The Venusian Gambit

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Tom,” he croaked. His pallor was sickly and his hands trembling but his eyes—his eyes were his own. And they pled with his old friend. “Tom…destroy this.”

  Weatherby needed no further encouragement. He brought his blade down upon the book in Finch’s hands, slicing it in twain with a single stroke.

  Althotas screamed again and turned toward Weatherby. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

  Finch answered for him. “What I…should’ve…done…long ago!”

  He then tossed the two pieces of The Book of the Dead into the pool of memories—which immediately turned pitch black.

  Althotas turned and tried to swipe at Finch, but was met with Weatherby’s blade. The creature’s forearm was severed midway between wrist and elbow.

  “We have not failed!” Weatherby bellowed.

  Then there was a loud crack from the other side of the pool, and Althotas screamed again—and even with his alien features, there was true panic writ upon his face.

  Weatherby saw Anne and Stephane together, with the pieces of the Emerald Tablet at their feet. They had shattered it upon the stony floor—just as Weatherby had done so many years ago. Quickly, the two bent over and began scooping up the green, glowing shards, casting them into the pool as well. And the waters soon began glowing with the same emerald light.

  The sound of gunfire rang out again, and more yellow blotches appeared on Althotas’ chest and skull. Shaila had regained her footing, and was grimly firing upon the Martian once more—until her bullets were spent, and she cast the weapon to the ground in disgust. “Now what?”

  Weatherby ran forward, his blade held high. “Now we finish him!”

  But Finch practically tackled him, leaving the two struggling against each other. “No, Tom!” he shouted, his voice straining. “We must…close it. The convergence.”

  Weatherby struggled to disengage himself from Finch. “How?” he demanded.

  Finch simply smiled and clasped Weatherby in a ferocious hug. “I will…make this right,” he said. “You are…my brother.”

  Then Finch disengaged himself from his friend and dashed up to Althotas, shoving him backward with all his might—a considerable might, Weatherby saw, as he was still possessed, at least in part, by the otherworldly Rathemas.

  But Finch, it seemed, had taken the upper hand.

  Althotas staggered backward, tripping upon the edge of the pool. Finch pushed again, leaping upon the teetering titan and hammering him with his fists, over and over.

  Althotas fell backward into the pool, taking Finch with him.

  The waters surged and roiled, and all in the room could see Finch and the Martian struggling. Althotas’ clawed hands grasped vainly for the stone walls of the pool, while Finch kicked against the very same stone in order to push the warlord back into the water. Finally, Althotas clasped Finch to him as they both sank under the surface with a resounding splash. After this, the struggles grew less intense, and as the waters smoothed, they slowly returned to their dark silvery color.

  Weatherby turned toward the others. “Is that…is that it, then?”

  Anne smiled, but Shaila and Stephane looked upon each other with fear in their eyes, holding hands, whispering things that, Weatherby felt, he had best not hear.

  But still. “What is it?” he asked.

  Shaila turned and smiled, and her tear-streaked face was the most heartbreaking look Weatherby had ever seen. “If this is anything like Mars, the overlap will end pretty fast,” she said. “And the surface of Venus will kill us instantly.” She sniffled and suddenly gave him a proper salute. “An honor serving with you, my Lord Admiral.”

  She then turned back to Stephane. “I love you.”

  He smiled. “I love you, too.”

  Then a blinding white light erupted from the pool, and all those still alive were suddenly blinded.

  CHAPTER 29

  May 29, 1809

  General Wellesley turned his back for a moment to rally what remained of his men, but an unearthly growl prompted him to turn back—and swing wildly. Thankfully, the blade connected with the French revenant about to assault him, and the creature was dispatched quickly, though further soiling the general’s fine red coat with more blackish ichor. To his right, the brave Arkhest moved fluidly through the French lines, her robes twirling about her as she used the swords she carried to cut her way through the masses of the damned like a scythe in the fields.

  But it was not enough. Wellesley’s forces were decimated by two-thirds, their retreat cut off. They were surrounded. Furthermore, Arkhest was the only Xan the general could see—all the others had quickly fallen to savage, massed assaults by the former Corps Éternel after they…changed. The Xan were torn limb from limb by the hordes of newly angered revenants. Wellesley was sure he would take the images—and the sounds of the Xan’s disharmonic screams—to his grave.

