The Daedalus Incident

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Ambassador, you must recognize you’re asking a great deal of me,” the captain said crossly. “And there is no guarantee that the captain of that ship will agree to it.”

  “He will, I promise you,” Franklin said. “It is critical we avoid a battle here, Captain. It would only distract us from our goal of apprehending Cagliostro!”

  “And what if this is a trap, after all?” Morrow demanded. “First our mainsail gives at a critical moment, and now a Ganny frigate bears down upon us. Tell me, sir, that you’ve not had a hand in this!”

  To his credit, Franklin remained calm. “Sir William, should I wished to have your vessel captured, I could have easily misdirected you whilst you were in Paris, and I would be home now, sitting by my fire, playing chess!”

  The look of confusion on Weatherby’s face must have been evident, for Lt. Foster took it upon himself to take Weatherby’s arm and lead him back down to the main deck and his battle station. “Ganny sighted,” Foster said quietly, pointing off to starboard, forward of the ship. “She must have kept station at the very edge of the storm, hoping for easy prey.”

  Even without his glass—or much of his wits—Weatherby could see the Ganny off in the distance, and he could tell it was already much larger. With her mainsail greatly diminished and outgunned as well, Daedalus would be easy prey indeed. Hence, Weatherby assumed, Franklin’s plea for negotiation with his fellow rebels, for it would likely save them all.

  A few minutes later, with Weatherby’s gun crews at the ready and the Ganny nearing all too close to firing range, it seemed Franklin finally won over the captain. “Secure the guns and stand down!” Plumb called from the quarterdeck.

  A moment later, Weatherby saw that Daedalus had struck its colors, replacing the Union Jack flying from the quarterdeck with a single white sheet.

  Surrender.

  Weatherby’s own discomfiture was echoed in the murmuring of the men around him, but even in his still-dazed state, Weatherby could see the sense in it. With Franklin aboard, the Ganny likely would allow them safe passage or, at the very worst, allow them to make repairs and leave the Jovian system under escort. Better that than to fight a 44-gun frigate with but 28 guns and a crippled mainmast.

  Minutes later, the enemy ship was close enough to identify as the Bonhomme Richard, which appeared to cheer Franklin greatly. Weatherby saw the Ganny approach cautiously, guns at the ready, and the men of his own division frowned and murmured as they watched. Daedalus had not unfurled a sail, and the guns were run back in. She was naught but an easy target, and Weatherby had to sternly order his men to remain quiet and motionless, lest the Ganny find an excuse to open fire.

  Soon, Morrow and the enemy commander—Weatherby could not help but think of the Ganymedeans as anything else—were exchanging shouted words through speaking horns. Morrow brought Franklin to the ship’s railing, and enjoined him to shout through as well. Yet instead of seemingly pacifying the Ganny’s crew, the guns were still drawn, and the shouting grew more intense.

  Ultimately, the two ships drew alongside each other. Morrow ordered the men to stand at attention, hands visibly at their sides, while the Ganny’s crew could be seen training their muskets and cannon upon them. A gangway was secured between the two vessels, and some two dozen Ganymedean marines flooded onto the British vessel, followed by what appeared to be the Ganny captain.

  “Appeared” seemed appropriate to Weatherby, for this man was dressed in one of the more outlandish military uniforms he had ever seen. The man’s hat was wrapped in gold braid along the edges, and his coat was likewise heavily adorned with braiding, piping and a surfeit of brass buttons. The man’s waistcoat was the brightest red Weatherby had seen outside of an actual fire, and the buckles on the Ganymedean’s shoes were perhaps three sizes larger than they needed to be.

  Nonetheless, Morrow had come onto the main deck to greet him, and even ordered the men to pipe this popinjay aboard as if he were an allied commander instead of a traitor to the crown. “Captain,” Morrow said formally, “I am Captain Sir William Morrow of His Majesty’s Ship Daedalus.”

  The man nodded curtly. “Captain John Paul Jones of the United States’ Ship Bonhomme Richard. Do I know this ship? Were you ‘round Mercury two months past? There was a merchant vessel there that had behaved most curiously, as if attempting to escape us, and I would’ve taken her if not for the interference of an English frigate, much like this one.”

