by J. T. Wilson
“I am glad that you did not,” Nathanial responded, rather quicker than he would have liked.
For a few moments silence sat between them, neither men quite looking at each other. Nathanial did not wish to deduce what was going through Stevenson’s mind, but for his own part he was rather pleased to hear Stevenson address him by his Christian name. Talk of his travels reminded Nathanial of Arnaud, no doubt still on Mercury, discovering new and fascinating things about the rock that made up that world, and a strange conflict echoed inside Nathanial’s…heart? Perhaps. There was certainly confusion abounding within.
He looked to the ground, and said, “Sovereign has suffered enough loss of life without you going in the same direction,” in the hope that this would clear things up for both himself and Stevenson. “Do you think that the Drobates can be stopped?” He looked back up, to find Stevenson smiling at him.
For a brief moment the two sat there in silence, their eyes locking. Perhaps things were not as simple as Nathanial had hoped. Stevenson was the first to look away, however. Nathanial’s eyes still lingered.
“Stopped? I suppose so, but I think we would be better advised to try and survive them, rather than to defeat them,” Stevenson said. “We were, after all, in their city. Even if you believe that you defeat them and that you gain control of them, the opposite is true. Those who lead the Drobates find themselves under perennial threat. In all, they are, I believe, driven by much the same things that we are: they want to learn what they can, they long for power, and they want control of a shadowy force central to Luna.”
“The Heart,” Nathanial said quietly, “the Selenites’ Holy of Holies. I have been there, though I admit I know little of its ways. I believe that it also carries some variety of psychological influence, which seems to result in the irrational behaviour of those sensitive to it. It drove nastavnik Tereshkov quite mad, although I hear his sanity was in question even before he came to Luna.”
“Were it not for the Heart,” said Stevenson, “none of us would be here in the first place, then. Admit it, Nathanial, Britain would have little interest in this rock were it not for the Russian stronghold here. Russia’s sole reason for being here is the desire for power that the discovery of the Heart hints at. Why, even Doctor Grant must have knowledge of the Heart to choose to explore this depressing moon for as long as he has done. Without it, Luna is nothing more than an empty land with a number of caverns and some unusual wildlife.”
“As we all once believed. I imagine the same could be said of California: largely desert, some curious mountains and nothing much of interest were it not for the enormous quantity of gold beneath its surface. It’s curious what men will do when faced with something desirable, wouldn’t you agree?”
Stevenson yawned and met Nathanial’s eye. “Men will take leave of their senses when faced with anything attractive, Nathanial. That’s what I think, at least,” he added with a hint of a smile.
“Quite so,” said Nathanial, smiling himself. “Now, enthralling though our conversation is, I feel the adrenaline has worked its way out of my system and this leaves me with mere fatigue. I suggest we rest, breakfast on these peculiar canned foods, then seek our escape from this railroad with a view to resuming our pursuit of Doctor Grant. We have been forced to deviate from our original mission somewhat and I feel Captain Folkard will be as keen as I to resume our quest.”
“Very good. Good night, Nathanial,” Stevenson said slowly, life finally returning to his blue eyes.
“Good night, Erasmus,” Nathanial returned, his heart now lighter, although no less confused.
2.
THE POCKET watch which Annabelle Somerset kept on her person had been a gift from her parents in 1879. It had been an unusual gift to give to a girl for her tenth birthday; yet Annabelle had been an unusual child. She had shown it to her uncle, who had shown her how to wind the watch, and from then on she ensured that the watch told immaculate time. During her time with the Chiricahua, she had taken great pains to ensure that the watch was concealed at all times so that the Apaches did not take her only remaining link to her family. When she was finally freed from the captivity of the Chiricahua, she had changed so much both physically and mentally that it was only the watch that confirmed that she was, as claimed, the presumed-dead Annabelle Somerset.
Now it had stopped running, a victim of her plunge into the River of Life.
