The Venusian Gambit

by Michael J. Martinez

  So someone else had to be taking that action. There was an intelligence behind the controlled overlap—and Diaz didn’t know whose it was.

  And that’s why Project DAEDALUS would keep going, until someone found the answers.

  July 15, 1815

  The small boat bobbed in the bay off Rochefort, and the young man commanding it, a Lt. Mott, seemed almost shell-shocked by the man he’d been ordered to ferry. The passenger would’ve been amused at the young man’s reaction had it been nearly any other occasion.

  But this was, he was sure, the very end. Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France, was being rowed toward his final captivity.

  Napoleon turned and waved at the men of the ship L’Epervier and received a cheer in return, though it seemed more a wail, with many men aboard in tears. The gambit had failed. One of many, it seemed, destined to fall to pieces around him.

  As the English crew rowed toward HMS Bellerophon, Napoleon could not help but reflect. He had been, at one point, the ruler of all Europe. He’d been on his way to crushing the last redoubt of England, had taken most of the continent east of Russia, and had been massing a fresh Corps Éternel to march on Moscow itself.

  But then…something happened. The Corps Éternel fell. Jean-Claude Berthollet had abandoned Napoleon in the wake of the catastrophe and was still unaccounted for, and without their revenant troops, the French were quickly and decisively expelled from England.

  Napoleon had held on longer than even he had thought possible, and even mounted the planned invasion of Russia. But the winter was cold, and his soldiers were no longer impervious to conditions. Slowly, inexorably, the various Coalitions and forces arrayed against him chipped away at his shining empire. Finally, a year ago, he found himself the exiled emperor of a spit of land in the middle of the Mediterranean, with little hope of a return to glory.

  But there was always hope, and the fleet patrolling Elba was simply not up to the task. Smuggled from exile, Napoleon had tried one last gambit. He quickly deposed the Bourbon king, raised an army, and met the forces commanded by Wellesley—now the Duke of Wellington—in the field near Waterloo.

  It was a catastrophe.

  As he was rowed toward his fate, Napoleon considered whether he should have asked to be taken to one of the offworld colonies—Ganymede, perhaps, or Venus. He could’ve taken time, rebuilt his forces. But no…France was in his heart, and he was in France’s heart as well. How else to explain his welcome during those brief, glorious hundred days? He was emperor of France, first and foremost.

  He turned to regard the coast once more. He would never see his nation again.

  The little boat came up alongside Bellerophon, and a rope ladder was lowered. Napoleon clambered aboard, where he was met with a rather small and sorry looking honor guard. Even in this, it seemed, England wished to rob him of dignity.

  He was greeted by an officer, who extended a hand. “I am Captain Frederick Maitland,” the man said in passable French. “I am sorry for the lack of honors at such an early hour.”

  Napoleon looked about and then took the man’s hand. “It is of no concern,” he said.

  “Please, this way, Your Majesty.”

  Maitland led Napoleon to the captain’s cabin. “This is a handsome chamber,” Napoleon said, though he found the cramped quarters anything but. The Emperor had always hated sea travel, and found berths aboard any ship woefully lacking.

  Nonetheless, Maitland bowed. “Such as it is, sir, it is at your service while you remain on board the ship I command.”

  Nodding, Napoleon caught sight of a portrait of a woman upon the wall. “Who is that young lady?”

  “My wife,” the captain responded.

  “Ah! She is both young and pretty,” Napoleon said with a small smile, still in command of the charm that had won him a continent. “From whence does she come? Have you any children, Captain?”

  Maitland held up his hand. “My apologies, but I am not the man of whom you should ask anything, Your Majesty. There are others here who wish to meet you, and I shall have tea brought shortly.”

  The captain departed, and Napoleon waited patiently as a couple of seaman—scruffy and filthy and altogether unsuited for proper tea service—deposited a silver tray and cups upon the captain’s table.

  A moment later, two other people entered the room. One was tall, gray-haired, and dressed in the manner of an English gentleman of standing, and he wore the star of the Order of the Garter upon his coat—a man of singular importance, then. The other was a woman, seeming much younger than the man, pretty and with a look that spoke of great intelligence.

  “My apologies, Your Majesty,” the man said as he extended his hand. “I simply had to see you for myself.”

  At this, Napoleon’s heart beat a little faster in his chest. A friend? A dire enemy? “And to whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  The man smiled and waved Napoleon toward his chair, then poured the tea for all therein. “We have never met, Your Majesty. But you met a very close, very dear friend of mine a long time ago, and it is in his memory that we come here now.”

  “He must have been a fine man,” Napoleon commented, “for you to come all this way to see me at this hour.”

  The man sat across from the Emperor. “He was the finest, bravest and truest of men,” he said. “His name was Dr. Andrew Finch, and he saved all England—all the Known Worlds—from your Corps Éternel and the threat of Althotas.”

  Napoleon gently placed his cup upon the table, his hand trembling and his heart pounding. “Ah,” he said slowly, deliberately. “And I believe I know you now, sir.”

  “Indeed. I am Thomas Weatherby, and this is my wife Anne,” he said. “And as I said, we simply had to see you, to know that this was done.”

  Napoleon nodded. “And so it is. What is to become of me?”

  Weatherby looked grave. “You will be taken to England first, where we shall make a show of consulting our allies as to your disposition. But your final destination has already been decided.”

  “Where, then?”