  Morrow smiled graciously at the Ganymedean. “With all due respect, Captain Jones, I believe it is better to focus on the present and future.” Weatherby knew that Jones would not take kindly to being informed that Daedalus had indeed fired upon his ship—especially if Jones somehow knew that the engagement had robbed him of the opportunity to capture LeMaire.

  “Very well, then,” Jones said dismissively. “Where is Dr. Franklin?”

  “Right here, Captain,” Franklin said from behind Morrow. “And once again, I assure you that I am here of my own free will, and neither harm nor ill-fortune has befallen me.”

  Jones nonetheless looked put out. “I am quite afraid I do not understand your presence here, sir. And Captain Morrow, since you are outgunned and already have two dozen of my men aboard your ship, I am unsure why there needs be a conference at all.”

  Morrow refused to take umbrage at Jones’ pointed remarks. “Nonetheless, Captain, I would invite you to my cabin to confer with myself and Dr. Franklin. This way, please.” Morrow held out his hand toward the great cabin, and Jones marched toward it, acting as if he had already captured the ship.

  The three men emerged an hour later, with Morrow looking perturbed, Franklin looking concerned and Jones smiling ear to ear. He approached the gangplank once more, shook hands with Morrow—who returned the gesture most perfunctorily—and reboarded his own ship.

  “Take down the plank and prepare to make sail,” Morrow ordered. “We’re following Bonhomme Richard into Philadelphia. Officers and Dr. Finch to report to my cabin in ten minutes.” And with that, Morrow stalked off into his cabin, the door slamming behind him.

  Plumb, Weatherby and Foster immediately began issuing orders, and found they had to raise their voices more than usual, as it seemed the men were somewhat dumbfounded at the scene that had just transpired. Nonetheless, they soon had Daedalus on the proper course, following the larger Ganymedean vessel—into the very heart of the rebellion itself.

  Shortly thereafter in the great cabin, Morrow and Franklin revealed their plan. “Suffice it to say, the situation is quite imperfect and our course embarked upon only under great duress,” Morrow began. “However, we are sailing to Ganymede, and into Philadelphia itself, as a captive of the Ganymedeans.”

  All assembled gasped, even Plumb, but Franklin was quick to follow up. “Now, let me be clear. This is captivity in appearance only, as it seemed the best way to secure Jones’ cooperation and allow us to fully engage the resources of my countrymen in our quest.”

  “But sir,” Weatherby said, addressing Morrow, “could we not have simply enjoined Jones not to discuss our presence here, and proceeded to Philadelphia on our own, perhaps in disguise?”

  Morrow glared at Weatherby for his lack of decorum, but answered regardless. “That certainly would have been far more preferable, but we are well outgunned and damaged besides. In order to keep this Jones fellow from shooting us out of the Void entirely, we had to effectively surrender the ship. Once he came aboard, Dr. Franklin convinced him of our intent and goals. And yet…” Morrow had to steel himself to continue. “And yet, Captain Jones preferred to escort us into Philadelphia, so as to assure himself of Dr. Franklin’s continued safety and security.”

  The lieutenants, to a man, appeared mortified, whilst Dr. Finch merely smiled. Naturally, Weatherby thought, Finch would enjoy such gamesmanship.

  Franklin elaborated on the plan and its foundations: “Captain Jones is ambitious, certainly, and would love nothing more than to have ‘captured’ an English vessel. Yet if we are to asc
ertain whether Cagliostro has visited Ganymede, and to garner the help of my countrymen, then we have little alternative other than to follow Jones’ demands.”

  “But no Ganymedean has ever captured an English ship!” Weatherby blurted out. “Surely this cannot be our only avenue!”

  Morrow stood up and leaned over his desk, fixing the young man with his most stern and terrifying gaze. “Mr. Weatherby, it is the most expedient avenue that allows us to make progress upon our quest. And I expect you—all of you—to behave accordingly, and urge the men to do the same. I will not repeat this again.”

  Weatherby’s face flushed red as he nodded. “My apologies, sir.”

