“My God, it’s stunning,” Stephane said quietly.
“Sure is,” Shaila replied, oddly gratified just to hear him talking. She quickly shunted the thought out of her head. Stephane would perform, as usual. She’d have more time to talk to him and figure things out later.
A small alarm went off in the cockpit—the lander’s sensors had located the Chinese vehicle 50 kilometers ahead. Shaila cut the engines and opted to glide in as best she could. Given Titan’s extremely low gravity—just 14 percent that of Earth—it took five minutes of lazy circling before she felt she had lost enough momentum to justify thrusters. She finally put the lander down a little more than a kilometer from its Chinese counterpart. They could get there in a couple minutes thanks to the low gravity, but it was far enough so that they wouldn’t be surprised if some knife-wielding Chinese astronaut came at them.
Surprisingly, Shaila thought, that wouldn’t actually be the strangest thing I’ve encountered in space.
Everyone gave their suits a final check before Stephane opened the lander’s tiny airlock and headed out onto Titan, the two women following on his heels. Shaila briefly thought there should be some kind of historical note to be made—Hall was the first American on the moon, Shaila the first Briton and JSC astronaut, Stephane the first Frenchman—but under the circumstances, it seemed a bit much. “Jain to Armstrong, we’ve left the vehicle and are on the surface. Streaming our sensors and video. Over.”
“Roger, Jain,” Archie replied. “Stephane and I are watching your position carefully. No life signs, no electronics other than your own. Proceed with caution.”
“No shit,” Hall replied. “Thanks for that.”
The three Armstrong astronauts took tentative steps toward the Chinese lander, with zappers in hand. Their sensor pods, strapped to their backs, provided readouts on their HUDs, overlaying the alien terrain with a wide variety of datapoints. While it was nice to note the exact chemical compounds found in the Titanic river next to them, they were both more focused on the lander ahead.
With one exception. “Claim filed,” Hall said with a hint of pride. “Here’s hoping they didn’t have time for paperwork.”
Once again, Shaila thought to snap back at Hall for the flip attitude, but when she glanced over at the corporate exec, she saw that Hall’s eyes were darting about nervously, and her hands were fluttering over her suit controls. Everyone had their way of coping, Shaila thought. Maybe that was Hall’s.
“Sensors showing the lander’s been idle at least six hours,” Shaila said, noting the thermal readings off the Chinese lander’s engines. “Armstrong, what’s the best guess we have on survivability for top-line Chinese environment suits?”
A few moments later, Archie came on line. “They’re pretty nice, actually. They even carry drinking water and recycle waste-water. Manufacturer says eight hours.”
Shaila gripped her zapper. “All right, then. They’re still here, likely still active. Roger.”
Carefully, the three astronauts arrived at the Chinese lander, going in from the right-hand side, away from the windows—and the engines. Unlike the landers on Armstrong, the Chinese lander was environment-suit only; it didn’t seal up to preserve its shipboard atmosphere. The Chinese would’ve had to have worn their suits on the entire trip.
That would explain why the doors were wide open.
It didn’t explain the copious brown dust spattered and scattered across the floor of the lander.
Shaila’s sensors and HUD identified it as dried, frozen human blood.
“Do you think it’s a survivor from the Tienlong?” Hall asked quietly; she was receiving the same sensor information as Shaila.
“Not likely,” Shaila said as she did a quick sensor sweep of the lander. No weapons found—no compartments labeled “weapons,” either. “They don’t have airlocks on these, so they had to enter the lander already in their suits. If someone was attacked with a suit on, there wouldn’t be this much blood in here.”
Shaila switched her comm channel. “Armstrong, this is Jain,” she said calmly, even as her hand tightened around her zapper. “I think the bad guys are down here with us.”
October 18, 1798
Piercing the cloud-cover above the blasted world of Titan proved to be more than even the Countess St. Germain could manage. There were no ships ’round the world itself, so Weatherby ordered Fortitude into the clouds near the poles—with the hope they could pull out quickly and make for the Void should they find naught but land beneath them.
