The Daedalus Incident

by Michael J. Martinez

  …until Harry Yu showed up exactly in that spot.

  Shaila double checked the data to be sure. Going back for the entirety of the log, Harry was the only other person to linger at that location for more than a few seconds.

  “Son of a bitch,” Shaila muttered. She quickly filtered out all other beacons and expanded her search area to the entire McAuliffe area of operations—three hundred square kilometers of bleak Martian turf. Turned out Harry spent a fair amount of time outside, but the vast majority of it was confined to access roads, mining ops sites and a few of the bigger survey trips. So Shaila filtered out those locations as well.

  She got two more hits. Both of the new locations were well outside the normal Billiton sites, and were rarely explored by JSC as well. In fact, if there was a middle-of-nowhere within McAuliffe’s sensor grid, those were two good candidates.

  Shaila singled out the three sites on the map and cleared the rest of the data, and stared intently at them. They weren’t at 36-degree angles to one another. And they were anywhere from fifteen to forty-five clicks apart.

  But…

  Shaila traced her finger around the map, encapsulating the three points into a ring. It turned out to be a pretty big area, at least 60 kilometers in diameter.

  And just as Greene had guessed, the lava tube was inside that area.

  Shaila keyed the comm. “Jain to Greene, over.”

  A few seconds passed before he responded. “Greene here. What’s up, Lieutenant?”

  “You want to grab some more shots outside tomorrow morning?” she asked.

  To his credit, he got the hint within five seconds, tops. “You know, I think I do.”

  “Meet me in the Hub at oh-eight-thirty. Jain out.”

  Shaila turned back to the screen, intent on running a second suit-beacon search for anyone who had been anywhere along the ring-line she had drawn on the map. Before she could start the search, however, she was interrupted by a chime from the computer near the containment unit.

  She rolled her chair over to the unit holding the book and quickly scanned through the comparison the computer had done between her initial scan and the one just completed. The book continued to radiate electromagnetic energy and Cherenkov radiation at constant levels, while nearly every other metric remained the same…

  Except the book now weighed 0.6 grams more than it did when first scanned.

  Six-tenths of a gram wasn’t quite a rounding error, even with McAuliffe’s slightly antiquated equipment. Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought to do a more thorough chemical composition scan earlier—and really, why bother when books are made of paper, right?—so it was impossible to tell exactly how the book gained weight.

  Shaila recalibrated the containment unit’s sensors to include the chemical composition data, then set it on a regular loop—if the book gained weight regularly or if it suddenly spiked, she’d know about it. And if it were simply a glitch, which was most likely, she’d know that too.

  She was about to turn back to her suit-beacon search when she eyed the book’s cover one more time. It was nice looking, well-weathered leather, and looked like it had been hand-made. Books hadn’t really been published on paper for nearly a century, but there were still some folks who slapped down hard-earned terras for something they could put on a shelf. Shaila never really understood that.

  But this book seemed different even from the vanity books still published on Earth. Taking the unit’s manipulator controls, she gently nudged the claws toward the book and, with more than a little effort, managed to flip the cover open.

  The first page had a single word—“Weatherby”—on it. Shaila figured it was easy to miss that.

  The second page—reached all too slowly by dragging the claw lightly across the surface of the first page—was covered in neat penmanship, addressed to someone’s father. How she missed that, she didn’t know. Shaila started reading.

  “Father,

  You have often asked me about my life in service to His Majesty’s Navy, and I have endeavoured to tell you as much as I can, but often detail escapes me…”

  Shaila stopped and re-read the first few paragraphs.

  “Mercury?”

  CHAPTER 13

  May 2, 1779

  Father,

  These are strange days. I do not know if this journal can any longer serve as a present to you, as the situation we find ourselves in is one of the utmost sensitivity. Yet I am driven to continue with my chronicle, in the hopes that my thoughts on recent events may help others to perhaps better understand the extraordinary events in which we find ourselves.

