by their colour sergeant. Major Larkins and his vice, Lieutenant Booth, joined Bedford and Director George.
“Ships troops assembled and ready,” Larkins said casually after Bedford made the introductions. “Your orders, Lieutenant?”
Bedford noted that Larkin stopped short of calling him “sir”. Larkins outranked Bedford, but as a Marine officer he was not in the ship’s chain of command, and so long as he was assigned to Sovereign, he obeyed its master. It may have rankled him to take orders from someone this junior to him, but that was the Navy for you. Colonel Harrison wandered back to join the group and Bedford used the opportunity of another round of introductions to think through what his next move should be.
“Colonel Harrison,” he said, “I believe the Berdan rifles suggest a continued Russian presence on Luna. Someone armed those red Selenites, someone taught them how to use a breach-loading rifle…”
“Not very well, I shouldn’t think, or you wouldn’t be standing here now,” Major Larkins put in.
“Thank you, Major, that may be true. But the fact remains someone did arm and train them, however inadequately, and most importantly someone taught one of them to fly a cutter equipped with a Grant-Stone-pattern aether propeller governor.”
“Oh, I see,” Director George said and mopped his brow again. “That is quite extraordinary. I should like to have seen the Selenite pilot your craft. I would not have thought they had the forelimb manual dexterity to do so.”
“Nevertheless,” Bedford said.
“Well I still don’t believe it,” Harrison grumbled. “Oh, the Russkies are probably behind it all, you’re right on the score, but I warrant some tsarist hero piloted the ants to your ship and jumped clear immediately before they docked, just to throw us off the scent.”
“How would he have survived?” Director George asked.
“Survived? How does that enter into it? Those chaps don’t put the same value on human life we do,” Harrison said.
Major Larkins looked at Harrison and then at Bedford. Bedford met his eyes and, though neither man’s expression changed, they understood each other: Harrison was a fool.
“It’s still very odd, though,” Harrison continued. “I haven’t seen evidence of Russians in this part of Luna for quite some time. Indeed, the only relic of their occupation left is the wreck of their flyer Borodino, on the opposite side of the reservoir.”
Bedford narrowed his eyes. “Take me there.”
2.
THE COLD of the river water shocked Annabelle and by the time the raft floated into sight of the island she shuddered uncontrollably. She held tenaciously onto the log in front of her, her wrists thrust through loops of the ropey vines they’d used to lash the raft together. One hand also held her cane, peg and leather cup, there being too much chance of it coming loose in the water. Awkward as they were, she would be far worse off without them. She kicked underwater with her one leg, careful to never break the surface behind her. She had been embarrassed at first to feel her skirt and petticoat floating in the water under her arms, but none of the others had noticed and after twenty minutes of physical exertion and energy-draining cold, she no longer cared.
“Starboard side kick,” Charles whispered harshly. “Port side belay. Steady. There, that’s got it. Now all kick again.” He lifted himself up slightly to see over the log, through a gap left in the tangle of branches and moss. “So far we’re in luck. No guards on the beach. Easy now. Twenty more yards.”
Annabelle kicked but only weakly. Fortunately the river’s current carried them near enough to the island that the water became shallow and they were able to walk the raft into the shallows and then secure it against a rock outcropping. Annabelle dragged herself from the water and collapsed behind the cover of a large boulder.
“Doctor Staples, would you be good enou
gh to stay here and look after Miss Somerset?” Charles asked. “She looks a bit done in, and no wonder. You did a fine job kicking, Miss. Now leave the rest to us.”
Annabelle nodded dully, too tired even to put on her artificial leg. She held it against her body and shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering. The four sailors, themselves pale and shivering, checked their revolvers and set out stealthily through the undergrowth. After ten yards or so Charles turned and waved the Selenites forward.
“I return soon, friend Annabelle,” K’chuk said and then led his companions after Chief Charles.
Staples said nothing but merely lay on the shale and shivered, clearly as exhausted as Annabelle. The men and Selenites were gone perhaps fifteen minutes. Annabelle heard no sound of a scuffle, no gunfire. Then Chief Charles walked back, upright and making no effort at concealment, the revolver dangling loosely in his hand.