  He also assumed he would be in his grave in short order.

  “Follow me!” he cried, rallying a small group of red-clad soldiers behind him. “We must punch through their lines! For England!”

  The general ran forward, his blade held high, and cried out incoherently with a growing, bubbling rage. If he were to die, it would be forward, on true English soil, with the blood of his enemies on his hands.

  Suddenly, the revenants…collapsed.

  As if they were puppets without their strings, the entirety of the Corps Éternel simply collapsed into heaps of dead flesh and soiled uniforms. Wellesley’s run became a jog, and then a walk, until he reached the first rank of the now-fallen French. He poked one with a sword, and found there was no reaction. He then sliced the head clean off. Its fellows did not seek vengeance.

  Arkhest came up to his side. “It would appear the power animating them has been…removed,” the Xan battle master sang.

  “Will it return?” Wellesley demanded.

  “I cannot say, but if it does, it shan’t be a thing done quickly, I would think,” Arkhest replied, notes of amazement and growing joy in her voice.

  Wellesley turned back to his men. “Burn them. Every last one. Send messengers to Edinburgh to report what has happened, then prepare runners to move south to report further. Should the rest of the revenants be found like this, they must be burned. Go!”

  The men scurried off to procure torches and oil, and Wellesley visibly slumped as he regarded his fallen foes. “Thank God,” he whispered.

  He then found himself thinking of Lord Weatherby, who insisted he would find a way to stop the revenants. Perhaps he had.

  Wellesley still didn’t like the man. But he was grateful.

  January 30, 2135

  May 29, 1809

  Maria Diaz parried a bayonet with her forearm, grasping the weapon and using the zombie’s momentum to send him crashing into the one next to him. She used the sword she had found to hack an arm off, then a head.

  And she kept moving. For how long, though, she couldn’t say.

  Exhausted and covered in black blood, Diaz kept moving forward toward the pyramid, step by bloody step. Every meter, it seemed, she was set upon by more goddamn zombies. They were maddened and savage as hell and wailing something completely awful, but remained untrained, at least by 22nd century standards. She was able to cut through them decently, though had taken a bayonet slice to the side and a few other minor wounds.

  You’re not gonna make it, she said to herself.

  Shut up! she replied.

  Another three zombies came charging forward, and she adjusted her stance so that she wouldn’t be fighting on the severely sprained ankle she got a few zombies ago. She pulled out her last pistol and readied her sword.

  Then a white light blasted through the top of the pyramid, blinding her.

  She couldn’t tell if it was good or bad, so she waited.

  Shaila opened her eyes.

  Stephane still had his closed.

  She looked around and saw Weatherby and Anne looking at her, their faces stricken. The bodies of zombies and people
and former friends were everywhere. Finch was gone.

  She turned back to Stephane. His eyes were open now.

  “Alive?” he asked.

  “Think so,” she replied, grinning widely. “Umm…yeah. Alive!”

  Despite her injuries, Shaila pulled Stephane closer and hugged him fiercely, ignoring the pain lancing through nearly every part of her body. “You OK? Tell me you’re OK.”

  He laughed. “I am sore and feel sick and I have a headache and I am completely wonderful,” he said quietly. “He’s gone.”

  They hugged tighter.

  “OK, OK,” Shaila finally said. “Not out of the woods yet.” She tapped her headset. “Jain to Diaz. Report.”

  The general came on almost immediately. “Since when do I report to you?” She sounded elated. “But if you must know, all the goddamn zombies just keeled over. Every single one. Your status? Over.”

  Shaila smiled. “Althotas is gone. The artifacts are both destroyed. Honestly, I thought the overlap would snap back, but it isn’t.”

  Diaz suddenly became all business. “We need to get back in the V-SEVs. We don’t know how long we have.”

  “Actually, we have two days,” Stephane said, smiling. He held up Greene’s datapad. “It’s still linked to the satellites and to the Virgin ship. The overlap is receding in an orderly fashion. I have no idea why, but it is.”

  Weatherby looked over to Anne. “How is this possible?”