“I assure you, Captain Weatherby, your chances of striking land this far north are exceedingly small,” Representative Vellusk said, his melodic voice rife with apology and concern. “I should not wish any damage to such a fine vessel.”
Weatherby smiled the tight smile of someone doing his very best to be diplomatic. “And I assure you, Representative, I appreciate your advice more than you know. The maps you’ve supplied us will be most useful indeed once we reach the surface.”
Vellusk nodded and made a polite, cheerful sounding melody before turning forward once more, taking in the operations of the ship as the crew prepared to make keel-fall. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Barnes smiling in his direction, which he allowed to go unremarked upon. It was, Weatherby supposed, only fair.
Hawkins and Anne had worked through the night to alter the ship’s lodestones so that the air aboard would remain breathable, for Vellusk and Morrow were quite clear on the matter of Titan’s air; it would kill almost instantly. They were still attempting to create a portable lodestone of some sort that would provide protection from the poisonous fume on an individual basis, so that members of the Fortitude’s crew might explore on foot—something the French and their Xan partisan allies had likely already considered.
With the apologetic reticence typical of the Xan, Vellusk had suggested they approach the largest set of ruins upon Titan’s surface. The fact that it was quite near the northern pole made the decision easy. Apparently, in the early years of the Xan’s explorations, they too were confined by the Sun-currents at the poles when it came to venturing off-world, so it made sense for their ancient homeworld to house particularly impressive settlements close to those points.
The descent was unremarkable—indeed, one might call it completely bland, even though Fortitude would be the first English vessel to make keel-fall upon this particular moon of Saturn. The orange clouds remained stubbornly thick and monotonous for the vast majority of the fall . . .
. . . until Fortitude finally broke through the clouds, and a strange, alien vista opened up before them, sending hundreds of men to the sides of the ship.
The land below was a dark orange, combined with smatterings of red-brown streaks among the hills and mountains, while the waters themselves were dark, almost purplish in hue. There was no vegetation to be found—mere rock and sand.
It was a barren, beautifully terrifying waste.
Fortitude splashed down without incident, seemingly without making a ripple in the dark, wine-colored seas. The liquid below them seemed thick as stew, and if it were not for the strong winds that whipped the clouds above past them at a great pace, they might be mired in the muck for quite some time. Even at full sail, however, they would barely make half their typical speed upon a normal ocean, for the seas seemed to cling to the ship’s hull, leaving dark purple stains upon her sides. Vellusk assured Weatherby that the “waters” of Titan would not damage Fortitude, but he remained nervous—so much so that Gar’uk kept trying to ply him with a glass of port to soothe his mind.
Once the ship was secured and upon its proper course, Weatherby finally turned to the guests upon his quarterdeck. To his surprise, he found Anne and Morrow standing upon either side of a seated Vellusk who appeared to have his hands upon his head, hunched forward, his body shaking.
“My lord?” Weatherby said quietly as he moved to Morrow’s side.
“He is overcome,” the old admiral whispered back. “He is one of the very few o
f his people to visit their ancient homeworld and see the wreckage that their past wars caused.”
At this, Vellusk stood up abruptly, and Weatherby was reminded once more of the keen hearing these creatures seemed to exhibit. “I must apologize, Captain, for such a display of emotion upon the command deck of your vessel. It is unbecoming.”
Weatherby looked up solemnly into the creature’s cowl, where he could see faint movement but little else. “Representative, it is I who would apologize. Humanity’s troubles have led you here, and for that I am sorry. I hope we may find our errant cousins so that you may leave this place behind quickly.”
At this, Vellusk seemed to stand taller. “Your kind would not have come this far if it were not for those among the Xan who seek conflict and war,” he sang, determination and forcefulness creeping into the forlorn melodies. “I can only hope that being here will remind these partisan fools of the cost of the violence they seek to embrace.”
Weatherby nodded and murmured some words of understanding and respect that, he hoped, would suffice for such a portentous moment, then excused himself to return to his cabin. Whilst he was a fine commander, he knew there was much more to be learned of diplomacy, and despaired at times he might ever come up with the right words at the right time in critical situations.
