The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  BlueNet’s sensors would detect Cherenkov radiation from nearly anywhere on the planet and feed that data back into DAEDALUS’ headquarters in Washington. Those “hits” would be measured against known producers of Cherenkov radiation, including fusion reactors and cosmic ray activity. If the incident passed those filters, then the DAEDALUS team was ready to head to wherever the Cherenkov radiation was coming from in the hopes that the people from the other side would be using their alchemy to reach our world.

  What to do from there . . . that was the real sticking point. Greene wanted to try to recreate the events of two years ago, possibly using an experimental portable particle accelerator. Others, including Diaz, wanted to take a far more cautious approach, perhaps only generating enough power and subatomic disruption in order to establish communications, rather than create a full gateway. Given that the first incursion into our dimension was decidedly unfriendly, Greene could see her point . . . in theory. The problem was in the matter of degrees, since it was highly unlikely that the energy needed to send a message would be huge orders of magnitude less than the energy needed to open a full-fledged portal. At that point, why send a note in a bottle when you can just walk over and say hi?

  It was the biggest sticking point in Greene’s relationship with Diaz since he left his show. He was doing real science, but he had nothing so far to show for it. And now it looked like Diaz was pulling the plug.

  “I see here that there’s an outbound cargo flight leaving Chretien Base in two days, and we’ll get you a seat on board,” Diaz continued. “I’ll have Jimenez set you up a flight over there tomorrow. Safe travels. See you in D.C. Diaz out.”

  The vidmail winked out and the room lights obligingly grew brighter. Chretien Base was another mining operation near the Martian equator, just off the Ius Chasma. It was far smaller than McAuliffe used to be, highly automated with only a dozen people supervising the robots that mined the walls of the chasm for precious minerals. It would be small and cramped and likely smell bad.

  On the bright side, they were miners. He might be able to cadge a drink off someone. After today, he needed it. For now, he settled in and started sending some vidmails. He needed to have something to show for all the effort up on Mars, after all, if he ever wanted to try again.

  August 18, 1798

  “A proper drink would go well right about now,” Wilkes commented from the wheel. “An ale, or even a bit of wine, then. Something besides grog, at any rate.”

  Weatherby smiled as the pilot chatted amiably with the midshipman twenty years his junior. It was the mid’s watch—Welling, was it? Yes, Welling. Fine lad.—and Weatherby was merely taking in the morning breeze upon the quarterdeck with coffee in hand, as was his wont at sea. Gar’uk knew to have a cup ready upon the compass table by eight bells, and the rest of the crew knew to leave it be until the captain was ready for it. Rank, Weatherby would readily admit, has its privileges.

  The captain gazed out across the waters to the rest of his tiny squadron. Bellerophon and Majestic managed to limp along as best they could, though there was barely enough time in Egypt to patch their hulls before Nelson insisted they leave for Portsmouth. The crew of Bellerophon managed to erect a single working mast, to match the one left unscathed on Majestic. As a result, they were barely doing four knots despite a breeze that seemed to make Fortitude outright jittery, as if she could taste the wind and wanted to let fly.

  Bellerophon and Majestic, along with the relatively hale Swiftsure to the north, still kept their guns out and trained upon their French prizes. Within the perimeter of these four English ships was, first and foremost, Franklin, now under the command of O’Brian, with a double compliment of marines from various other parts of the fleet to aid him. Given the multitude of prizes and the scarcity of English sailors to bring them home, Franklin in particular was partially given over to its former crew to sail, under the very watchful eyes of the marines. Weatherby had hoped to personally inspect Franklin and its crew—he had something of a knack for weeding out potential trouble-makers among any crew, captive or not—but he had spent his last hours in port trying vainly to smooth over James Saumarez’ ruffled feathers. Saumarez was, of course, perfectly courteous and mannered during their rather lengthy luncheon, but ultimately faulted Weatherby for taking Orion’s place in the engagement.The higher in rank you rose, it seemed, the more your peers and fellow officers disguised their true intentions behind thinly-veiled smiles and curt public displays of respect.