What difference did a watch make? It was just gears and springs and a metal casing. She had lost her leg. Her dear friend K’chuk was dead, along with so many others. Only a silly fool would weep over a broken watch, and yet she felt her throat grow tight as she looked at it again.
A symbol of where her losses began.
A little of the luminous moss had penetrated the ruined station and so there was a very faint ambient light to which her eyes had become accustomed overnight. She turned back to the group, who seemed to be stirring. No doubt their backs, shoulders and necks would ache from a night spent on the floor of a train station; they would be complaining about various aches for the remainder of the day. Beside her—but removed enough that they would not touch in their repose, for propriety’s sake—George slept, snoring softly. Annabelle smiled.
Before this journey, her feelings toward him were natural enough, and she supposed rather ordinary. A handsome, confident man who filled a uniform out exactly the way one wanted it filled, a man of action who, unlike so many others of his sort, actually seemed to have a brain in his head. She felt what any sensible young woman would, she supposed. Attraction, even a bit of infatuation. Something had changed along the way, however.
She had seen him assume responsibility without a hint of self-importance, and she liked that. She had seen him suffer injuries and carry on cheerfully, and without the hint of martyrdom so many found it impossible to resist. But perhaps the defining moment for her had been when Phillips tormented Nathanial back in the tunnel and George had risen to his defence. Nathanial sometimes needed protecting, but more to the point, he deserved protecting, had earned it in full measure. When George Bedford, his head wrapped in a bloody bandage, stood up on his injured leg and hobbled over to Phillips, when he had threatened to thrash a man who stood an inch or two taller than himself, a man of athletic build and uninjured, while George could scarcely stay on his feet, her heart warmed in a way she never recalled having felt before. It was an easier thing to play the hero, she reflected, when healthy, rested, and mounted on a great white horse.
Nathanial stirred. It seemed he had spent some of the night in restless tossing and turning, for the position from which he awoke was perilously close to encroaching upon Stevenson’s personal space. Annabelle frowned at this, but let it pass without comment as, rectifying the error quickly, Nathanial climbed to a seated position and looked over at Annabelle.
“Good morning, Annabelle, if it can be considered such,” he said. In order to further the conversation without disturbing any late sleepers, he moved across to where Annabelle was seated.
“I suspect that morning is right. Have you no idea of the time?”
“None. You?”
Annabelle shook her head. “My pocket watch has been with me for ten years, yet it has at the last betrayed me.”
Nathanial nodded. He looked across at the still-resting Stevenson, then back at Annabelle, his face contorted in thought. “Annabelle, there is something I have been meaning to say, something which weighs heavily on my conscience. I cannot help but think that, had I but taken your suspicions on Peregrine Station more to heart, or done so sooner, your current…condition… Well, I am dreadfully sorry. So dreadfully sorry.” He looked down in shame.
Annabelle suspected Nathanial felt responsible for her injury by virtue of having been named her guardian, but she never dreamed his burden of guilt was as heavy, or as specific, as this. She took his hand in hers. “Nathanial, no one could ask for a truer friend. I would have died but for you, more than once—on Peregrine, on the cutter, and how many times on Mar
s? I cannot even count them. Do not torture yourself with might-have-beens. The bullet which took my leg came from Le Boeuf’s gun, not yours, and the blame is entirely his. Never forget that.”
The words were barely out of Annabelle’s mouth and Nathanial had not yet moved his lips to respond when Folkard, in one movement, went from being entirely unconscious to awake in a seated position. It was clearly the awakening of a man accustomed to waking up rapidly when called to duty.
“My preference would be for two slices of toast, a black coffee and a series of prayers before I commence my activities for the day,” he announced at once. “As I fear that none of these options are available, I suggest that we break our fast with the last of our rations and try to find some potable water. Unless Ordinary Seaman Stevenson would care to share his find of the night with us?”
Stevenson, still attempting to wake up, gaped in surprise at the Captain.