He collapsed into a chair and saw Gar’uk had placed the port upon his table. Finally giving in, he took a swig and enjoyed the sweetness of the wine, and the slight burn of alcohol. There were various races of Venusian whose skin colors changed with their moods; while Gar’uk was not one of these, Weatherby often felt his valet could read his mind just as well as if his own flesh changed tone.
The knock on his door came all too quickly. “Come!” he barked, frustration quite near the surface.
“A bad time, perhaps?” Anne asked, poking her head through the door.
Weatherby managed a small smile. “Never. Please, come in. Something to drink?”
Anne came through the door, closing it behind her. “No, thank you, Captain,” she said, taking a seat across from him. “Dr. Hawkins and I have progress to report on the breathability question.”
“Breathability,” Weatherby smiled. “Alchemists rather enjoy making up new words, don’t they?”
She ignored his aside. “By the time we make port at the ruins, we shall have four devices ready. These should provide protection against Titan’s air by creating enough normal air for us to breathe. Vellusk assures us he has his own means.”
She held up a belt of some sort, along with what appeared to be a shallow cup. “This goes around your face, while this mask”—she held up the cup—“will go over your nose and mouth. We will likely also need sealed eyeglasses to protect our eyes.”
“Is that all?” Weatherby said, eying the device with no small amount of skepticism. “We shall look like perfect monsters ourselves.”
Anne frowned. “It is the best we could manage,” she said.
“I’m sorry, my lady. I am . . . these will be quite fine,” he said tiredly. “I fear the weight of these events has made me melancholy.”
“Understandable,” she replied, her voice softening. “You seek not just Philip, and your lieutenant, but also to stop the Xan themselves from descending into war and barbarism. At least my own goals are simpler.”
Weatherby looked upon her with fresh eyes, and found his strength starting to return. “You are quite right, and my own goals should be as simple. We shall rescue Philip, and O’Brian as well, and put a stop to whatever the French are doing. The rest is moot at this moment. I am sorry to trouble you, my lady.”
To his great surprise, she actually smiled. “You are no trouble, sir. No matter what happens, you will always have my gratitude.”
Another critical moment was at hand, and the words escaped Weatherby once more. “Anne . . .”
“We must find my son,” she said simply, rising from her place. “Should we do that, we may yet have more to discuss, you and I. In the meantime, to whom shall I give the other two devices?”
“Two?” Weatherby asked, confusion in his voice. One look from Anne dissolved this quickly, however. Of course she would be coming. “I’ll have Barnes find me the best two marksmen aboard. That will have to suffice.”
“What of Vellusk? And Morrow?” she asked.
Weatherby sighed, but managed a smile regardless. “Unless they can find means to breathe on their own, they’re staying here. I can only afford to have one person aboard who refuses to take orders.”
“You’ve never given me orders, sir,” Anne said sweetly.
“I should rather face the entire French fleet than make an attempt to do so, my lady,” he replied.
As it happened, Morrow was unwilling to argue the matter, while Vellusk did indeed have his own means of managing Titan’s poisonous air; the fact that the Xan did not share this with Hawkins or Anne was, Weatherby felt, worthy of mention, but Morrow talked him out of making his feelings known. The Xan seemed quite intent on keeping their higher knowledge from mankind, no matter the cost. Weatherby wondered idly if they would sacrifice the whole of their society for it in the end. Was humanity such a threat? Or were they more afraid of themselves?
Find Philip, Weatherby thought. Find O’Brian. And to hell with the Xan!
Meanwhile, Barnes had selected two men amongst the marines aboard—a tough veteran named Sgt. George Black, and a young Scot, Gregory MacClellan, who was said to be the finest shot aboard. Weatherby vaguely remembered the young man regularly coming back with game whenever the crew went ashore. They both would do well, he was sure.