  By the end of it, Weatherby simply wished Saumarez would punch him and be done with it. He had done as Nelson suggested, and to no avail. Politics were not his forte, nor would they be, he felt. Give him enemies who fought honestly and honorably, and he would be the happiest man alive.

  Weatherby regretted not being able to inspect Franklin before they departed, but he knew O’Brian was fluent in French, and would easily overhear any rumblings amongst the crew. Given that O’Brian planned to be generous with both rations and grog, Weatherby imagined the French would be subservient enough for the voyage home. Only two of the French officers remained aboard—both spoke English, and both were fairly junior. The situation was not uncommon in the slightest among the navies of the Known Worlds. In exchange for their best behavior, the French sailors would be paroled and allowed their freedom—and if those worthies took advantage of this freedom and failed to report back to the French navy for further duty, so much the better.

  It seemed O’Brian and Franklin were good for each other, for the repairs to the French ship were happening apace. Already, the main and mizzen masts had been replaced, and Weatherby could see workers bringing a new foremast up from the ship’s hold. The same could not be said for the other three prizes in the squadron. Tonnant, Aquilon and the ancient Conquerant were all third rates, and all were underway with but a single jury mast. There were very few French who wished to stay aboard, even with the promise of a return to France, and Weatherby could not entirely blame them. Conquerant, in particular, was a sorry ship indeed. While technically a 74-gun third-rate, she had a compliment of but 400 men and mere 12- and 18-pound guns prior to the battle, and was quickly decimated under English fire. Those that survived the battle seemed quite happy to be paroled to the deserts around Alexandria, where Napoleon’s troops were said to be welcoming them into the army, rather than chance another voyage aboard the creaky ship. So these other prizes were manned by skeleton crews from Nelson’s fleet. There was no dearth of volunteers among the English, of course, given the chance to return home and be first in line for prize money.

  Far ahead of the convoy was the sloop HMS Mutine, scouting their course for signs of another French squadron. Thankfully, it seemed the French had most of their Mediterranean fleet at Aboukir Bay, but one could never tell whether there would be a second wave, or a squadron newly arrived from the French colonies on Venus or Ganymede, to give them trouble.

  “Good morning, sir,” Barnes said with a salute, which Weatherby returned with a small smile. “I hope you’ve found everything in order this morning. Any discrepancies have been noted in the log and are being dealt with.”

  Second—now First, actually—Lieutenant Barnes was a good man, if somewhat . . . unimaginative, perhaps, was the right word . . . when it came to anything except the maintenance and order of a ship. “I see that, Mr. Barnes. A thorough job of it, as always,” Weatherby replied. “The only thing that concerns me on such a fine morning is our alchemical stores. You note that we are low on a number of things, particularly shot and curatives.”

  Barnes looked somewhat chagrined at this, though Weatherby knew his comment was a bit unfair. His broad face grew slightly ruddy, and his eyes widened a touch. “Well, I know Dr. Hawkins has been working very hard to replenish our supplies, sir. Of course, we used quite a bit of shot in the engagement, and we sent our extra curatives off to the French once the battle was won.”

  “Of course, and rightly so,” Weatherby murmured. “You know as well as I that law and custom
require it. But now,” he added, “I see we’re low on many things. Please have Dr. Hawkins report to the quarterdeck, if you would, Mr. Barnes.”

  A few shouts and roughly three minutes later, a skinny, slightly disheveled alchemist appeared before Weatherby, looking exhausted and terribly nervous. There was no doubt that Dr. Charles Hawkins was a competent alchemist. He knew the Royal Navy Handbook of Alchemical Praxes and Policies (the seventh edition, edited by one Dr. A. Finch) like the back of his hand. He spent his off hours deep in research and experimentation. He was, by all appearances, thoroughly dedicated to the mystic sciences. But by God, he was something of a wreck at all times: Nervous, jittery, wide-eyed, slightly sweaty, and seemingly ready to cry out at any moment, all for no good reason. His countenance was pale and drawn, his thin lips pressed into a kind of permanent grimace, and his broad forehead was often dappled in dewy perspiration . . . as it was now.

