by J. T. Wilson
Burroughs, whose face betrayed his fatigue, requested permission to speak. When this was granted, he asked; “They will surely reach some form of compromise? The condition of their city does not suggest a decisive government.”
“No doubt they will hold us in these dungeons I’ve heard mentioned, until they have at least reached some decision,” said Nathanial. “I must admit, were it possible I would prefer to facilitate our escape before they have the opportunity. I have seen the inside of quite enough cells lately and do not welcome another.”
Burroughs wore a mask of dismay. “Another cell? Surely it would be impossible to keep all of us in one cell?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have thought so,” replied Nathanial. “Such conditions would be no worse than the gaols in Great Britain, after all. Surely you bunk in a similar fashion aboard Sovereign, Seaman?”
“But to have no escape! No light!” cried Burroughs.
“Keep your voice down, man!” Folkard urged. “Do you want every one of these monsters to hear you?” The repetitive thumping was either increasing in volume or proximity and Folkard found himself having to raise his voice louder than he was comfortable with.
“One would hope that, if they expect us to build them a wall for this city, they would treat us somewhat better than the Israelites,” said Nathanial, attempting to reason with Burroughs. “Why, I would hope they would treat us in the same way as a British ship would treat a prisoner of war.”
“Oh God!” Burroughs bawled, straining desperately at his chains.
“Seaman Burroughs, control yourself. That is an order!” demanded Folkard. “Have you already forgotten what happened to McKittrick?”
“Oh, God, here they come!” screamed Burroughs, attempting to push past Folkard and Phillips, to whom he was still chained.
The move was no more successful than one might expect and presently he found himself entangled in the shackles and losing his balance entirely, coming to a halt on his knees at the feet of a Drobate guard. As Burroughs looked up, Nathanial saw the guard draw his weapon. Folkard and Phillips to his right and left had barely time to react before the guard fired, sending a charge of electricity down his body as if it were a length of wire and killing him immediately.
As Burroughs fell to the floor, Nathanial felt himself being dragged down too and, if not for quick reflexes on Folkard’s part and on the part of Phillips, the entire party would have collapsed in an untidy heap, stunned from the electrical current which had passed through them when Burroughs received the charge.
The brutality of the move seemed to shock even the Drobates, who immediately relieved the guard of his weapon and dragged him away. Or perhaps, Nathanial reflected, the reaction was simply to his having reduced the tally of prisoners below some superstitiously propitious number. Nathanial had scarcely time to regain sensation in his shock-numbed fingers before the entire group, man and Selenite alike, were dragged off toward the garish palace fronted by the two large golden icons.
6.
BEDFORD FOUND the situation so absurd he would have laughed, had the stakes not been so high. After long hours of prowling and searching, after uncovering another cache of three-inch shells and one of rifle cartridges loaded in dozens of the long straight magazines used by the Russian Gorloff rapid-fire guns, the Marines and Estonians had ambushed a small party of Saltators, killed two, driven several off, but captured uninjured (mostly) a Saltator and a Russian soldier. The Russian, rather inconveniently, did not speak English, nor did the Saltator. The Saltator did speak a bit of Russian, it seemed, and K’ovib spoke enough of the Saltator tongue to make himself understood to their Selenite captive. In order to interrogate the Russian, Bedford had to put his question in English to K’ovib, who phrased it to the Saltator in his tongue, who translated to Russian, listened to the reply, translated to his own tongue, and then K’ovib translated to English.
The Russian soldier seemed anxious to talk, anxious to ingratiate himself with his captors, which made the exercise maddeningly frustrating. It was not merely slow, the Russian’s answers, often lengthy and clearly rich with detail, invariably came back as unintelligible nonsense.
“Where are the other caches of the steel eggs?” Bedford had asked.
“Eggs from Toolarooza.” K’ovib eventually told him. “Is Toolarooza their steel queen?”
“Blasted if I know what the devil it is,” Bedford answered. “This is pointless! Captain Folkard should be here. He speaks Russian like a native. He could interrogate this fellow directly and find out everything we need to know.”
“Take Roozan to friend Folkard,” K’ovib suggested rather unhelpfully.
“Well, as splendid an idea as that may be, I am afraid I have no idea where the captain happens to be” Bedford said.
“Follow yellow marks to river,” K’ovib said, his head cocked slightly to one side as if it were obvious.
“Yellow marks?”
K’ovib explained, and as he did so, Bedford’s anger at the incompetence of the Otterbein Base leadership grew. Folkard’s party had marked their path with yellow paint, presumably to better retrace their steps later, and one of K’ovib’s scouts had observed them so doing. No one at Otterbein had seen fit to tell Bedford that.
After extracting all the information about the River of Life K’ovib had to offer—which was not a great deal, once the obviously legendary bits were stripped away—Bedford made his decision. Harrison and George had near a hundred Sikh infantry and half of Sovereign’s Marines. If they couldn’t look after Otterbein with that force, they could go to blazes. Folkard’s party was down there somewhere along this so-called “River of Life” and Bedford’s responsibility was with that group, even had Annabelle not been among them. It would not be right, after all, to allow his feelings for her to sway his judgement, but he was confident he had not.
