The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  CHAPTER 12

  October 15, 1798

  In all his years in the service of King and country, Thomas Weatherby had been privileged to see some of the most fantastical things the Known Worlds had to offer the enterprising soul. He had plumbed the jungles of Venus to find evidence of lost civilizations, tasted the ice of Europa, explored the mines of Mercury. He had watched Finch save men from the very brink of death, watched others have their lives snuffed out with naught but a moment’s notice.

  He had even seen the future, once upon a time—a future, perhaps, one of many, but the future regardless—in which invisible energies paralyzed the unwary, pieces of glass could summon encyclopediae of information at a moment’s notice, and a Hindu woman could be an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.

  None of these things, not a single one of them, could prepare Weatherby for the rings of Saturn. In grandeur, ancient Rome paled in comparison. In intricacy, the greatest clockworks the Great Art could devise were for naught. In sheer beauty, Weatherby could think of only two instances in which he was left as humbled and joyful. The first was when he laid eyes upon his daughter for the very first time. The second . . .

  “You look bewildered, Thomas,” Anne whispered as they stood upon the quarterdeck of HMS Fortitude, the city-rings of the planet stretching out nigh-infinity.

  “I truly am,” he replied quietly. “Had I a poet’s gift, I could begin to do it justice. As it stands . . .”

  No more needed be said, and the two watched as the rings began to differentiate and become patchworks of different neighborhoods—if a neighborhood of similar character and architecture were to be the size of France or Spain, perhaps! The spires of these buildings seemed utterly small at first, but scale was misleading here, for although Saturn loomed large indeed, these were no mere townhomes. They were individual Babels, all reaching for the sky.

  They also reached downward, for the rings themselves were set exactly upon their own gravitational axis. Whether this was a peculiarity of Saturn’s rings themselves or a great working created by the Xan, Weatherby did not know. Nor did he care, for it was simply marvelous to behold. It was as if a child glued two towers together at the base of each, and hung them in the Void with millions of their fellows.

  As Fortitude drew closer, all aboard could see that these structures were linked by an innumerable series of pathways, bridges and, for want of better words, gangplanks—if such spans as could hold entire carriages could be called such. These were necessary, for each building was anchored to a boulder or series of boulders—the materials of Great Xanath’s rings themselves. Weatherby could see that many of the larger stones had been hollowed out—by what agency, he could only dream of—and made inhabitable. They were complete with windows and portals, linked to bridges across and to the towers both above and beneath them.

  And such towers! Some made of polished stone that seemed to glow in the starlight and the Sun’s rays, reflected from Saturn’s face. Others seemed to be rough-hewn indeed, as if they were somehow made to grow, rather than cast or carved by the hand of any intelligent being. There were metals as well, gleaming and sparkling . . . and by God, were those glass? Entire buildings made of windows?

  Inside those windows, no matter the building, lights glowed. As the shadow of Saturn fell across the rings off in the distance, Weatherby could see nothing but those glowing window-lights, as if there were a tiny ribbon of steady stars stretching around the gigantic world. Some of those stars moved as well, darting amongst the shadows and into the light. Conveyances, like the Xan Ovoids, or perhaps something else entirely. None seemed to close upon Fortitude and her three Ovoid escorts as they approached the rings. Perhaps their path was cleared by Sir James’ allies.

  “We have been cloaked,” Morrow said as he touched his ear briefly. There was, it seemed, a tiny bit of something lodged in that ear—a device of some kind that Weatherby assumed allowed the ambassador to talk to the Xan.

  “Cloaked, my Lord?” Anne asked. Her son, Philip, was by her side and looked squarely at Morrow’s ear, with the utter lack of circumspection reserved for the very young, very old or very carefree.

  Morrow smiled. “We have known, my lady, that the Xan had various unknown means of detecting ships coming to Xanath, of course. That’s why none were able to approach until after ’79. Those means include, I am to understand, a wide variety of alchemical and electronical senses, both living and mechanical.”

  “Living . . . monitors, sir?” Weatherby asked, his eyes finally dragged away from the rings.