“Submersible’s gone and the island’s deserted. Looks like they went down river after all.”
3.
EVEN BY the unusual travelling standards to which Nathanial had become accustomed, this latest vessel was beyond all expectations. Travel by foot from the prison was out of the question, so he had been scarcely surprised to have been escorted, with the anticipated brutality, to a great ship and subsequently to be held in a darkened chamber under the watch of a surly guard. Once more unto the brig, perhaps. However, he had to confess his surprise when peering through the sole porthole and being confronted with the murky depths of the river itself.
“Good heavens, I do believe we are in a submersible!” exclaimed Nathanial.
Phillips nodded grimly. “It would explain how the Drobates evaded detection while we were along the embankment. I can only imagine they discreetly surfaced, then descended below the depths to shadow our progress. You would hardly think the river deep enough!”
“One would hardly think that the barren surface of Luna would contain a network of populated caverns, Phillips, yet here we are. The full extent of the secrets of Luna has yet to be revealed, I wager,” said Nathanial, stroking his chin. “Captain Folkard, you are uncharacteristically quiet.”
Folkard gave a nod by way of acknowledgement. “Merely concerned at becoming a prisoner of war to an unknown enemy, Professor. Moreover, concerned that I have allowed two civilians to become prisoners, too. Neither you nor Phillips are military men, yet I have jeopardised your lives with this mission.”
“There are worse things that happen at sea, Captain,” offered Burroughs, in hope of reassuring his captain, Nathanial supposed. Stevenson, for his part, was unconscious, the effort of the short march between prison and submersible having proved to be quite exhausting after so many months in the prison colony.
“I feel, perhaps, that that particular idiom needs updating,” Folkard said dryly. “It is unfortunate that our whereabouts are unknown. We still know so little about these Drobates. It is difficult to anticipate what we will experience on our arrival at this City of Light and Science.”
Like Folkard, Nathanial was frustrated at his ignorance. From the vibrations in their chamber and the shadows of the rocky underwater canyon wall passing the porthole, they were travelling at a considerable speed for a submerged vessel. The Drobates evidently boasted engineering knowledge that far outstripped that of the human race.
He would have hoped for more information about the Drobates in order to calculate a plan for their escape, too: yet the most knowledgeable scholar among them was unconscious and the Drobates themselves seemed incapable of verbal communication. The knowledge Nathanial had, then, was as murky as the water itself.
4.
BEDFORD THOUGHT it bizarre that beneath the Moon’s lifeless surface lurked a complex subterranean life in which hostilities between the British and the Russians—or the natives and settlers—continued in much the same way as on Earth. Still, one could say the same thing about any location or even any person: that beneath their surface appearance, there was significantly more than met the eye.
Colonel Harrison and one of his riflemen joined the party as guides for their journey around the reservoir. Larkins sent Booth slightly ahead with one of the Marine sections as skirmishers, while the rest of the party marched in columns of twos.
The march to Borodino’s crash site, over uneven rocky ground, took the better part of an hour, although Bedford gauged the actual distance as not much more than a mile. Borodino’s wreck lay in a pronounced hollow, so it was not visible from Otterbein base across the reservoir. The vessel had apparently crashed on its side but had since been levered upright and several large boulders moved against the hull to hold it level.
“Colonel, did your men do this?” Bedford asked.
“What? No. Not that I know of, anyway. Maybe one of those scientists got poking around, eh?” he answered. Bedford doubted that, unless the scientist had brought a substantial work party with him. Bedford walked around the flyer but saw no external evidence of repairs. Marines crowded for a closer look at this relic of Muscovite martial might until the colour sergeant barked them away.
“Awright, this ain’t a bloomin’ circus excursion! Form a perimeter twenty yards out. Bixby, your section on that rock outcropping there, Colvin along that rubble spill there, Johnson form a skirmish line in between along that long bank. Step to it!”
The Marines reformed their sections and trotted to their assigned posts. Colonel Harrison nodded in approval. Perhaps not entirely a fool, Bedford thought.