“Colour Sergeant, pick me out a good runner to return to Otterbein.”
“Sir! Jones, fall in.”
“Not Jones. We may need his marksmanship later.”
“Whelan, fall in.”
Bedford scribbled a note to Larkins detailing the other caches they had found, explaining they had captured a Russian soldier, had learned the approximate whereabouts of Folkard’s party—and how they knew—and that they would attempt to reach the party and bring it back.
“Will you come with us, K’ovib?” Bedford asked after dispatching the Private Whelan.
“No, friend Bedford. We must take word back to Queen Q’theletockus of danger from Roozans and Saltators. Will help her understand if I take Saltator prisoner with us.”
7.
NATHANIAL HAD experienced a variety of ship’s brigs but had never before spent time in a dungeon, so he had little against which to compare this experience. It occurred to him, however, that, were the pending charges against him not dropped back home, he might soon have numerous additional similar venues to review—assuming they escaped from this prison, of course, which did not seem very likely. At least they had finally been fed, and reasonably well. The hot mushroom and fish chowder which so far had supplied both their meals was filling and not entirely unpalatable, particularly for hungry men.
For that matter, the treatment, if not rising either to the level of polite, or even considerate, was certainly no longer brutal. If, as Stevenson had said, the plan was to use them for heavy construction work, it made sense to build up their strength, or at least avoid any further weakening. Hopefully the Drobate guards would take care to no further diminish their numbers.
As it was, there were almost a dozen ragged-looking Russians already in the dungeon when their contingent arrived. The Russians from their own party greeted them, some with very sentimental affection, finding friends long since believed dead. Nathanial found it touching, although with their numbers increased the Russians drew apart from the British, and whatever sense of shared hardship they had felt before seemed to dissipate. The political balance of their small nation had shifted.
As
much as Nathanial wished to resume his conversation with the friend he had thought lost, Stevenson fell into an exhausted sleep almost as soon as he finished his meal. For his part, Nathanial’s muscles ached but he felt no drowsiness yet. Several of the others had laid down to sleep as well, but Captain Folkard remained seated on the bench which lined three sides of the large cell which held all of the humans. He sat quietly, staring off to one side but at nothing Nathanial could see.
If anyone could bridge the gulf between the British and the Russians, perhaps draw them together toward the common goal of escape, it was Folkard. He alone spoke both languages fluently.
Nathanial crossed the cell and sat next to the captain, who looked at him with a slight start, as if waking from a dream.
“Ah, Stone. Get enough to eat?”
“Yes, Captain, and thank you for your courtesy in asking. You seem preoccupied and I hesitated to interrupt you, but I wondered, have you been able to read any further thoughts of the Drobates?”
Folkard shook his head. “Not the Drobates, no. But there’s something else—a sort of low buzzing, like a mosquito somewhere in the room but not right on you—do you know?”
“I’m afraid I don’t hear anything, Captain.”
“No, of course not. It’s not a sound, it’s…” His voice trailed off but he scratched the back of his neck as if it itched. “I have to get on,” he said softly, as if to himself.
“Get on, Captain?” Nathanial repeated and Folkard looked sharply at him
“Did you just read my mind?”
“No, Captain. You spoke to yourself. Out loud.”
Folkard closed his eyes and nodded, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Yes, of course, of course. It’s not you. Stevenson perhaps, but not you.”
“Captain, I think you should try to get some rest.”
“I suppose so,” Folkard answered. “They’re going to put us to work on the wall by the Sea Gate after our rest period.”
“Did they tell you that?” Nathanial said.
“Tell me what? Oh. The sea gate—yes, I suppose so. Or I overheard it—I don’t remember.”
“Why don’t you lie down, Folkard, and try to rest?”
The captain did so without further resistance and Nathanial went back to his former place and curled up, head resting on his arm, and tried to sleep.
Sleep did not come easily, however. Moments ago his principal concern had been for his friend Stevenson, too weak to protect himself. Now Nathanial suspected he had another friend—well, acquaintance, or more than that, say comrade—to look after, someone also much weakened but in a different way. But if Folkard, the man who had been their strength until now, was incapable of leading them to a plan of escape, what chance had they?
Chapter Seven
“An Escape!”
1.
CHIEF CHARLES cursed under his breath as the Drobate overseers struck a Selenite prisoner with enough force to knock it to its knees. Beside him K’chuk shifted restlessly but Charles put a steadying hand on his forelimb.
“Easy now. Won’t do them any good us getting killed or captured.”
“Yes, friend Charles. Knowing not make watching easy.”
No it didn’t. This was the second time they had lain in the rocks and watched the work party brought out. Was that two days? With no cycle of day and night it was hard to gauge the passage of time. Miss Somerset and Doctor Staples each had pocket watches but both had stopped working after the swim in the river. They’d lain up at the island for the better part of a day as well, gathering food and strengthening the raft. They’d even built a lean-to shelter to block the damp wind which blew down the underground passage. That was odd; Charles couldn’t remember feeling much wind anywhere else on Luna, but a persistent breeze followed the course of the river.