  Morrow stared a moment longer before continuing. “We shall be in Philadelphia in three days. At that time, we will present ourselves to the authorities there to discuss the matter of Cagliostro. Once we have completed our inquiries, Dr. Franklin has guaranteed that we shall be free to continue on elsewhere as we see fit. And if that guarantee is not enough to appease his countrymen, then I promise you all we shall earn our freedom by force if need be.”

  Morrow issued his orders: All weapons were to be stowed and the men cautioned to behave accordingly as they followed the Ganny into the enemy capital. The officers were dismissed, but Morrow had Weatherby tarry behind.

  “Sir?” the young man asked nervously, knowing full well what was about to come.

  The captain stepped around from his desk and planted himself mere inches from Weatherby’s face. “Mr. Weatherby, I fully expect that I shall not have to defend nor reiterate my orders to you ever again,” he said.

  “Aye, sir,” Weatherby responded, his back stiff and eyes fixed on a point just below the captain’s eyes.

  “I had originally thought to leave you in command of the ship whilst Plumb and I ventured ashore to meet with the Ganymedeans. Yet with your outburst here, I see now you are most unready for such a task. So you will accompany us instead, so that I may keep my eye on you and you may yet prove some worth to me. But I warn you, I will not tolerate anything further from you. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Aye, sir.” A thin sheen of sweat began to gather on Weatherby’s brow.

  “Good. Get out.”

  Weatherby saluted and quickly retreated, only to be met by Lt. Plumb outside the great cabin. “With me,” the first lieutenant ordered, and Weatherby dutifully followed him down into the wardroom, where Forester and O’Brian were lounging about whilst off duty. “Get out, you buggers,” Plumb snarled. The youngsters needed no further exhortation.

  After they clambered out the door, Plumb wheeled on Weatherby and put a massive fist into the younger man’s stomach, sending him sprawling into the wall, coughing and clutching his midsection.

  “Now you listen to me, you little shite,” Plumb hissed. “Captain’s too good a man to say it, but you’re a prissy little bastard, too full of yourself. Your head’s caught between your books and that damned girl we have aboard. If I ever catch you questioning the captain again, I swear I will break every bone in your body. You got that, Tommy boy?”

  Weatherby nodded, still sputtering and trying to catch his breath. Before Plumb stalked out, he boxed the young man’s ear for good measure, which sent the junior officer to the deck, unconscious once again.

  Three days later, marching through the midnight streets of the rebel capital, Weatherby’s head was still tender, despite Finch’s best efforts. It wasn’t the first beating he had endured during his time in the service, but it was perhaps the most effective, given his previous injury from the adventure on the mainsail spar. While Mr. Plumb had found no wrongdoing on the part of any man aboard, Weatherby had chosen not to speak one whit to him nor Morrow since then. Although he continued to question the wisdom of any surrender to these traitors, he kept his opinions well concealed. Or so he hoped.

  Yet even while brooding over the intolerable situation, Weatherby found himself surprised at the neat and orderly city before him, for he expected the heart of rebellion against the Crown to be a place of the worst sort. Philadelphia’s streets were broad, the buildings almost uniformly brick. There were many parks and open spaces, and a cheerful bustle of late evening activity as the Daedalus “captives” made their way toward the Pennsylvania State House, led by a proud John Paul Jones and a cloaked and disguised Benjamin Franklin. The taverns seemed particularly boisterous, and there was a steady stream of people about—even a few free Venusians, it seemed—doing business under Jupiter’s unblinking eye. The gas giant was at least ten times larger in the sky than was the Moon as seen from Earth. Next to it, tiny Io was an angry crimson dot, Europa a small white snowball.

  It took but ten minutes for the Daedalans—Morrow, Anne, Finch and Weatherby—to arrive at the Pennsylvania State House. It struck Weatherby as too small and parochial to be the very epicenter of planetary rebellion, but it did have a certain charm regardless. It was but two stories tall, primarily red brick, with a pitched slate roof and a tall, white wooden bell tower. St. James Palace, it was not.