  Anne pulled out a small map of the Known Worlds from her reticule. “Here, Your Majesty, on the small world known as Flora, within the Rocky Main,” she said. “It is barely a world indeed, but one with arable land and a water source. There is a house and farm there, and you and your servants will be made comfortable. We have found debtors willing to work there in exchange for pardon. You will be comfortable.”

  “And very, very far away,” Weatherby added. “Lady Anne here, of course, is King George’s court alchemist now. Did you know this?”

  “I did,” Napoleon said, his hands growing more tremulous.

  “Good. She and I will both make sure that when you are exiled to Flora, you will remain there for the rest of your natural days,” Weatherby said.

  “And now, if you’ll excuse us,” Anne added, rising, “we must be off.”

  Napoleon stood. “So quickly? There is much I would wish to know.”

  Weatherby regarded the French Emperor with a withering stare. “Ask someone else, then.”

  And with that, the couple left. Napoleon slumped back down in his chair and, a moment later, in a fit of pique, swept the tea service off the table in a single, violent gesture.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thomas Weatherby has been with me now for more than 12 years, though it was only in the last four that his story was finally put to the page. With The Venusian Gambit, the adventure that started in The Daedalus Incident and continued in The Enceladus Crisis is now complete. I think it turned out pretty darn well—better than I could’ve hoped when I first dared to write that first novel—and I’m very gratified with how this trilogy has been received. And for that, I have you, the reader, to thank first and foremost.

  Thank you for letting me tell this story to its conclusion. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

  Finishing this book, and this trilogy, was immensely satisfying—and bittersweet. Saying goodbye is never eas
y, but I’d like to think that these characters had a good run. I’ll miss them, but it’s time to let them go, and to see what other challenges there are for me as a writer.

  There’s another reason why I’m a little melancholy about wrapping up this series. Those of you who pay attention to such things may have noticed that The Enceladus Crisis was dedicated to my mother, and that this book has been dedicated to her memory. Mary Ann Martinez passed away on July 26, 2014, after a long battle with cancer. She fought to the last, and even in the midst of her fight, her encouragement and her pride in this work was a source of inspiration. I thanked her before she passed, but I’m doing so again here. It’s only fitting.

  As you might imagine, finishing this book over the summer and fall of 2014 was a difficult task, but one made easier with the help and support of so many family and friends. My heartfelt thanks goes out to all of them, and especially to my aunt and uncle, Edee and John Butnor; my cousins John, Courtney and Ashby; my aunt Joan Butnor; my mother’s amazing friends Sheila Mann and Ruth Bolton; and, of course, to my dear friends Karl Isselhardt, John LeMaire and Drew Montgomery.

  I also want to thank everyone at my day job, managers and colleagues alike, for such immense support and compassion over the past year—and for all their encouragement in this literary effort since the beginning. You’re all fantastic.

  The folks at Skyhorse/Night Shade Books are among the finest people I’ve worked with in over two decades as a writer, and their support and understanding during the summer and fall is doubly appreciated. Cory Allyn’s effort may be unseen in this book, but his fingerprints are all over it, and it’s a better work because of him. Thanks also go to Jason Katzman and Lauren Burnstein for all their hard work and general awesomeness.

  I’ve thanked Sara Megibow before, but I’m going to do it again. She’s a great agent and someone I’m proud to call friend. Never has there been a better advocate for an author.

  My thanks also go to the SF/F community at large: authors, reviewers and fans alike. Authors such as Jason M. Hough, Michael R. Underwood, Django Wexler, Beth Cato, Chuck Wendig, Mary Robinette Kowal and so many others have been a source of encouragement and welcome. Thanks also to the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America for their staunch advocacy on behalf of writers—and for being such a great tribe of geeks.

  This book wouldn’t have received any attention without the reviewers who took the time to read and opine, and the news sites who thought my work worthy of attention. Thank you to John DeNardo and Paul “PrinceJvstin” Weimer of SF Signal, Stefan Raets of Tor.com, Charlie Jane Anders of io9, James Floyd Kelly of GeekDad, Dan Hanks, Abhinav Jain, Sally “Qwill” and Tracy “Trinitytwo” of the Qwillery, Matt Mitrovich, Caleb Flanagan, Joe Frazier, Feliza Casano, Luther M. Siler and so many others I’m probably failing to mention here.

  I have fans! That’s been mindblowing—and such a wonderful thing. To everyone who reviewed my books on places like Goodreads and Amazon, to the folks who sought me out to say hello at conventions and events, and to those who took the time to write fan mail—it means so very, very much to me.

  Finally, there’s my amazing daughter Anna, who once again took my author photo and continues to be a source of inspiration and love. She also sat through the World Fantasy Convention in D.C. this past November with good grace and a lot of patience. I’m so proud to be her dad.

  And then there’s my wife Kate. I don’t think this book would even be here without her unflagging support and love over the past year. She continues to make our lives together the best sort of adventure. I love you.

  The Daedalus trilogy is concluded. I look forward to seeing what happens next.

  Michael J. Martinez

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo by Anna Martinez

  Michael J. Martinez is the author of the Daedalus trilogy and other works of speculative fiction. A former journalist for The Associated Press and other outlets, he now works in marketing and communications by day and, like a superhero, comes out at night to craft adventures. (OK, maybe not exactly like a superhero. No capes are involved.) He lives on the Jersey side of the New York City area with his wife and daughter. He can be found online at http://www.michaeljmartinez.net and on Twitter at @mikemartinez72. Mike is a proud member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America.