Making port on Titan would largely depend on spotting Franklin before Fortitude was spotted in turn. Weatherby posted multiple lookouts and pored over the maps Vellusk supplied. He opted to come in from the sea, toward dusk and with lights doused, so that he might sneak close enough to launch a boat with the landing party aboard. Fortitude would tack away and out to sea, then make for a spot behind a promontory a few miles away. Anne carried with her an alchemical signal rocket that would bring Fortitude back—guns ready to fire upon the Franklin, if need be—that she believed could pierce the dense, sickly fog.
Yet as Fortitude slowly sailed toward the ruins Vellusk had suggested, all was dark and incredibly silent. The winds remained in their favor, but there was an odd lassitude to them, as if filling the ship’s sails was a bothersome chore, rousing the breeze from its funereal slumber. The sea was altogether too still, and the massive 74-gun ship barely seemed to make a ripple in the thick, noxious waters as it passed. When Weatherby ordered the lights doused, it became difficult to make out the fo’c’sle of the ship from the quarterdeck, let alone anything more.
To Weatherby’s surprise, Dr. Hawkins came up with a solution to the problem on his own volition, presenting the captain with a pair of exceptionally bulky glasses with large tinted lenses and a variety of straps.
“As soon as we made keel-fall, I thought it best to make an attempt at a working to help the lookouts,” the doctor said with a small smile. He also looked slightly healthier, as if the events of the past few days somehow invigorated him. “It took some doing to account for the particulars of this dreadful air, but by treating it as a poison to be excised, rather than something to pierce with mere vision alone, I was able to come up with a solution. The Martian sand-beast venom extracts infusing the glass—”
Weatherby held up a hand to stop Hawkins, but granted him a smile by way of recompense. “It is no doubt a most efficacious working, Doctor, and one I urge you to submit to the Naval Alchemy Board upon our return. In the meantime, bring it forward so you may instruct the fo’c’sle lookout on how best to use it.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir,” Hawkins said, excusing himself and picking his way forward with surprising alacrity and dexterity.
Weatherby turned to Anne and Morrow, who were with him upon the quarterdeck. “It seems our Dr. Hawkins is the only one who might find Titan agreeable.”
It was but a
few minutes later that a shout came from the fo’c’sle. “Land ho! Come about hard to starboard! Brace for impact!”
Immediately, Weatherby turned to the man at the wheel. “Do it! Now!”
The man started whirling the wheel around, and Weatherby instinctively joined in, even as he looked up at the sails. “Tack in sheets and braces! Weigh anchor!”
Fortitude’s timbers groaned as she suddenly came about, while the anchor fell with a loud splash. Weatherby had no notion as to how close they were to land, but the tone in his lookout’s voice made it plain enough—they were too close indeed. When the wheel suddenly went stiff, Weatherby knew he had done all he could.
“Tom!” Anne shouted.
Turning, he saw her pointing to larboard—at the shadow of a massive outcropping of rock. A moment later, a scrape and crunch of wood beneath them jarred the ship. Thankfully, Fortitude kept moving, and no more terrible noises were heard as the massive rock drifted aft into the fog once more.
Weatherby turned to Barnes, who looked quite unnerved and mortified. “Mr. Barnes,” Weatherby said, patiently but loud enough to command the man’s attention. “Get someone below to assess the damage.” Barnes simply nodded and hurried off. At least he was responding to orders faster, Weatherby thought, though his decorum still needed a bit of work.
With the wheel secure, the anchor chain becoming taut and the ship slowly grinding to a halt on the Titan seas, Weatherby rushed forward toward where his lookout, a young man of perhaps no more than sixteen, stood looking to larboard with Hawkins’ contraption upon his head. He looked like half his skull had been replaced with that of a giant insect, so cumbersome and odd was the doctor’s working.
“You there,” Weatherby said. “What’s your name?”
The man turned and immediately saluted, looking quite nervous. “Tully, Captain Weatherby, sir.”
“It was not your place to give an order upon my ship, Tully,” Weatherby said. He waited a moment before putting a hand on the lookout’s shoulder. “But I’m damned glad you did. Well done. You’ve earned an extra ration of grog for a week.”
The Enceladus Crisis Page 29