And that started his heart beating hard again, which made him more rueful. How do you go from senior conglom exec to internationally wanted criminal and gunshot victim in six months, anyway?
Once he calmed himself down—bitching about things in his head wouldn’t do him any good, after all—he decided to figure out where he was. It took what seemed like an age just to find his eyelids, let alone force them open.
White walls, trimmed with beige. Random holopicture of flowers on the wall. Electronic equipment.
Hospital. That made sense.
A voice shook him out of his slow, methodical observations. “Jesus, Harry, you sure know how to pick ‘em.”
With great effort and focus—or what felt like it, at any rate—Harry slowly turned his head in the direction of the voice. There, sitting in a chair next to his bed was Chrys, his backer, with datapad in hand and a look of both consternation and sympathy on her face.
“Yeah,” he croaked quietly. “Nuts.”
Chrys nodded grimly. “You want the download now, or should I wait until you’re up for it?”
It took several seconds for him to register what she said, and several more to interpret it. Given that she was there, in his hospital room, rather than running her ops and making money, chances are something went south on her end as well. “Now,” Harry replied.
Chrys nodded. “Well, first you got shot, of course. Bullet nearly went straight through your heart, and they had to freeze you in place before moving you. You’re lucky I got a building with gunshot detectors all over. Ambulance was there in four minutes. Saved your life.”
Harry managed a small smile. “Owe you one.”
“You owe me a shit-ton more than that,” she grumbled. “Your team there, Greene and that other woman, they screwed me over. They fucked with my satellites. I’m out trillions of terras.”
This took even longer to digest, and when Harry finally got there, he felt his heart racing again. “You…went backdoor.”
At this, Chrys gave him a small, lopsided grin. “Yeah, I did. Total end-around on you. I contacted them just about the same time as I contacted you. I knew what you were trying to do for Total-Suez—open the door to whatever place is on the other side, exploit the hell out of it. Your intel from the Mars fiasco made the rounds with a few people. I read about what Venus was supposed to be like, and figured it’d be absolutely perfect. So I had Greene do up some extra hardware for the sats so maybe we could experiment on a larger scale, without the repercussions of opening some kind of fucked-up portal right here on Earth. But as it turns out, Greene rewrote the entire software command structure to lock us out of the project entirely. So now I got a dozen sats heading for Venus with God-knows-what on board, and I have no control over them.”
Harry took all this in, his mind fighting against anesthesia and medication in order to focus. For the first time, he noticed that Chrys looked horrible—dark circles under her eyes, disheveled hair, no makeup, wrinkled suit. Good. “You…screwed me. You screwed us both.”
“Hey, if you didn’t have homicidal whack-jobs on your team, this wouldn’t be an issue, Harry,” she replied, only slightly defensively. “Give me straight-up capitalists any day. I pay, they produce. But this, this is some left-field shit. And now I’m on the hook with my conglom because of your people.”
“And I got shot.”
“And you got shot,” she replied with a sigh. “So you don’t have your accelerator project, and I don’t have my sats. We’re both screwed.”
Harry thought about this again, all the while all-too-conscious of his uncomfortable heartbeat inside his ravaged chest. “Anything on our computers?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. They erased everything. We can’t even reconstruct what was there. They were thorough. Only positive I can see here is that Greene needs a big-ass comm dish to get commands over to the sats. He might have control, but he can’t talk to them unless he has a corporate-quality interplanetary comm rig, or he somehow gets a lot closer to them.”
Harry was about to reply when there was a perfunctory knock on the door. By the time he turned his head to reply, it was already opened.
Maria Diaz and Shaila Jain walked in.
“Fuck,” Harry whispered.
To her credit, Diaz looked suitably concerned with his wellbeing. Shaila, as he had come to expect, seemed almost disappointed she couldn’t shoot him again.
“Christ, Harry. You really screwed the pooch this time,” Diaz said by way of greeting. She looked annoyingly maternal about it.
Harry started to laugh, but his chest muscles protested fiercely, leaving him gasping. “Everyone…says that.”