  “Yes, Captain Weatherby,” Morrow replied, still seeming to relish his protégé’s rank after three days’ voyage together. “There are those amongst the Xan who have taken alchemical mind and body training to extreme lengths—so much so that they are said to be able to project their senses outward.

  “And as for the mechanical, you had best ask someone else,” Morrow continued with a broad smile, “for I understand damned little of it. What of your Hawkins, Captain? Perhaps he might explain.”

  Weatherby looked down upon the main deck, where Hawkins was busy scribbling away in a notebook—and looking most pale and wan, as if the ring-cities of Saturn/Xanath were apparitions that would carry him hence at any moment. “I think we may prevail upon him later, if you don’t mind, sir,” he replied. “I’ve found it best to give the doctor both time and warning to gather his thoughts before asking his opinion.”

  Morrow barked out a laugh. “One of those, then. Do you miss Finch much?”

  “Dr. Hawkins is a most capable alchemist and surgeon, Ambassador,” Weatherby said loudly. He then lowered his voice to a bare whisper before adding: “And yes, most definitely.”

  “Excuse me, Captain,” Philip interrupted, “but I do think Dr. Hawkins might benefit from a few texts I’ve had the good fortune of reading recently. Perhaps I might discuss it with him?”

  Weatherby smiled at the boy, even as Anne’s face turned a most charming shade of red. “You are extremely intelligent and most diligent in your studies, young man, I have no doubt,” Weatherby said with a smile. “But Dr. Hawkins is the ranking alchemist upon this ship. I doubt very much he would take kindly to a boy recommending academic work to him, even if said boy is the son of two legends of the field.”

  Anne raised her eyebrow at the captain. “Goodness, sir . . . two legends? What makes you think I belong in such august company as the Count St. Germain?” Her smile, of course, made such a question much softer, and told Weatherby much of her true opinion.

  For his part, Weatherby slowly drew his blade from his scabbard. “Nearly twenty years, my lady, and this blade has naught a scratch nor pit upon it. I’ve seen other blades given a similar treatment since you gifted me with this, and there are none that have been its equal.”

  “Well, then, it’s obvious you’ve kept it in a closet, or perhaps at the bottom of your sea chest,” Anne playfully retorted.

  “You know full well he hasn’t,” Morrow chided. “Why, I remember in ’81, there was a boarding action ’round Io, and this young man here—my first lieutenant at the time—hacked through . . .”

  Morrow’s reverie suddenly stopped as his hand flew to his ear. “A moment, then,” he said quietly.

  Anne and Weatherby looked at each other, bemused. “I’m rather glad you still have it, sir,” she said, nodding at the blade.

  “It has saved my life many times, my lady,” he replied with a small smile as he sheathed it once more.

  Several quiet and unusually awkward moments later, Morrow spoke up once more. “We remain cloaked, but we must find harbor soon. I suggest more sail, Captain, and follow the Ovoid to the left. The other two will create something of a diversion for us as we dock.”

  Weatherby immediately walked over to his acting first officer, who had the watch and was standing near Wilkes at the wheel. “Mr. Barnes, full royals and stud’sels immediately, if you please. We need every stitch of canvas we have. And we are to follow the Ovoid furthest
to larboard.” The captain then turned to Wilkes. “If he takes us right between these very buildings, it is your duty to follow him precisely. Call out whatever you need and we will see it done.”

  “Aye, sir,” Wilkes said, straightening with pride, for there were precious few times even a senior seaman as he could order officers around. “I’ll trail him to Hell and back if need be, sir.”

  “I pray it won’t come to that,” Weatherby said drily. “It seems our friend is taking us to the rings’ underside. Down six degrees on the planes!”

  As the ring-cities drew closer, Weatherby turned out to be prescient indeed, for the Ovoid began to drift toward the outermost buildings. Through his glass, Weatherby could see individual Xan inside some of the buildings, though it was too far to make out their features. They were large, Weatherby knew, and their heads had some sort of growths upon them, be they rather thick strands of hair, or something more . . . tenticular.

  Suddenly, Weatherby’s glass grew blurry. He pulled it away from his eye to inspect it, but saw that the entire ship was now surrounded by a kind of unnatural haze. Weatherby turned to Morrow, who simply nodded. “Part of their cloaking, Captain,” Morrow said. “While we are undetected to their eyes, it also serves to mask their true visage from us.”