  And so, I write this while HMS Daedalus sits in port—in Philadelphia, capital of these so-called United States of Ganymede, where we will soon be forced into captivity. And yet we are not captives. Truly, it is a hard thing to explain, but I shall try to do the situation some small justice herein before we embark upon what I am sure will be one of the stranger episodes in the annals of diplomacy.

  Weatherby stumbled slightly on the cobblestones of the streets, his balance poorly aided by the manacles he wore and the darkness surrounding him. Truly, he had little idea how Capt. Morrow walked so straight and tall, even while at musket-point, or how even Finch could navigate the darkened streets of Philadelphia with seeming grace. For his part, Weatherby simply wished for nothing more than to turn around and hit the Ganymedean soldier who prodded and pushed him along the streets at musket-point, but he was under very strict orders to cooperate fully. Besides, he thought rather glumly, he had used up much of Morrow’s goodwill and forbearance, if not all.

  This circumstance was, sad to say, a continuance of the ill fortune that seemed to plague both Daedalus in general—and her second lieutenant most particularly—since leaving the Rocky Main behind. Four days prior, as they entered the Jovian system, the Daedalus was caught in a roiling Void storm. These were common enough—about as common as severe thunderstorms on Earth—but had little in the way of the latter’s merit. At least an Earth-bound thunderstorm would produce fresh water, always a welcome gift aboard ship. Void storms had nothing in the way of rain, unless a torrent of sun-motes counted as such, and these could certainly not quench thirst. They instead stung faces and charred wood to a small degree, like the embers cast from a fireplace, carried away by the wind.

  And there was plenty of wind in a Void storm, as well as roiling currents, black clouds that blotted out the stars, and seemingly twice the lightning of its planet-bound cousin. Naturally, it was in this stew of foul weather that Mr. Plumb had ordered Weatherby to inspect the mainmast sail rigging—some sixty feet above the pitching deck. The officers regularly inspected the sails and rigging, but it was a task with which Weatherby had never become wholly comfortable, and the violent pitching of the ship made the task far more onerous.

  Yet it was the men of Weatherby’s division responsible for the sails on this watch, and there would be Hell to pay if they were other than perfect. So he joined his men above, carefully inspecting each line, sail and spar. All seemed to be well.

  He had begun to make his descent to the relative safety of the deck when the ship lurched violently, swaying at least sixty degrees upon its keel axis—she would’ve sank had she been at sea instead of Void. As it was, Weatherby clung to the hempen rigging near the mainmast and hung on for dearest life, eyes screwed shut in fear—and prayer.

  But a sharp crack had sent his eyes open wide once more—was it cannon fire? Here in the storm? There was a sharp cry to his right, followed by shouts from the deck below. And as Weatherby turned to trace the sound, he could feel Daedalus’ momentum slowing

  Next to him, the mainmast spar was hanging at a terrible downward angle, taking the wind right out of the mainsail. And there were two men of his division now atop the stilted spar, tangled in a mass of rope, canvas and broken wood that kept them from falling to the deck—but also trapped them and threatened to send them careening off into the Void if the spar gave way completely.

  Weat
herby began to climb upward once more, but the billowing sailcloth was catching the solar wind in all the wrong directions, and the Void storm continued to pitch the ship, almost throwing Weatherby off into the Void before he had climbed but a few feet. Saving himself by just one tightly clenched hand, the young officer managed to regain his footing and proceeded upward once more, wrapping his forearm around the rigging at each step. A shower of sun-motes swept past his face, momentarily stinging his eyes and blinding him, but he shook his head and hauled himself onto the firing platform at the intersection of the mainmast and the mainsail spar.

  Off to larboard, Weatherby could see that the two men—Lamb and Weller were their names—were busy trying to untangle themselves from the wreckage of the mainmast and their own body lines, now tangled and likely compromised by the accident. Weller was the nimbler and more experienced of the two, while Lamb was a pressed man who had barely been aboard six months. Lamb was also closer to the firing platform, making Weatherby’s decision easier. He grabbed an extra body line from the mainmast and tied it around his waist before venturing onto the broken, sloping spar toward the two trapped men.

  “Hold fast!” he called out as he inched his way up the wooden beam, clutching at the dangling ropes from above. “Do not move about! I’m coming!”