Diaz turned to Chrys. “Miss VanDerKamp, we couldn’t help but overhear your problems.”
Chrys gave Diaz a once-over, stopping at the two general’s stars on her uniform. “Couldn’t help it?”
Shaila held up a datapad with a satisfied smirk. “Fine, we spied. Welcome to Russia.”
Chrys turned to shoot Harry a deadly look before replying. “That won’t hold up in corporate court, you know.”
Diaz nodded. “Good thing this isn’t going to court. We got more important things to do, like fixing the fuck-all you just got us into.” She turned to Harry. “You realize now what’s going on, don’t you?”
Harry managed a nod. “They’re…opening it up…on Venus.”
“And who’s ‘they,’ Harry?” Shaila prodded.
“Greene. Huntington.”
Diaz stared, wide-eyed, and took several seconds to respond. “They’re alive? I thought we lost them in Egypt!”
“Alive, but…they’re…not…” Harry paused. He didn’t have words for it.
To her credit, the general recovered quickly. “Right. They’re not themselves. That actually makes more sense to me than you might think. OK, then. You two are about to spill everything you got. Miss VanDerKamp, you’re going to cooperate, as will your conglom, or I’ll make damn sure the only project you’ll get to manage again is lunch rush at McDonald’s. How many days until those sats reach Venus?”
Chrys stared hard at Diaz, who stared right back. Finally, the exec relented. “Nine.”
“Thank you,” Diaz said. “Means we got nine days to get there and stop all this. Otherwise, it’s going to be Mars all over again…and probably a whole lot worse.”
CHAPTER 13
May 14, 1809
“Lord Weatherby, I assure you whilst I feel your information is of the highest validity, I cannot simply allow you to take half my fleet to Venus whilst we prepare to retake England—our very homeland!—and drive the foul French from our shores!”
George, Prince of Wales and Prince Regent-in-Exile on behalf of the captive King George III, paced his council chamber with an energy typically reserved for infantry drills—or, in the prince’s case, a particularly high-stakes game of cards. His agitation was understandable, certainly, for there in the room were his two most trusted military advisers—Lord Admiral Thomas Weatherby and General Sir Arthur Wellesley—advocating two entirely different things, neither of which assured success by any reliable measure.
But the potential to retake England, no matter the cost, was the most deciding factor. And even Weatherby had to admit he would choose similarly if in the prince’s position—though the prince did not, and would not, have all the information available to Weatherby.
“Sire, I wish it were otherwise, but it is my belief that if we can defeat the French upon Venus, our chances of success south of Hadrian’s Wall shall be vastly improved,” Weatherby said. “Without the bulk of their fleet, they cannot be resupplied. Our people continue to resist the occupation, and without supplies, the French are weakened.”
Wellesley cleared his throat. “With utmost respect to Lord Weatherby, sire, the bulk of the French forces require neither food nor water, and even should they run out of munitions, they remain impervious to most types of injury. There will be no greater opportunity to fight them than the summer months, wh
en our troops will require little in the way of additional supply themselves. Plus, the ships of His Majesty’s Navy can provide a great deal of firepower as we land, especially should we take the mouth of the Thames. They may sail as far as Windsor, allowing us a foothold in the south and the liberation of London itself!”
Weatherby did his best not to scowl at Wellesley. “The general is, of course, an exceptional tactician, and I do believe we can provide his foothold in the south with but a few of our ships. Meanwhile, the bulk of the fleet can make for Venus and easily eradicate the rest of the French fleet. From there, we can even return to provide support as needed, whereas they will have none. And it is quite well proven that our facility upon sea or Void is far superior to theirs. Best to crush them on Venus, or in the Void, rather than in the Channel or the North Sea, where they then might simply escape to the Continent and resupply. Sire, I urge—”
“Enough!” George cried, placing his hands to his ears. “I have had enough of both of you!” This silenced both commanders long enough for the Prince Regent to produce a letter from his coat pocket. “Do either of you know what this is?”