  Weatherby turned back to his wheelman. “Can you still make the Ovoid well enough, Wilkes?”

  “Aye, sir, ’tis odd,” Wilkes said, staring straight ahead at the Ovoid as it maneuvered. “Crystal clear if you look right on her, but turn your head a bit, and she’s a blur like all else. I’ll be able to keep steady with her, sir.”

  Weatherby peered over the man’s shoulder and saw it was just as he described. “Very well, then, Wilkes. Steady on.” He then turned to Morrow, Anne and Philip. “How utterly disconcerting.”

  The now-blurry ring cities grew closer by the moment, and Weatherby ordered the ship to rotate—a maneuver involving positioning the planesails in opposite directions—so that the ship would be oriented properly for docking on the rings’ underside ports. If there were indeed such contrivances as ports, though Morrow assured the captain that there would be “approximation enough.”

  Fortitude soon entered the city proper itself. There was space aplenty between buildings, akin to that of a modest river, so that the ship could sail between without incident. Indeed, the lines of buildings seemed quite straight, even through the blur of the Xan cloak. Weatherby hoped that they would not have to turn suddenly, for the “streets” of this odd city were aligned in a massive grid. The Ovoids were incredibly maneuverable, but a 74-gun ship-of-the-line decidedly was not.

  Thankfully, it seemed Morrow’s Xan allies had taken this into account. “Seems a cave or something up ahead, sir,” Wilkes said. “The Xan ship seems to be heading straight for it.”

  Weatherby looked to Morrow, who simply nodded. “Follow her in, Wilkes,” Weatherby ordered. “Mr. Barnes, take in sheets and braces, mainsail and planes only. We must be prepared to stop as best we can inside.”

  As it drew closer, the cavern Wilkes spoke of looked rather like a massive barn, complete with peaked roof, though the composition of its roof and walls were of a grey flatness. Indeed, compared to the ornamentation Weatherby had spotted briefly, before the cloak came down, and from prior experience on Callisto and elsewhere, there was little of the typical Xan artistry to be found. “This must be some sort of . . . military facility?” he asked Morrow.

  “The Xan do not have a military, and would be greatly offended if you suggested such, Captain Weatherby,” Morrow said quietly. “They do, however, have self-defense capabilities, as they call them, which to my eyes look not unlike military forces. Whatever the label, this is indeed a kind of dockyard for the Ovoids and the like.”

  Weatherby nodded. The Xan took immense pains to present themselves as a peaceable, highly-mannered race of beings, though their history showed them to be otherwise, at least in the past. These were the mighty, fearsome warriors that destroyed the planet Phaeton, reducing it to the rubble that now consisted of the Rocky Main, and razed the lush world of Mars into the rust-red deserts of today. So shocked they were at their own savagery in the defeat of the Martians and their warlord Althotas, the Xan laid down their arms and structured their society in such a manner as to keep all martial tendencies buried under layers of politesse and ceremony.

  Fortitude slowly drifted into the “self-defense” dockyard, which was a marvel in and of itself. Indeed, Weatherby had never been in such a massive covered structure. Inside were several platforms, most of which had several Ovoid craft tethered to them. A longer platform lay dead ahead, and there were large, cloaked figures there, waiting with lines in hand—the first Xan Weatherby and the Fortitudes had seen on their voyage.

  Weatherby had thought to order further action upon the sails, but there was no need, for it seemed the strange alchemical technologies of the Xan had matters well in hand. With little effort, the ship drifted to a very gentle stop alongside the platform. The lines the Xan threw to the shocked and incredulous seamen aboard Fortitude were practically ceremonial in nature. The gangplank that seemed to materialize between the platform and the ship needed no anchoring, either.

  “Captain, your ship is the first of any flag to make port here,” Morrow said with a small smile. “I can only pray it’s not the last, for I think we have need of the Xan, and more importantly, they have need of us. Shall we?”