  “Dr. Hawkins reporting as ordered, Captain Weatherby,” Hawkins said formally.

  “At ease, doctor,” Weatherby said, shocked at the sight of the man, for he looked even more ruinous than usual. “Do you wish to sit? Have you been getting enough sleep?”

  Hawkins managed a slight grin that, surprisingly, made him look even more distressed . . . and distressing to the viewer as well. “I am well, thank you, sir. The casualties are recovering well, and the last should be out from under my care in a week’s time.”

  “Very good, very good,” Weatherby said, still unable to tear his eyes off the man. “I’m sure the care of our good, brave men has taken you away from your other duties, and rightly so. Can you apprise me of the status of our stores? Your usual praxes?”

  Hawkins did, haltingly and with more than a touch of angst. There were precious few curatives left, and indeed, the doctor had been spending his nights creating more, in case they should be set upon en route to Portsmouth. Soon, however, the raw materials necessary would be in short supply, as they had little time in Egypt for resupply. The Venusian extracts and dried leaves—the most efficacious ingredients in most healing elixirs—were quickly being depleted.

  Likewise, the ship itself was in short supply of Mercurium, a most remarkable substance—named for the planet upon which it could be found—that gave speed and maneuverability to ships and allowed them to rise from the seas to the Void without having to catch the solar wind within the aurorae at the poles of the Known Worlds. England had something of a monopoly on Mercurium, making the Royal Navy nigh-dominant in the Void, let alone at sea. For the French, it was a rare prize, used sparingly—if at all.

  Finally, Hawkins reported, the ship’s alchemical shot was likewise in short supply, though not as much as their other deficits. This was, to Weatherby’s mind, the least of their problems, as any three vessels of frigate size or larger would result in the loss of his prizes anyway. Their best hope was to simply get home to England with all haste, and pray to avoid all other ships until then.

  Naturally, Weatherby and the rest of Nelson’s fleet had scoured their prizes for any kind of alchemical treasures aboard, and some of their stores had been replenished that way. But curatives, especially, were always of short supply after an engagement such as Aboukir Bay.

  With Weatherby admonishing him to mind his own health and welfare, Hawkins was dismissed to continue his work. Weatherby knew he had been spoilt working alongside Finch for much of his career. From Daedalus in ’79, through his post as first officer of Invincible, then the command of his own frigate, HMS Brilliant in ’84, Finch had been there by his side, regularly working alchemical miracles and making them seem effortless. But when Weatherby took command of HMS Intrepid, a 60-gun fourth-rate, in ’89, Finch had already decided to leave the service as he had become enamored of the political changes occurring in France, and had sought to encourage the societal experimentation there. It had been a sore point between the two men for a number of years, but not so sensitive that it had threatened their friendship overmuch. Finch had always been something of a political creature, despite his aristocratic upbringing and his study of the Great Work. He once called politics “the alchemy of governance,” a term to which the late Benjamin Franklin had introduced him.

  Yet it seemed the French Revolution was far too leaden to turn into gold. Now, Weatherby mused, at least Finch was back working for the Crown. Despite their close ties, the Navy man had often wondered whether the alchemist would one day go too far in his researches, whether they be political or alchemical. Finch, he knew, would make a terrible enemy, though certainly one with an appreciable cunning and a great deal of panache.

  “Captain!” Barnes shouted from amidships, starboard side, breaking Weatherby’s reverie. “Something’s wrong with Franklin!”

  Weatherby quickly moved to the right-hand railing of the quarterdeck, nearly upsetting his coffee in the process. He put his cup and saucer down and brought out his glass, aiming it at the larger, 80-gun ship that had begun to drift to the north, away from Fortitude and toward Majestic. Weatherby could see a number of crewmen dashing back and forth on the main deck, and could even make out O’Brian talking animatedly to one of the French officers, gesturing wildly toward the sails above . . .

  . . . which were unfurling. Franklin was not only turning away from the squadron, but she was gaining speed as well.