  Once inside the building, Franklin took off his hat and cloak, much to the surprise of those present inside. They were, of course, immediately sworn to secrecy and pressed into service. The word was passed regarding their arrival, and soon Franklin and Jones were invited into one of the hall’s main chambers, therein to consult with their conspirators, Weatherby guessed. The Daedalus party remained in shackles, under armed guard, in an anteroom. Morrow was silent, and thus they all were.

  After this private meeting, which lasted many minutes, the Englishmen were ushered into the room—some kind of parliamentary chamber, though rudimentary at best. There they found Franklin and Jones in the presence of two others, one of whom sat at the room’s central desk looking quite dour, and the other, attired as a military commander, who ordered their manacles removed and rose to greet them.

  The man behind the desk was John Jay, the current President of the Second Ganymedean Congress and, thus, the political leader of the rebellion against the Crown. The officer identified himself as Major General Benedict Arnold, commander of the Ganymedean forces in the Philadelphia area.

  Weatherby forced himself to greet both men cordially, and perhaps succeeded in some small part. Morrow and Finch, of course, were far more gracious, which Weatherby attributed to their more cosmopolitan experiences, and Anne was greeted with naught but kindness. Weatherby would have argued against her accompanying them, but Franklin thought it useful, and the young officer was in no position to argue the point.

  President Jay was obviously ill at ease with their presence—or perhaps simply perturbed at being roused in the middle of the night—but Gen. Arnold was genial and accommodating. Weatherby assumed this was professional respect and courtesy when not engaged in conflict, something most officers aspired to, yet few achieved.

  “There has been activity here in Philadelphia pertinent to our quest,” Franklin said with nothing in the way of preamble. “There has been murder, and theft besides!”

  Morrow looked surprised. “But how can we know it is Cagliostro?”

  “Who else?” Franklin said. “The goals and the means fit the crime. General, would you be so kind as to give our guests a summation of what has transpired?”

  “Of course,” Arnold said. “Dr. Franklin told us of the Chance, and while no such vessel has made port here, a similar one, calling itself Liberte, was here just two days’ prior. I remember its name only because of the terrible events discovered in the wake of that ship’s rapid departure.

  “Our harbormaster reported that Liberte had come in from Io, and certainly she smelled most prodigiously of sulfur, I’m told. But the harbormaster was surprised to find very little Ionian sulfur-iron aboard; as you know, there are few exports from that blasted world, and that’s one of them. But it’s not for us to tell a captain how best to do business, so the ship was allowed to make port.

  “Not four hours later, the ship suddenly made sail without warning,” Arnold continued. “Again, this wou
ld not be taken amiss in most respects, except that shortly thereafter, we discovered a most heinous crime had been committed. As you know, gentlemen, the rare Aquila gemstones can only be found here on Ganymede, and are mined in the western parts of Virginia and Pennsylvania. As our chief port, Philadelphia sees much trade in these valuables.

  “As I was saying, a terrible crime was discovered shortly after the ship’s departure. Jonathan Wilkes, one of the most prosperous men in the Aquila trade, was discovered dead in his warehouse, with his most recent shipment of gemstones taken. While the latter is a great monetary loss, this murder is far more onerous. I should think that this Cagliostro person may be responsible, if the Liberte is indeed your quarry,” the general concluded.

  Morrow considered this thoughtfully. “This does appear to fit in with the modus operandi of our quarry,” he said. “Then again, Aquila are quite valuable, are they not? How do we know that this is not simply mere theft, and unrelated to our task at hand?”

  Arnold nodded in acknowledgement of Morrow’s question. “Method, of course, is everything, Captain. Wilkes kept his stones in perhaps one of the finest iron chests ever wrought, at least to my eyes. It was Ionian steel, thick enough that the chest, no bigger than your sea chests, had to be carried by four men.”

  “Ah, I see it,” Finch said. “You found the chest corrupted and seemingly melted.”

  Franklin flashed the young alchemist a winning grin. “Well done, Doctor! Cagliostro used a bit of his stolen Mercurium to hasten the corruption and rust of the iron. He must have been at wit’s end to use such telling means to open the chest, for it puts us squarely on his trail once more.”

  “But where does this trail lead?” Jones asked. “Once again, I remain unconvinced. Yes, this Cagliostro is a fiendish sort. But he could be anywhere by now.”