Wellesley stared with furrowed brow, but Weatherby recognized the large, looping script upon the page. “It is from the Xan, I take it.”
“Yes, from the damnable Saturn-dwellers! And they have the temerity to tell me how and when they shall assist us, and upon what conditions. Your friend Vellusk,” the prince raged, focusing on Weatherby, “says there may be a way to counteract the alchemy that has raised the Corps Éternel, but he says his people may require particular plants and other obscure alchemical items from Venus. Lord Weatherby, I swear to you, if you are somehow complicit in this, or your wife for that matter, I shall execute you for treason. I swear I shall behead you myself.”
Weatherby was taken aback by the Prince Regent’s anger, and more so by the obscured truth of his words. And so he set his course upon the most dangerous course of his life. “I swear to you, sire, upon my life and those of my family, that while Vellusk and I may both seek the Green Planet, he has not shared the contents of this letter with me.”
This was, of course, a true statement in the narrowest of definitions, as Weatherby was in another room whilst Vellusk wrote his letter. But in the spirit of his prince’s question, Weatherby felt he well and truly lied and sinned, and could but hope that it was for the greater good.
Prince George’s eyes narrowed. “And so I shall take you at your word, as you have served with naught but honor and success. But on your head be it, Thomas. I must now acquiesce to the Xan’s requests in order to garner their aid, and I will not stand for any betrayal or deviancies on their part. This Venusian gambit of yours had best bear fruit, and quickly.” Wellesley made to speak, but George silenced him with but a look, one of fire and fury barely contained. “Now, Lord Weatherby, you have thirty-two ships of the line currently blockading England and defending Scotland and Ireland, correct?”
“Yes, sire,” Weatherby responded quietly. “At least twice as many more frigates, brigs and sloops as well.”
George put his hands upon the council table and studied the maps carefully thereupon. “Very well. We will need every ship that can carry men southward. I can spare you Victory and four other ships of the line, along with a half-dozen smaller ships for your fleet. There can be no more. If you cannot move the French from Venus with this, or the odds are stacked too greatly against you, I expect you to return to Earth and England forthwith to aid in the recapture of our home. Do I make myself clear, my Lord Admiral?”
Too few! All too few! Weatherby thought. But there truly was nothing for it. “I will either claim victory or return to assist Sir Arthur in his campaign, sire. I promise you.”
“Then you will immediately prepare for your departure. Send me another admiral so we may continue our preparations for the assault on England, and be sure the defense of Edinburgh and Glasgow are well in hand before you go,” the Prince Regent ordered.
“By your leave then, Your Highness, I shall send you Admiral Saumarez forthwith,” Weatherby said as his picked up his hat. “God save you and King George.”
To Weatherby’s great surprise, the prince offered his hand. “I know not what strange workings are afoot with the Xan and Venus, but I do trust you, Thomas. Destroy the French fleet, gather what the Xan require and hurry back to us safely.”
Weatherby took his prince’s hand with gratitude. “I shall.” He turned to Wellesley, but found the general pointedly studying the maps upon the table, and so took his leave without further word.
Outside the chamber, he found Philip waiting for him. “Well?”
“We are to make for Venus with but a handful of ships,” Weatherby said without breaking stride, forcing Philip to rush to keep up. “And so we shall likely face a French fleet at least three times our size in the Void, making keel-fall nearly impossible. Then there’s the trek through the jungle to the memory vault, held by a race of beings that may or may not be amenable to our presence there. And of course, Berthollet and Cagliostro will likely have surmised our intentions and have a veritable army waiting for us.”
Philip took all this in for a few moments. “So this is somewhat worse than usual then, Father?”
Weatherby grinned. “Only slightly. How fares Dr. Finch?”
At this, Philip’s humor quickly waned. “We have placed The Book of the Dead in a container we believe will isolate its mystical properties from its surroundings. And indeed, we have seen Uncle Andrew regain some of his color and vitality. Naturally, that makes us loath to study it further. And Ambassador Vellusk insists Mother and I should not conduct any researches until the book is away from Earth, lest it somehow release energies that either harm living beings or strengthen the French forces.”
