The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  Nilssen nodded. “All right.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “There’s one question that still doesn’t have an answer: Why?”

  Hall frowned a little. “Obvious, isn’t it? They got a backer who wants to go head-to-head with ExEn in trying to stake a resource claim. And the Chinese love sticking it to JSC whenever they can.”

  “True,” Nilssen allowed. “But . . . there’s more. A lot more. I was just briefed on this stuff a couple hours ago, and I’m still . . . well, I’m going to hand it off to Jain and Durand. Go.”

  With a quick look over to Stephane, who gave her a smile of encouragement, Shaila cleared her throat. A sudden wave of nerves came over her, and she was grateful for the holopacket she brought with her on the voyage. The just-in-case had become necessary.

  “You’re right, Liz. The Chinese do have a backer. Corporate registry for the Tienlong is Total-Suez, the French-Hong Kong conglom. Turns out we know one of the senior execs signed on as a manager. His name’s Harry Yu.” Shaila pressed a button and the image of a handsome Chinese man sprang to life in three-dimensional light above the table. “Harry’s been there less than two years, arriving just ten months before Tienlong launched. Turns out Total-Suez bought out his old company, Billiton Minmetals.”

  “How do you know him?” Conti asked.

  This is where it gets tricky. “Harry was the senior Billiton mining exec on Mars more than two years ago when . . . well, when things went down,” Shaila said. “Chances are, he walked off-planet with a briefcase full of highly classified information that would’ve made a Saturn mission suddenly look amazingly interesting to a more ambitious conglom. While this could simply be a case of corporate one-upsmanship, it’s been decided that there could potentially be more here. You were scheduled to receive this briefing only once we made Saturn, and only if we discovered things there that warranted it. With the Chinese and the congloms involved, though, it’s been determined to get you up to speed now, so you’ll know what to look for.”

  Shaila pressed a few more keys on the table, calling up a large vidfile.

  The image of Harry Yu was replaced by that of a middle-aged Hispanic woman in a U.S. Air Force uniform with a pair of stars on her shoulders. She greeted the room with a curt nod. “Armstrong, I’m Major General Maria Diaz, executive director of Project DAEDALUS. If you’re watching this, then something’s gotten really interesting out there in Saturn space. I promise this will help you deal with it, but it’s not going to be easy to digest. I’m going to ask Jain to put this presentation, and the accompanying reports and holovids, on your personal servers for you to review at your leisure. You’re going to have a lot of questions, but a lot of the answers are in those files—the contents of which, by the way, you’re not to share with anybody. You already know we’re reading your comms, so really, don’t even try it.

  “What you’re facing today in Saturn space has its roots in something that we’ve taken to calling the Daedalus incident, something that happened two years ago at McAuliffe Base near the southern ice cap of Mars. To put it very bluntly, the area-of-operations around McAuliffe was the location of history’s first recorded extraterrestrial—and extradimensional—incursion.”

  Archie, Conti, and Hall all leaned closer, almost in unison, looking both surprised and highly skeptical. Nilssen watched dispassionately—this was his second viewing, and he’d spent all his emotions after the first one. Shaila caught a glimpse of Stephane with a small smile on his face. He was a good bluffer in poker, but not here. Not now.

  “By means which we’re still trying to understand,” Diaz continued, “Dr. Yuna Hiyashi came into contact with an extradimensional being known as Althotas, who claimed to be a warlord from Mars’ ancient past. And he was—in his dimension. Turns out this other dimension is very close to our own in many ways, running almost parallel except for a few key points.

  “One, the other dimension was about 350 years behind our timeline; their year was 1779. Two, they used an unknown kind of technology to propel sailing ships through space. Yes, actual three-masted sailing ships with cannons and everything. They called their technology ‘alchemy,’ and it appeared to work far better than the historical antecedent in our own dimension.”

  Shaila smiled, remembering the day Diaz recorded the holo. She had stumbled over the word “antecedent” five times. A small pang of emotion hit her suddenly. Diaz was her mentor, her role model, and a real friend. Shaila missed her.