  Morrow and Weatherby had already agreed that they would meet with the Xan representatives who asked them hither, and that the Countess St. Germain and young Philip would accompany them. All others would remain aboard Fortitude, upon pain of court-martial, for while there might be many who would seek out the wonders of such a unique place, it was highly likely that it would only result in nothing short of an interplanetary incident.

  The four members of the delegation, then, proceeded across the gangplank, with Anne taking Weatherby’s proffered arm, until they were met by three Xan. These ten-foot-tall beings were draped head-to-toe in drab, voluminous robes and cowls, their faces wreathed in shadow, with the barest hint of motion inside.

  “Ambassador Morrow,” the lead Xan sang in the peculiar harmonies of his people. “It brings me great joy and pleasure to see you again, though I fear there are circumstances involved that I regret to say may cause you a degree of concern, and I apologize for it.”

  Morrow smiled. “There is no apology necessary, Representative Vellusk, especially when I am met by such a warm and generous friend as yourself,” he said, echoing the labored gravitas and manners of his host. “May I have the great honor of introducing my long-time friend, Captain Thomas Weatherby of His Majesty’s Ship Fortitude? You may recall, your excellency, that he was with me aboard Daedalus those many years ago, and was instrumental in the positive outcomes of the Martian incident.”

  At this, the robes of all three Xan fluttered in unusual and odd ways, and Weatherby could only hope these signified something positive. As it turned out, they did.

  “We know your name, Captain Thomas Weatherby, and it is much celebrated amongst the Xan who know it, for your bravery and skill preserved a peace we had long sought to keep,” the Xan called Vellusk sang, notes of excited major-chord harmonies echoing in his voices. “I am deeply, truly honored to be the one to welcome you, good sir, to the great ring-cities of our homeworld of Xanath.”

  Weatherby cast a glance at Anne, who smiled and shook her head in muted disbelief. Nearly twenty years on, he could still dependably rely upon her to keep him well-grounded indeed. “Representative Vellusk,” Weatherby intoned while performing a deep bow. “It is I who am humbled and honored to be welcomed by your esteemed . . . selves . . . here in this . . . place. I am most happy to be your guest . . . here.”

  Similar introductions were made with Anne and Philip, and Weatherby tried not to be overly chagrined at how even the boy managed a more well-spoken greeting than he. After several minutes of intricate formalities, at which Morrow showed a patien
ce Weatherby had never seen while under his command, the combined party walked through a door in the wall and into a corridor, lit by glowing orbs of light on the ceiling, positioned every twenty feet or so.

  Weatherby smiled. The first time he encountered such orbs was with Dr. Franklin, those many years past, who was thrilled to discover that the Xan’s alchemy had harnessed the power of electricity itself for their lighting needs. What might the old puffer think of this place?

  Lost in thought as he was, Weatherby was startled slightly when the group arrived at a massive door, some fifteen feet tall. Of course, to the Xan, it was likely just an entryway like any other, though here too the lack of ornamentation was evident. There were a few Xan characters upon the flat grey surface of the portal, but little else save for the silvery oversized knob. One of Representative Vellusk’s compatriots opened the door for them, and Weatherby found it led to what could best be described as a meeting room. There were tall tables and chairs for the Xan, and slightly shorter ones for the visitors from Earth. All seemed well made and comfortably appointed, though in a minimalist fashion.

  As he took his seat, Weatherby wondered if they had imported children’s furniture into this “self-defense” facility solely for the purpose of providing seating for he and his fellows.

  A moment later, three other Xan entered through a side door to join the already large group. Two were dressed in simple robes and walked in behind a third, one whose robes and hood were adorned with a variety of sigils and markings, some of which looked quite similar to the alchemical sigils Weatherby had seen in the Royal Navy’s manuals.

  Morrow quickly rose to his feet in the presence of this worthy, and so Weatherby followed suit with all due haste. “Administrator Sallev,” Morrow said with a deep bow, “you honor us greatly with your presence.”

  The ornately dressed Xan bowed back. “As do you, Ambassador,” he said. “I thank you for bringing your fellows here as well, particularly your Captain Weatherby. As you said, it is good fortune he is the one to have come to us in this hour. We have much to discuss.”