  Lamb immediately stopped pulling at the rope and canvas around his leg, looking to Weatherby with fear and hope combined. Weller, however, kept trying to unravel his body line, which had tangled up around his arm—even though he was half-dangling from the very end of the spar, with naught but hard deck and vast Void beneath. “Weller, stop what you’re doing!” Weatherby called out, but to no avail; either Weller couldn’t hear his officer over the wind and lightning, or the experienced tar trusted his own skills over that of the younger man.

  Then the ship bucked violently once more, nearly throwing Weatherby off the spar entirely, with only a rope between him and the deck below. He held on tightly, trying to stifle the protest from his stomach and nerves, and continued upward. Lamb, panicking, had begun to pick at his ropes once more, while Weller seemed to be getting free on his own—experience was winning out.

  After what seemed an age, but was likely but a minute, Weatherby reached Lamb and pulled out his dirk, slicing through the offending ropes that kept the man bound to the wreckage of the mainsail. The lubberly man—why Lamb was assigned to the sails, Weatherby could not venture—clumsily grasped the rope around Weatherby’s waist and held on dearly as the officer cleared the wreckage away, freeing his leg. “Go back!” Weatherby shouted over the gale. “Head for the firing platform! Crawl along the spar!”

  Lamb nodded desperately and began crawling downward, nearly shoving Weatherby off the spar in the process in his haste. But he could see that Lamb’s caution was an asset—so long as the spar held, he could make it to the firing platform and, from there, easily descend to the deck, even in the Void storm. Weatherby watched his progress for a few more moments before turning to Weller.

  Weller was gone.

  Aghast, Weatherby looked and saw rope, broken wood and canvas dangling from the spar just 10 feet ahead. The man had managed to free himself. And then—

  Weatherby looked about, but saw no trace of the man, not even upon the deck below. But he did see Lt. Foster below, waving for him to come down. Even from his precarious perch, Weatherby could see his fellow officer’s head shake sadly. There would be no further rescue.

  With resignation, Weatherby began inching his way back down the spar. He looked back to see Lamb had reached the firing platform, and was hugging the mainmast desperately as the ship swayed and heaved. This sight was quickly obscured, however, by the mainsail, which blew up and around Weatherby’s body. The young man cried out in surprise, and quickened his grip along the spar, but he could feel the sail’s weight dragging at him.

  Then something hard and sharp—likely a piece of wood—sank into Weatherby’s hand. With a shriek, he released his hold for a bare moment. A quick gust of wind, a shower of dust motes and a massive pitch to starboard did the rest.

  Weatherby fell as the mainsail sloughed off him, dropping twenty feet in an instant before his lifeline caught him, prompting him to nearly retch as it bit into his stomach and spun him upside down. Before he could gather himself, the rope swung him around in a wide arc—and he barely had time to blink before he saw the strong oak of the mainmast rushing up to greet him.

  Then all was black.

  The next sight Weatherby enjoyed—and he enjoyed it very much, for it meant he was alive—was a wooden ceiling. The next sensation was far less agreeable, for it seemed his entire body had been severely bludgeoned.

  He turned his head to the right, prompting a throb of protest in his brainpan, and saw Dr. Finch mixing some sort of alchemical elixir at a bench next to him. The doctor turned and, seeing Weatherby was awake, smiled genuinely. “You’re an incredibly brave and utterly stupid man,” he said.

  “More the latter,” Weatherby murmured. “Lamb? Weller?”

  The doctor sighed. “Mr. Lamb is fine. Nothing an extra ration of grog cannot cure. Mr. Weller is missing and presumed lost to the Void.”

  Weatherby nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. He remembered Weller as one of the more businesslike of the crew, highly skilled and respected if not widely liked. He wished he could remember more of the man, but that was all that came to him.

  “Do you know how the repairs go?” Weatherby asked.

  It was Captain Morrow who answered; Weatherby had not seen him, but he had been standing on the other side of his cot the entire time. “The repairs proceed, Mr. Weatherby. Our most vexing problem remains why they were necessary in the first place.”