  “Three, the worlds of their Solar System are far different from ours. For whatever reason, most of them are habitable. As far as we know, there’s indigenous life on Venus, Mars, several Jovian moons and,” Diaz paused for effect, “an actual advanced civilization of non-human sentients living in cities built on the rings of Saturn.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” Archie said quietly. Shaila just smiled a bit broader. She knew what was coming next.

  “All of these strange new worlds are unconfirmed, based almost entirely on the journals of one Thomas Weatherby, acting captain of HMS Daedalus, a 32-gun frigate in the English Royal Navy. He’s the guy who crashed his ship into Mars, smack dab in our ops area. He was chasing another ship, led by a guy who wanted to free Althotas from some kind of pocket dimension. Thankfully, Weatherby was able to stop him—in cooperation with Jain and Durand here, and a few other folks, including myself.

  “I imagine you’re still skeptical, so I prepared a holovid for you. It was edited together from our suit cameras, as well as handheld footage taken by Yuna Hiyashi right before her death.”

  Shaila watched as Diaz’ face disappeared, replaced with a Martian landscape. The computer automatically lowered the lights and boosted the sound. She could hear the pop-pop of musket fire already—and a terrifying, utterly unnatural scream.

  “What was that?” Hall asked, eyes wide.

  “Martian sand beast,” Stephane said. “You’ll see.”

  Shaila got up from her seat and, tapping Stephane on the shoulder, headed for the door. It would take them a few hours to go through all the videos and reports on the Daedalus incident. She’d seen it all several times. She occasionally still had nightmares. Not to mention those annoying semi-dream things that kept nagging at her. Those kept changing, and whatever they were, she was sure there wasn’t a good answer for them.

  “Why are we leaving?” Stephane asked once they left the common room.

  Shaila shrugged. There were a lot of reasons, but few worth getting into at the moment. “I’ve seen it all before. I lived it. So did you. There’s at least two hours of vids alone in there. And someone has to watch the ship. So let’s give them some time to wrap their heads around it.”

  “I’m still trying,” Stephane said, giving her a slight grin. “Some days, it even works.”

  Shaila gave him a small, tired smile in return, but her mind flashed back to the images she had seen in her mind’s eye a few hours ago. They had been occurring ever since Mars, anywhere from days to months apart, always different, always keyed on what occurred there, and yet . . . different.

  She hadn’t told anyone. And she was damned if she was going to start now.

  “Come on,” she said. “We have a lot more work to do.”

  August 4, 1798

  Weatherby waited outside the great cabin on board HMS Vanguard, his hat tucked under his arm and his full dress uniform chafing him in the heat of the afternoon. The occupant of said cabin knew very well Weatherby was waiting outside, but seemed to take no further notice, despite the fact that it was he who summoned Weatherby from Fortitude to report.

  Finally, after several minutes, a gruff voice barked, “Come.”

  With more than a little relief, Weatherby opened the door to the cabin, closed it behind him, and saluted the man sitting behind a simple desk. “Reporting as ordered, admiral.”

  Rear Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson nodded briefly, but did not look up from his writing, which appeared to be slow and laborious for him. At first, Weatherby thought it was the bandage wra
pped around the admiral’s head, which seemed to obscure his left eye somewhat. But finally he saw the true reason—the admiral’s right hand was not his own.

  “My apologies, Weatherby,” the admiral said. “I’m still getting used to this damned contrivance.”

  “Not at all, sir,” Weatherby responded. “Alchemical replacement, is it?”

  Nelson finally put the quill down and arose from his seat, coming around the desk to formally greet Weatherby with an outstretched hand. Aside from the graying hair and the replacement arm, Nelson was nearly as he was when Weatherby first met him nearly two decades ago—a small, thin man with a surfeit of energy and bravado.

  “Lost the arm at Santa Cruz de Tenerife last year,” Nelson said. “When I swore to give body and soul for England, I didn’t know it would be piece by piece.”