  She looked around, seeming to search the room itself for an answer. “I…I do not know.”

  “Not sure it matters,” Shaila said. “I think we need to get moving, regardless. Admiral, can we get a lift?”

  Weatherby smiled. “By all means.”

  January 31, 2135

  May 30, 1809

  Weatherby stood upon the quarterdeck of HMS Victory and conducted the service that defined much of his career at sea and Void. He had lost count of the number of times, and despite his best efforts, the number and names of those memorialized. He worked hard to ensure that, within himself, the words in the book before him never became rote, that the task he discharged would never become drudgery.

  This time, there was no worry of any of that. He felt every moment acutely.

  “James Whitlock, post-captain, HMS Enterprise. John Roberts, first lieutenant, HMS Victory. Margaret Huntington, marine captain, Project DAEDALUS. Dr. Evan Greene, science specialist, Project DAEDALUS,” he intoned, at the end of a list that took a full twenty minutes to read. “And…”

  He paused, tears welling in his eyes. He stood stock still, trying to rein in emotion, but a single sob betrayed him. Composing himself, he finished: “Andrew Finch, fleet alchemist, HMS Victory.”

  Weatherby felt Anne’s hand upon his shoulder, and Elizabeth’s hand in his, and drew strength from them both.

  “We commit their bodies to the depths, to the ground, to the Void and to the great beyond, indefinable except unto God Himself,” Weatherby continued. “The Lord bless them and keep them. The Lord make His face to shine upon them and be gracious unto them. The Lord lift up His countenance upon them, and give them peace. Amen.”

  “Amen,” said the hundreds assembled upon the main deck.

  “Dismissed,” Capt. Searle ordered, and the crew dispersed.

  Weatherby turned and handed the book to Gar’uk, who had survived the invasion of the pyramid along with Elizabeth and Philip. He then extended a hand to Diaz, who had joined him on the quarterdeck, along with Shaila and Stephane. “Thank you for attending, General.”

  She took his hand warmly. “Thank you, Admiral, for including my people in your prayers. Means a lot to us.” The general and her people were wearing their pressure suits, with large backpacks attached, though their helmets were at their side. While the overlap continued to reduce itself at a steady rate, the general did not wish to take chances. “And I am truly sorry about Dr. Finch,” she added. “I know he meant a lot to you.”

  Weatherby nodded and grasped Elizabeth’s hand for support. “He was as a brother to me, and I have much I regret with my recent treatment of him,” the admiral said. “In the end, he was strong enough to overcome possession, strong enough to sacrifice his life for ours. He was, I believe, the very best of men, and….” Weatherby stopped, feeling as though he was being somewhat maudlin. “…well, I shall miss him greatly.”

  Diaz nodded and placed a hand on Weatherby’s shoulder. “I have no doubt. Thank you, sir. It’s been a privilege.” They saluted one another, and Diaz picked her way down the stairs to the main deck to await her colleagues.

  It was Shaila’s turn. “Shame about Berthollet,” she said. “That guy was a prick.”

  Weatherby laughed, despite himself. “I suppose he was, but we remained too evenly matched for us to try to capture him. At least Cagliostro is in our brig. This time, I doubt we shall allow anyone else to have him.”

  “Good idea,” she said. She then embraced him in a hug. “Thank you. You and Finch, you saved us.”

  Slightly startled, he returned the hug. “Not without your help. My very best to you and Dr. Durand.” He gently disengaged her. “I do hope you make an honest man of him at some point,” he chided.

  She and Stephane both laughed, and Weatherby shook hands with the Frenchman as well. “I think we need a vacation first,” Stephane said. “Thank you, Admiral Weatherby.”

  After exchanging hugs with Anne and Elizabeth, and a few manly handshakes from young Philip, Shaila and Stephane joined Diaz on the main deck. About 200 meters off Victory’s larboard side, the Stanford research station floated in space…or the Void. Whichever. When Victory first brought them up, the remnants of Project DAEDALUS had used small alchemical lodestones for life support—and rigged a rope bridge, of all things—to get them to the Stanford airlock. After that, the suits felt like a much better choice.

  A Royal Navy lieutenant and an honor guard stood at attention as they prepared to disembark. “I could get used to this,” Diaz said. “Weatherby’s got a valet.”