  Morrow’s tone was gentle enough, but the question was unmistakable. “Sir, I checked the sails myself,” Weatherby said. “All appeared proper to my eye prior to the engagement.”

  Morrow nodded soberly. “So say those aloft as well. But the mainsail, the maintopsail and most of the rigging along the mainmast is a run now. Mr. Plumb has already begun investigating the wreckage to ensure there was nothing amiss aside from weather.”

  The captain fixed Weatherby in his eye as he continued. “I have given you a commendation for valor in the log, Mr. Weatherby, and it is well deserved. But should an oversight on the part of you or your division be responsible for the sail giving way so completely, I will be forced to note this in the log as well.” Morrow turned to Finch. “How long before Mr. Weatherby can return to duty?”

  The doctor looked discomfited at this. “He has suffered a sharp blow to the head. I should like to keep him here for the rest of the day, but if you need him sooner, I shall do my best.”

  Morrow nodded. “Best you can, Dr. Finch.” And with that, the captain took his leave with a last glance at his young second lieutenant, whose pained expression did little to pierce Morrow’s inscrutably neutral mien.

  “Ah, the service,” Weatherby said, laying his head back on the pillow and trying to ignore the throbbing. “One good deed deserves a poor one.”

  “So it would seem,” Finch said in genuine sympathy. “Even if one of your men had been sloppy, ’tis no reason to punish you for it.”

  “They’re my men, Doctor, and it is up to me to ensure they perform their duties well,” Weatherby said quietly. “But I tell you, all aloft really did seem well in hand. I’m sure Mr. Plumb will agree.”

  Finch applied a compress to Weatherby’s head, one that made his scalp tingle to a degree—something laden with alchemical treatments, no doubt. He then traced a few sigils upon Weatherby’s brow using some sort of clear oil. “Are you quite sure you wish to make a career of all this?” Finch said with a small grin. “I should imagine piracy would at least be more fun.”

  Weatherby could not help but smile back. “True, but if you think our bilges smell bad, I imagine they’re far worse aboard a ship like Chance.”

  “Anything at sea or Void, I believe, will have a certain putrescence attached to it,” F
inch said, seemingly enjoying the banter. “Take for example, the smell associated with this whole notion of equality among officers in the wardroom. Imagine the son of a shopkeeper in charge of a nobleman!”

  “My father is a shopkeeper,” Weatherby said, his grin growing wide. Any further rejoinder was cut off by the sound of the ship’s bell and the marine drum—they were beating to quarters.

  Weatherby bolted upright, doing his best to ignore the throbbing dizziness produced in his head. He tossed aside the compress, grabbed his hat from Finch’s workbench and, despite a string of pleading and obscenities from the doctor, carefully picked his way up above decks, grabbing onto whatever he could to maintain his balance as the ship pitched.

  Except, when he ascended to the main deck, Weatherby could see they were out of the storm, and Jupiter loomed large across the entire larboard-side horizon. The pitching was due solely to his lack of balance at the moment. He looked up to see seamen scrambling over the mainmast rigging, attempting a slapdash repair to the mainsail that would at least give Daedalus something in the way of maneuverability, if not speed. Willing the doctor’s alchemy to hurry into effectiveness, Weatherby quickly picked his way across the deck toward the ship’s stern—until he nearly bumped into a burly sailor blocking his path.

  It was Lamb, giving him a pronounced salute. “Mr. Weatherby, sir, I can’t begin to thank you enough, sir, what you did for me. I’m in your debt, sir.”

  Weatherby gave the man a small smile and put his hand on his shoulder. Even with his head throbbing, he knew others among his division were watching this exchange. “I would’ve done it for any man aboard, and I know you would have done so for me. Now go and mind your station.”

  Lamb saluted again and scurried off, leaving Weatherby feeling immensely better about nearly everything—until he took a step and nearly keeled over the side. Grabbing at the rigging, Weatherby staggered forward, ascending the few steps up to the quarterdeck and presenting himself to Morrow, who acknowledged him with a bare nod before turning back to his conversation with Dr. Franklin.