It was only a few hours after they’d left the island that they’d run a long but not particularly difficult rapids and the river had emptied into an enormous cavern, far bigger than the one holding Otterbein Base. The far side of the cavern was simply the glowing fungus of the roof extended right down to the water, so the cavern clearly stretched beyond the horizon—which was quite a bit closer here than on Earth, of course, so no telling how big the place was. One thing was immediately clear: they’d found the city.
Charles had looked back and seen three other distinct inlets into the cavern in addition to the one they had emerged from, all of them to the left of theirs. One of the inlets had no sign of white water, so it was undoubtedly the deep navigation channel the submersibles followed. The party had hiked down the right bank of the river originally, and so whenever the river forked, as it did numerous times, Charles always took the right branch. He’d done it to avoid getting lost in an underground maze, but the choice had saved their lives. The city sprawled along the right bank no more than a mile ahead. Charles had used the long steering sweep to skull the raft toward the shore and when they were close enough O’Hara and Gibbs had slid into the water and helped pull it toward the bank. They’d nestled in a small cove sheltered from direct observation from the city by a substantial rocky hill.
They’d camped. They’d explored the area around the cove. They’d inventoried their weapons and assets. They’d scouted the approaches to the city, found ways to sneak close in the towering rock walls of the cavern above the docks without being observed. They’d watched the work parties, including their people, emerge from the gate by the harbour and toil for hours rebuilding the wall. They’d gathered food and other items they would need for their escape, and Miss Somerset had been wonderfully useful in organizing all of that. They had every aspect of the operation figured out except for the most important part: how were they to overcome the guards and free the prisoners, overlooked by big gun mounts at the gate, and do it with only three sailors, three Selenites, and three Enfield revolvers? Charles had examined the problem from every angle he could think of, but he had begun to fear it was beyond his abilities. His old man wouldn’t like that much, but his old man wasn’t here trying to figure this out.
A small rock hit beside Charles and K’chuk and the coxswain turned in alarm, his revolver at the read. Instead of danger, Charles saw Leading Machinist O’Hara standing on the riverbank waving to attract his attention and pointing out into the river. Charles looked and saw another raft just emerge from the closest river outlet, the one they had come through themselves. This was a larger raft, better built, and with a more seaworthy look to it, about as wide as theirs but twice as long, with the logs all running bow-to-stern and with a tapered bow reinforced with additional cross-logs. Eight red-coated men occupied the raft, two standing and waving but six of them seated and manning long oars along with a man in muddy green. One blue-uniformed man, clearly a naval officer, stood at the rear of the raft at the long steering sweep.
Charles felt a wave of exquisite relief wash over him as he realized that in a few minutes he would no longer be in command.
2.
GEORGE BEDFORD felt his heart race when he saw Annabelle on the shore of the small cove with the other survivors. Only three men and two Selenites stood beside her—where was the rest of the party? Then Bedford saw another man and a Selenite making their way back from the broken high ground nearer the city and one emerging from the shadows of the cavern wall near the cove. Perhaps the others were nearby as well.
The six Marines at the oars pulled the raft closer to the shore. Annabelle stood there, right hand braced on Ordinary Seaman Fenn’s cane, and she simply looked at Bedford, her expression impossible to read. At length she lifted her left hand in greeting. He let go of the steering sweep with his right hand and lifted his cap to her, but that felt too stiff and formal so he waved it back and forth and smiled. She lowered her hand and wiped her cheeks.
The raft grounded and Booth and Moore jumped into the shallow water and pulled the nose of the raft up, helped by the three naval ratings on shore. The Marines shipped their oars and scampered ashore and Bedford followed them.
“Pull the raft well up onto the shore, men, and secure the stores,” Bedford ordered and then walked to Annabelle. “Miss Somerset, I cannot express the extent of my satisfaction at finding you alive and looking so well.”
She smiled ruefully and pulled the fingers of her free hand through her tangled hair. “You are a gallant liar, George Bedford.”
Bedford took her left hand in both of his. “No, Annabelle. Upon my honour, I have never seen a better sight than the one before me now.”
Their eyes met and she smiled, colour coming to her cheeks. Someone cleared his throat behind him. Bedford turned to face Charles, with Booth and Moore behind him, all of them smiling.
“I am also pleased to see you so cheerful Chief Charles,” George said. “Where is Captain Folkard and the rest of the party?” At that the happy expression slipped away from the petty officer’s face and he came to attention.
“Sir! Beg to report, Captain Folkard and four other members of the party taken prisoner, sir!”
“Damn! The Russians have them, eh?”
“No, sir, Drobates got ’em, holding them in that city just down river.”
“Drobates? Who the devil are the Drobates?”
3.
ANNABELLE WAITED while Charles, K’chuk and Doctor Staples related the adventures of the last few days, including the ambush of Folkard and the others by the Drobates, and then their voyage down the river to this cove. George’s eyes wandered during the explanation, apparently to take in the surrounding terrain, the camp, the health of the others in the party, but they kept coming back to Annabelle, which gave her a wonderful feeling of warmth. Soon enough, though, it was time to address the pressing problem facing them.