  Weatherby laughed as he took the admiral’s hand—the artificial one, as it turned out. It was harder than a human hand, the clay comprising its “flesh” having been made from specially foraged soils on Venus, mixed in with sulfur-iron from Io and crystals harvested from caves upon the Moon. The arm made a very soft clicking sound as Nelson disengaged from the handshake. “Clockworks within it, then?” Weatherby asked.

  Nelson lifted his hand to regard it. “So they tell me. The surgeon who made this presented his work to the Royal Society, I’m told. Of course, it was damned expensive, but worth the cost, I’d say.” Nelson dropped his hand and gave a grin. “I should think I’d look ridiculous with my right sleeve pinned to my chest or some such.” The admiral waved Weatherby to a chair opposite the desk. “You were late,” he noted, but without rancor.

  “Aye, sir. I do apologize, but the currents between Mars and Earth were particularly sluggish, even for this time of year,” Weatherby said. “When we received word of the mysterious French fleet coming out of Toulon and your pursuit of them, I immediately set a course for Earth. Once we arrived, it was a simple matter of putting together likely landing areas, then using our telescopes to find signs of activity.”

  Nelson nodded. “All sound moves on your part. ’Tis a shame we can’t communicate better with our ships in the Void. I should imagine it rather useful to have a pair of eyes in the sky, looking for the French.” Nelson stretched a bit before continuing. “Saumarez is a bit upset with you.”

  Weatherby raised an eyebrow at this. Sir James Saumarez captained HMS Orion, the ship that had tacked away from the engagement, giving Fortitude the space it needed to drop into the fight. “I don’t think our arrival put Orion at risk, sir.”

  “No, not at all,” Nelson said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “James led the vanguard on his line. I think he merely wanted to put some shot into L’Orient before you did, that’s all. You may want to smooth his feathers should you see him before you depart for Portsmouth.”

  “Portsmouth, sir?” Weatherby asked, surprised. He had assumed that he would remain in the Mediterranean after the battle, as it seemed Napoleon would either attempt to bring in more supplies by sea, or seek escape from Egypt. Returning to England was quite a change from the prospect of continued action.

  Nelson handed over one of the papers on his desk. “Your orders. You’re hereby promoted to commodore, with Bellerophon, Majestic and Swiftsure under your command. You’re to take the prizes from this engagement back to Portsmouth and see to it that they’re refitted for duty as soon as possible. From there, your squadron will be dispersed and you’ll take new orders from the Admiralty.”

  Weatherby nodded and scanned the orders, trying to keep his anger under wraps. Nelson was famous for many things, including loyalty to the captains under his command—his “band of brothers,” as he liked to quote from Shakespeare. Weatherby, however, was not part of this fraternity; he had never actually been assigned outright to Nelson’s squadrons. He couldn’t help but wonder if this assignment—mere escort duty—was done to help assuage Saumarez’ ego. Or Nelson’s, for that matter. Fortitude’s arrival likely made the battle shorter and more decisive than it might otherwise have been, and it was Weatherby’s initiative that made it so.

  Furthermore, Bellerophon and Majestic were heavily damaged in the battle; Fortitude and Swiftsure would be the only two ships to defend them all. They would be ripe pickings should another French squadron come calling.

  A rap upon Nelson’s door interrupted Weatherby’s thoughts. “Come,” Nelson called.

  A young lieutenant, looking half-scared and quite apologetic, poked his head through the door. “Pardon the interruption, admiral, but there’s an Englishman here says he’s from Cairo, says he has news of the French troop movements there. Asked to talk to you and Captain Weatherby, both.”

  Nelson and Weatherby exchanged a look of bemused surprise. “Well, he’s well informed,” Nelson said. “Show him in.”

  A moment later, an incongruous sight walked into Nelson’s cabin. The tall, lanky man was dressed in the galabia and abaya of the local Muslims, complete with a loosely wrapped turban, yet his features were plainly those of a European, despite the tan. With him was an Egyptian teen, similarly dressed.