“Really, Stevenson,” Folkard said, “my eyes are not yet as old and cataract-ridden as to miss the market stall which stands against the wall. When I noticed upon waking that it was disturbed, I naturally assumed someone did some foraging. The mess bag which you appear to have accumulated overnight, and the two empty tins there at your feet suggest the one responsible. Your captain sees more than he may be letting on, Stevenson. I would advise you bear this in mind.”
At this a strange look passed between Stevenson and Nathanial; it lasted barely a fraction of a second, but it was enough to pique Annabelle’s interest.
Bedford rolled over blinking, scratched his scalp, and smiled broadly at Annabelle. “Did I hear something about breakfast?”
“Eras…ah, Mister Stevenson found some tinned food last evening after the rest of you had gone to sleep,” Nathanial explained, “and as neither of us died during the night, I pronounce it safe, and not significantly worse to the palate than that awful tinned bully beef. How much more is there?”
“Perhaps two dozen cans,” Stevenson said.
“Fetch them, lad, and we’ll see about distributing them to the Russians and the Selenites, if the contents are palatable to them,” Folkard ordered.
The breakfast was rudimentary and was curiously acidic to the taste, but the group, who had gone without food for some hours, devoured it greedily. Having found a crumbling but nevertheless still functioning decorative fountain to provide liquid refreshment, the group ate and considered their next move.
Annabelle watched Nathanial take several tins of food to the Selenites but returned with them uneaten, his brow furrowed with concern. Their numbers had dwindled during their rest as several wandered away into the tunnels and two had died as they slept.
In the meantime, George and Folkard debated what to do about the Russian prisoners. Folkard was inclined to unchain them. The hostility to Annabelle and Henry at the cave entrance he inclined to put down to panic, and the situation now clearly made them allies, however temporarily, against a common foe. George disagreed.
“With respect, sir, the evidence we uncovered after you disappeared is unsettling. The Russians appear to be reorganising for an assault on Otterbein Base.”
“Is that so?” Folkard asked, his eyes narrowed. “Well, since we’ve had little chance afforded to us for a full report, perhaps now would be the time?”
Bedford nodded sharply. “Yes, sir,” he said, and outlined the events that had transpired from the attack of the red Selenites on Sovereign up until the moment he and the Marines had discovered Charles’ party along the shore of the River of Life. “So you see, sir,” he concluded, “even if these men know nothing of the plans, should we encounter Russians in strength, who will surely be hostile, these prisoners would be bound by patriotic duty to help them.”
“It hardly seems right, keeping those men chained up like slaves,” Folkard said, “but you’re right of course. I did not meet Colonel Harrison when we arrived. Is he up to defending the base?”
“If anyone can lose the base, Harrison is your man,” George answered. “I left Major Larkins there with half our Marines, and hopefully Harrison will have the brains to listen to Larkin’s advice, but honestly I cannot say what will happen.”
So even if they made their way back to Otterbein, they might only do so to march into the arms of the Russians. Annabelle found that unsettling, but only in a remote sort of way. The current problems were so daunting this other one seemed remote and theoretical by comparison.
Folkard and Stevenson both agreed that the vague buzz of Drobate thoughts remained unchanged, but if a Russian attack on Otterbein was in the offing they could not afford to wait any longer.
Much fortified by food, rest and sleep, they lit one of their last four torches and set out down the tunnel. The dwindling supply of torches was another reason to make haste. The walking staff the Marines had given Annabelle was a considerable aid and let her take much of the weight off her sore stump. She could tell that it helped George’s swollen ankle as well. All of the other English used them except for the armed Marines and Private Gordon. They could no longer find a Selenite strong enough to carry Private Gordon, but Doctor Phillips and Private Williams took turns carrying him.
3.