Weatherby nodded. “That seems prudent. And as for ‘Uncle’ Andrew, damn him, he shall not set eyes upon it again.”
Philip stopped and took Weatherby’s arm in hand. “Father, please, a word about Andrew.”
With consternation, Weatherby looked around to ensure no others were about in the palace corridor. “There is little more to be said, Philip. I have decided.”
“But Uncle Andrew managed to contain the book’s energies, and learned from them, for more than a decade,” Philip protested quietly and reasonably. “There are none others alive, except for Berthollet, who know such lore as well as he. He has made some remarkable advances in the Great Work through his research.”
“And he lied to me,” Weatherby snapped. “To my face, Philip. How can I countenance this?”
“Father,” Philip said gently. “He believed the course before him required secrecy and, yes, deception. And for a decade, no one else has so much as seen the book. He has protected its secrets from our enemies and sought to use them on behalf of England. Has he not been by your side since Egypt?”
“He lied,” Weatherby said simply, though the conviction of his words was on the wane.
“And this is different from the course you just set for yourself now, with the Prince Regent?” Philip asked, gently enough so that Weatherby heard his beloved wife’s voice in his.
And so the protest died before it was brought to the old admiral’s lips. “By God, you are your mother’s son.”
Philip smirked, another echo of Anne in his face. “And I am as much yours as well, for your example is a fine one indeed.”
Weatherby clasped his shoulder. “Thank you, Philip. Now go make preparations to depart. Since Dr. Finch, either by taint of illness or suspicion, cannot remain my fleet alchemist, I am appointing you to the position in his stead. Report to Victory and ensure all is in order. When I’ve ascertained the composition of the rest of our squadron, I will send you the names so you may prepare those ships as well.”
Philip blinked with surprise. “But I’ve no training at this, my Lord. I’m not even in the Navy!”
“You are now,” Weatherby quipped. “You may appoint an assistant, and I’ve no doubt you will have your m
other on hand as well. Go. You have work to do.”
Philip straightened up and made a salute that, admittedly, would’ve had a midshipman whipped, then departed quickly. Shaking his head, Weatherby watched him go wistfully. There was a time when he was that young, and the responsibilities of command were a joy, not a burden.
Those times were long past, it seemed.
Weatherby made his way to the wing of the old castle in which he and his family and retinue were housed, stopping at a door that was locked from the outside—Finch’s quarters. There were two Marines stationed there as well, and they smartly snapped to attention as he approached. Weatherby nodded, and one of them produced a key and unlocked the door, opening it so that he might enter.
Inside, Weatherby found Finch lolling on the bed, one leg dangling off, his clothing disheveled. For a moment, Weatherby’s mind flashed back to their very first meeting, having discovered Finch in a decrepit boarding house upon Elizabeth Mercuris, drugged on Venusian extracts and wholly unsuited to his assignment as alchemist aboard HMS Daedalus.
But Finch was reading now, rather than inhaling from a hookah. And his color had improved substantially since then, and even somewhat from a few days prior.
“Thomas!” Finch cried with delight, slamming the book closed and scrambling to his feet. “Thank God you’re here. Sit with me and let me explain.”
Weatherby held up his hand. “No, Doctor. Not this time.”
“But, Tom! I am the same Andrew you’ve always known. Surely this is naught but a mistake. I apologize for keeping you in the dark, of course.”
“In the dark?” Weatherby shouted. “You lied to me, damn you! You earned my trust, time and again, and then for a decade—a full decade or more!—you have concealed the truth. Lied to my very face. Sat upon a treasure we may have used to liberate England years ago!”
Finch’s face took a hard turn. “And who would have used it? The Prince Regent? He would’ve created his own fell abominations to fight the French, as you well know! Wellesley? He’d gladly lead an army of revenants if it brought him glory! You, Tom? What would you have done? Would you have used the book in such a way? And if the French made further strides, would you have met them? Would you have condemned the world to darkness and allowed the very Underworld to seep into the land of the living?”
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