  Shaila turned and waved at Weatherby, who returned the gesture. “I think I just want to go home,” she said. “All this…I’ve had enough.”

  With that, the three JSC astronauts pushed off the side of HMS Victory and into space, then jetted toward the Stanford station—and their own time.

  CHAPTER 30

  March 29, 2136

  Maria Diaz shut down the holophone on her desk and leaned back in her chair, exhausted. She had spent this day—and many of the days since her return from Venus—engaged in issuing reports, answering to higher-ups, holding confidential briefings and “doing politics,” as she often put it. This latest conference call was with President Weathers’ chief of staff, who wanted some political cover when the conglom execs came calling. Chrys VanDerKamp and Harry Yu were going to be charged with a rainbow assortment of crimes, and while the Corporate Court could never be briefed on the exact happenings surrounding the Tienlong and Venus, the Weathers administration seemed willing to butt heads with the congloms in order to see justice done.

  It was a nice change of pace in Washington. While preparing her reports, Diaz discovered Harry Yu was a top party donor, and she was certain that would buy him at least a partial reprieve. It seemed that the right things were happening.

  Earlier in the day, she had to schlep up to Capitol Hill, where she was forced to brief a select group of four senators and six congressmen about Project DAEDALUS and all the recent activity. Thankfully, she had worked with JSC to come up with a pretty airtight cover story, and was able to convince the committee that corporate malfeasance was to blame for everything. Martians? What Martians?

  There was a knock on her door. “Come,” she said.

  Shaila Jain entered in her shipboard khakis. “You asked to see me, ma’am?”

  Diaz waved her to a seat. “Yep. How’s Steve doing?”

  “Frustrated,” Shaila said with a brief smile and she took a chair on the other side of Diaz’ desk. “How long can one man be d
ebriefed?”

  “Getting infected by an alien intelligence, stealing a spaceship and then helping to defeat a Martian? You’re lucky you only got away with two months.”

  Shaila frowned. “We just want a break, ma’am.”

  “And you deserve it,” Diaz replied. “So I pulled some strings and got five minutes with the President himself a little while ago. Basically, it comes down to this: Stephane Durand will need to be monitored pretty much for the rest of his life. Nothing we can do about that.

  “However,” Diaz added, speaking over Shaila’s budding objection. “So long as he agrees to wear a monitor 24/7, tied into a Project DAEDALUS computer, he can be released to his supervising officer.”

  “And who’s that?” Shaila groused.

  “You, of course,” Diaz grinned. “You’re welcome.”

  Shaila sat stunned for several moments. “So, that’s it then?” Shaila said finally. “He’s done? We’re done?”

  “Well, I hope you two will consider staying on with me,” Diaz said. “DAEDALUS is still up and running. Coogan’s had enough, and I can’t say I blame him, so I need a number two. You’re already up for full commander, probably make captain in three or four more. And I figure Steve’s learned a lot over the past few years—he’d be one hell of an asset.”

  Shaila looked pained, so Diaz put her hand up. “You don’t need to decide now. My partner’s brother has a cabin up in Hyde Park, Vermont. She bullied him into staying clear of it until after Memorial Day. So you and Steve go play house for a couple months, then figure out what you want the rest of your lives to look like.”

  That got Diaz the smile she hoped for. “Thank you, ma’am,” Shaila said. “That really means a lot.”

  “Get out of here. Send me selfies from the woods or something,” Diaz said, rising from her chair to give her friend and subordinate a hug. “Give him my best.”

  Shaila departed, and Diaz sat back down, looking over yet another report regarding the Venus incident. They still couldn’t figure out why the overlap—or convergence, whatever—hadn’t snapped back like a rubber band like it did on Mars. Hell, she wasn’t going to question it at the time, because Venus’ heat and pressure would’ve turned her into charcoal in a split second. But the latest theory was that someone had to have regulated the energy flows between the satellites and the waning energies from the other dimension so that there could be a slower and more orderly collapse of the overlap. The problem was that when the investigators combed through the programming on board the satellites, the Virgin ship, all the datapads—there were no subroutines or coding of any kind to cover that particular situation.