  “Beat to quarters and make full sail!” Weatherby yelled. “Wilkes! Four points to the north! Come about and make for Franklin!”

  The decks of Fortitude were quickly awash in frenetic activity, as the night watch poured out onto the main deck and began climbing to the tops in order to unfurl all the ship’s sails. Marines likewise began their ascent, muskets slung across their backs, while below decks, Weatherby could hear the gun crews readying their weapons. Meanwhile, Wilkes turned northerly and began to pursue the Franklin, which was now heading nearly due north and aimed directly for the water between Swiftsure and Majestic.

  Weatherby turned to the young mid, who was doing an admirable job of directing matters on the quarterdeck, as he had not yet been relieved. “Walling, I shall take this watch now. Well done,” Weatherby said. “Signal Swiftsure to intercept Franklin. I fear that there are a few too many French left aboard.”

  That was, of course, the problem with prizes, especially large ones. It takes too many hands to sail them, and they are too slow to outrun enemy ships wishing to retake them. So one depends on the former enemy crew to bring the prize home, with the promise of good treatment and a quick repatriation. Most of the time, it worked well.

  But every now and again . . .

  “Smoke from the Franklin’s stern!” Barnes reported, his glass still trained on the fleeing French ship. A moment later, the unmistakable bass whoosh of a cannon ball careened past Fortitude’s port side. The French had enough control of the ship, then, to fire the chase guns aft, aiming for the one vessel that could stop her in her tracks—Fortitude.

  Weatherby frowned deeply, knowing his next move would endanger the life of his first lieutenant, a man who served with him since he was a mere boy. “Fire the forward chase guns,” Weatherby said to Walling, who relayed his orders with a shout.

  Moments later, cannon fire erupted from under Fortitude’s bowspirit, and the captain could see two lines of alchemical fire streak toward Franklin.

  “Planesails!” Barnes barked from his new position at the bow of the ship. “She’s heading aloft!”

  “Damn! How the hell are they doing that?” Weatherby growled, snapping his own glass open. Yes, the French ship had unfurled two sets of new sails, hanging off the port and starboard sides of the ship. These plane sails were critical for navigating in three dimensions, both in the Void itself as well as on ascent and decent to one of the Known Worlds. Apparently, the rarity of Mercurium amongst the French fleet was something of a fallacy, at least in this instance.

  The captain also saw that his two chase guns hit their mark, smashing through the lower glass of the Franklin’s stern and ripping through its nameplate. Every s
hip was most vulnerable at the stern—there were precious few ways to fortify the endmost part of a ship without weighing it down overmuch—and Weatherby knew his alchemical shot was likely wreaking bloody havoc inside the French gundecks.

  But it was too late. The Franklin began to emerge from the waters of the Mediterranean and quickly began its ascent into the skies of Earth, buoyed by mystical alchemy and a great deal of daring. Weatherby had a decision to make, and quickly.

  “Walling, signal the Swiftsure to take command and seek safe harbor immediately,” Weatherby ordered. “Rig the ship for the Void and begin your ascent as soon as possible.”

  Wide-eyed and altogether beside himself with excitement and fear, the young midshipman nonetheless relayed Weatherby’s orders quickly and efficiently. Weatherby meanwhile watched the minute adjustments the Franklin made as she climbed out of Earth’s skies, stopping only to glance at the orrery of the Known Worlds contained within the compass table in front of the ship’s wheel.

  “Venus, perhaps. Mercury, possibly. But not Jupiter,” Weatherby mused to himself. “Of course, they could simply circle the Moon and try to come back down.”

  He heard Barnes clear his throat next to him. “Sir, this would leave our prizes unprotected,” he murmured, so as not to be overheard questioning Weatherby’s authority by the rest of the crew.

  “Which is why they were told to seek safe harbor,” Weatherby said, a touch of impatience creeping into his voice. “Meanwhile, we have a conundrum on our hands.”

  “The escaped ship is certainly vexing, sir, especially with Mr. O’Brian aboard . . .” Barnes began. Weatherby snapped his glass shut, however, and wheeled on him.