Bedford completed his circuit of the wreck and then scrambled up on one of the large boulders to reach the small deck and pilot house. Major Larkins followed him up. The door to the pilot house hung on one hinge and came off altogether when Bedford tried to move it.
“Looks as if someone placed this rather carefully to look derelict but hide the view in,” Larkins commented.
The interior of the pilot house bore little sign of the crash. The glass windows had been shattered but no broken glass littered the floor. The room had been swept clean and empty housings bore witness to the removal of several items of equipment, possibly for salvage. What was most interesting, however, was what had been added. Larkins did not notice, of course; he was not a naval officer. Bedford immediately went to it and knelt down to examine it more closely.
“What’s that, Bedford?” Larkins asked.
“It is an excellent model of the throttle controls of a Grant-Stone-pattern aether propeller governor.”
A shout of alarm from outside, followed by a shot and then a half-dozen more, cut short any further discussion. Larkins and Bedford dashed out onto the broken flyer’s deck and saw the Marines to their left, on the wall-like line of broken rock—the feature the colour sergeant described as a rubble spill—firing at a group of perhaps a dozen red Selenites scrambling forward among the rocks. Bedford started to draw his revolver but checked himself when he saw Larkins put his hands behind his back and calmly study the Marine section’s fire.
“Fast buggers, ain’t they?” Larkins said. “The ants, I mean, especially for their size. Not fast enough, though.”
Five of the Marines did the actual firing, taking careful aim and spacing their shots, while the section corporal walked behind them, directing their fire and steadying them. Some of the shots ricocheted off boulder, but as many of them hit home, and within a minute or two most of the red Selenites were casualties and the survivors pinned down behind large rocks. Bedford looked around and noticed the Marines on the opposite side of the flyer, the ones on the prominent outcropping, had, apparently out of curiosity, drifted down the slope toward the sound of the firing.
“Major Larkins, should those men be moving this way?” Bedford asked.
Larkins turned and looked, and then shouted a command with more volume than Bedford expected he had. “Number Three Section, guard your front!”
The men turned and started ascending the slope with long, measured bounds, but at almost the same time two red Selenites came over the top from the other side, then two
more, and then a solid wave of them.
“Damn!” Larkins exclaimed, and now he drew his revolver, an example Bedford followed immediately. “Three Section, fire! Johnson, pull your section back to the flyer! Form a firing line facing those ants.”
“At the double, Johnson!” the colour sergeant shouted from below them as the men in the open skirmish line fell back towards the flyer in the long strides of the shuffling trot used to cover ground quickly in low gravity. “Two Section, fix swords!” The men drew their bayonets—called swords by the Marines, for some obscure reason Bedford had never learned—and clicked them onto the end of their Lee-Metfords as they came into position. “Section, guard! Prepare for rapid fire.” The men came to the guard position, sword-bayonets levelled, and threw the magazine cut-off switch on their rifles. Normally the Lee-Metford was fired as a breechloader, with the magazine blocked. After each shot the soldier opened the bolt and loaded another round by hand from his cartridge pouch, but now each action of the bolt would bring a round to the chamber from the magazine—eight rounds fast when you needed them, and it looked as if they needed them now. As rifle fire crackled from the rock outcropping, the Sikh private fell in beside the Marines by the flyer, his bayonet fixed to an older Martini-Henry breechloader. With Lieutenant Booth and the sergeant at one end and the colour sergeant at the other, it looked like an impressive firing line to Bedford.
On the rock outcropping, the red Selenites had the advantage of charging downhill toward the scattered Marines of Corporal Bixby’s section. Bedford saw a Marine fire and clearly kill a charging Selenite, but the beast’s momentum carried it skidding the few remaining yards down the hill and bowled the Marine over, sending him tumbling down the slope. The first shots had brought four or five Selenites down, but Bixby’s section had not switched to rapid fire and, as they hastened to reload from their cartridge pouches, the second wave of Selenites swarmed over them.
Bedford saw a red Selenite seize a screaming Marine in his mandibles, lift him aloft, and shake him, blood flying from the mortal wound.