AFTER PERHAPS two or three miles of walking they found the going unexpectedly blocked by what remained of a railway train, which took up much of the line before disappearing into the tunnel in front of them. The tunnel itself had suffered some structural damage, and masonry had collapsed around the front of the train, which allowed for no inspection of the engine. The carriages had given into the disintegration of the years: copper oxide polluted their surfaces and the circular windows along their sides were largely shattered. Unintelligible graffiti had been crudely daubed on their sides at haphazard junctures.
“It seems our path goes no further,” declared Folkard. “It’s a good thing we prevented pursuit; otherwise we would be trapped here.”
“We are trapped here,” Nathanial said, “unless your intuitive grasp of the lunar landscape can again come to our aid.”
Annabelle strode off in the direction of a doorway, all but invisible under years of dust and spider webs.
“You do get used to her wanderings,” said Nathanial apologetically to Bedford, then cried to her. “Annabelle, please be cautious! You have no way of knowing what’s behind that door!”
“Given that the hinges have rusted, the doors are covered in spider webs, caterpillar trails and paintings of what appear to be naked Drobates, and in light of the fact that this door is wanting for a handle, I doubt anyone has gone through here for quite some time,” came the reply.
Bedford hastened behind her at the best speed his ankle would allow. “Annabelle, please let me deal with this,” he said as Annabelle reached into the hole where a handle would be expected to sit. She stepped aside with a smile. Bedford examined the hole, inserted the butt of his metal walking staff and used it as a lever, at length managing to pry it open with a shriek of rusted hinges.
Light flooded out and all of them stood for a moment with eyes closes or squinted nearly so until their pupils adjusted to the unfamiliar brilliance. Folkard then detailed Booth and the Marines to keep the Russians and Selenites back. The rest of the party went through the doorway.
Much to Nathanial’s surprise, the doorway opened onto a long, dusty corridor which appeared to parallel the rail tunnel.
“If we follow this, we should be able to get back to the rail tunnel further down,” Bedford said, which made sense and so they set off, with the Russians and Selenites bringing up the rear.
After perhaps a quarter of a mile they came to another rusted door which looked as if it opened onto the rail tunnel, but it would not yield to them, even when Bedford and Phillips both put their shoulders against it and braced their feet against the opposite corridor wall. There was nothing for it, they agreed, but to go on, but Nathanial sensed that the corridor gradually curved to the left, taking them away from the rail tunnel—or perhaps paralleling it, if it also curved. That was certai
nly possible, although they walked quite some distance without seeing another access door.
“Have you noticed,” Phillips said after twenty or so more minutes of walking, “how the dust seems almost artfully arranged on the floor?”
They stopped and Folkard went a little ahead with the torch, where the dust was not yet disturbed, and examined it carefully with the torch. “It is hard to be certain,” he announced shortly, “but I believe Doctor Phillips may be correct. The dust looks to me as if it has been blown onto the floor rather than having simply settled there. We should be cautious. Before we go further, we will tie rags around the bottoms of those metal walking sticks; they make a frightful banging.”
They did so and resumed walking, and after another twenty minutes the passage ended in a blank wall.
“Absurd!” Phillips exclaimed. “What idiot would build a corridor miles long and have it simply end in a wall?”
“None,” Nathanial answered. He had begun working his way back along the wall, feeling for irregularities, and within a few yards found three circular indentations low down in the wall. “Ah!” He pressed three of his fingers in the indentations, felt a metallic instead of stone surface beyond, pressed, and heard a distinct click.
He snatched his hand back as a small doorway sank into the floor and revealed a sterile corridor of the sort one would find in a hospital or sanatorium. He could hardly have been more surprised had the doorway opened onto another planet at the opposite side of the universe; it seemed almost as if that was exactly what had happened. Light from a series of electric lamps at regular intervals flooded the corridor and briefly dazzled the group, who had become accustomed to peering at each other in the weak light of the railway and, before that, squinting in the intrusive glare provided by the fungi. The corridor was as clean and tidy as a shrine. To their left, right and immediately ahead were further doors. All bar the door on the left were closed.