  Weatherby studied the man carefully, even as the latter looked at him with something akin to amusement. Then it hit him and he jumped to his feet: “Finch!”

  The captain of HMS Fortitude and his former shipmate quickly met in a crushing hug. “Well, then,” Weatherby said once they were disentangled. “Don’t you look charming. All the rage in Cairo this season?”

  Finch smiled broadly. “Of course! I wouldn’t expect a man of your poor breeding to understand.”

  The two laughed while Nelson looked on. “It’s Doctor Finch, isn’t it?” the admiral said, rising from his desk and extending his hand. “I remember you from Daedalus.”

  Finch took the proffered hand. “Indeed, Admiral Nelson. Thank you for seeing—” Finch paused and looked down at Nelson’s right hand. “This is well done, indeed,” he remarked. “Who was your doctor?”

  “Bateman,” Nelson said.

  Finch smiled as he ran his hands and eyes up and down the length of Nelson’s arm, oblivious to the admiral’s discomfited gaze. “I tutored him at Oxford. About time he stepped up.”

  The lieutenant brought in a chair for Finch, leaving the boy to stand. “So you have news for us?” Weatherby said.

  “I do. Cairo was taken two weeks ago. Jabir and I saw the conflict from the pyramids themselves,” Finch said as he took a seat, with Jabir standing behind; Finch saw no chair was forthcoming for his protégé and, with a slight scowl, continued. “Five divisions, roughly five thousand men each, plus cannon. They deployed into massive squares. Here.” He pulled out a sketch of the conflict, made en route from Cairo to Alexandria. “This should give the army something to think about.”

  Nelson studied the drawings. “And I should think this stymied the mamelukes greatly. Probably just rode up against it and were mowed down like grass.”

  “Exactly,” Finch said. “And there’s more. The French commander is Napoleon Bonaparte, of whom you’re likely aware. I’ve heard word he’s quite the up-and-coming general. They say he aims to cut us off from India, but I have my doubts.”

  “And why is that?” Weatherby asked.

  “Jabir and I wandered through their camp that evening. In the dark, even I can pass for Egyptian dressed this way. The French brought savants with them—an entire society of alchemists, scientists and scholars. Dozens of them.”

  Nelson harrumphed. “What is that to us?”

  Finch shot Weatherby a knowing look, which was returned in kind, before explaining. “I’ve spent nearly five years here, exploring the ancient Egyptian ruins. From what we learned from our Saturnine neighbors on Callisto whilst we were there back in ’79, humanity’s alchemical knowledge may be of extra-Earth origin, given to us in ages past by the ancient denizens of Mars, the Xan themselves, or both. Egypt is ages past. If you bring an army of alchemists with you, then they’re here for a reason.”

  “And you think something is
out there for them to find,” Weatherby said. It wasn’t a question.

  “My own research suggests it. There are two ancient texts that have been rumored to exist for millennia now—the Emerald Tablet and The Book of the Dead. Both are said to have originated in Egypt. Both could have ties to the ancient practices of either the Martians or the Xan. Both are said to contain unequaled alchemical insights—and terrible power. Nobody knows where they might be found, or even if they are nothing more than myth. But those who have heard of them invariably come looking for them. I believe the French savants plan on their own search. There are precious few alternative reasons for their presence here.”

  “And you’ve been looking for these relics as well,” Nelson challenged.

  “Of course.”

  “For England?”

  “If you wish,” Finch replied with a smile.

  Nelson frowned. “I swear, Thomas, I’ve no idea how you put up with this scoundrel aboard your ships.”

  Weatherby shrugged. “He’s the finest alchemist to come out of England in ages, sir, despite his ill temper, aristocratic snobbery, and ill-conceived researches.” Weatherby’s grin took the edge off his critique, and Finch merely smiled once more.

  Nelson was not amused. “So, then. You’ve been here for some time, then, Finch. You’re known in Cairo?”

  “Quite so, sir.” He nodded toward the Egyptian boy. “So much so that the local authorities have placed their own sons with me in order to learn alchemy.”