Weatherby spied the title of the book. “You’re reading him the Royal Navy alchemical manual?” he asked, with but a touch of incredulity.
She smiled slightly at the copy of the Royal Navy Handbook of Alchemical Praxes and Policies in her hands. “Hawkins had given him a copy to read when we first came aboard on Venus. He’ll get it back with some additional commentary, it seems.” Anne held up the book to show Weatherby numerous annotations in the margins, made in the boy’s careful hand.
“Questions?”
“Improvements,” Anne said, maternal pride in ample evidence.
Weatherby took a chair upon the other side of the cot and looked down at the boy. “How fares he?”
To his great surprise, the boy opened his eyes slightly and spoke—weakly, but clearly nonetheless. “He fares well enough, sir.”
Weatherby started. “When the hell did you wake up?” he asked, surprised enough to fall into the coarse language of the sailor.
“A few hours ago,” Anne said. “You were busy with the funeral preparations. Thank you for that, by the way. You did not have to include Francis among your crew.”
“He was your husband,” Weatherby said.
“Yes, he was, though in the end . . . I doubt there would’ve been much to keep us together had he survived.”
Surprised at Anne’s frank assertion, Weatherby looked down at Philip, who seemed weak but otherwise sound. Gone were the signs of bodily stress seen within the ancient Xan temple, though the boy’s eyes showed signs of many questions. Philip no doubt knew of his father’s actions, and of what had possessed him. It would take him years to come to terms with all that transpired. It seemed, though, he was in agreement with his mother’s assessment.
“The Count St. Germain was my shipmate, many years ago, and he was a fine one indeed,” Weatherby said finally, addressing the boy. “To my mind, that counts for a great deal. Yes, he was made a dupe by the French, but he sought to correct his folly in the end.” He then turned to Anne, looking into her eyes. “We should all be so fortunate as to have that opportunity to make amends for our errors.”
Anne closed the book and favored him with a genuine, heartfelt smile. “You know, we seem to have horrible timing, you and I.”
Weatherby shrugged as he stood to make his leave, tousling Philip’s hair as he did so. “Perhaps. But I dare say nineteen years is far too long between encounters.”
“Will you walk with me on deck, sir?” she said, rising as well. “I wish to see Titan once more before we leave.”
Weatherby offered his arm and escorted Anne above decks, where they took a slow circuit around the maindeck. The men saluted smartly when their captain passed, and made a point not to look overmuch afterward. Privacy was a rare thing aboard any ship of the line, and Weatherby felt thankful for his crew’s small gift.
“You know, Tom,” Anne said quietly. “Francis and I . . . ours was not a romantic love. Perhaps at first, but long ago and not for long. He was brilliant, and I loved his brilliance. But to say he was a doting husband would not be true.”
Weatherby nodded gravely. “There are many kinds of marriages, my lady. I had thought to marry for love. I actually thought I did, but . . .” His voice trailed off. “I remain saddened my wife was taken from me. In the end, though, I think it suited us both that I was in the service. We were very different. I know now her heart may have been elsewhere while I was away.”
Anne let this sink in a moment. “I am sorry, Tom.”
At this, Weatherby actually smiled slightly. “I have Elizabeth, thanks be to God. And she is the most beautiful child. I tell you, her mind is always ablaze. So many questions! And if I do not return from sea with a chest full of books for her, I dare say I would be sent back to ship post-haste.” He stopped and turned to Anne. “I do hope you get to meet her someday. So long as we can manage to meet again before she’s married off!”
“I wouldn’t worry so much about that, Captain Weatherby,” Anne said. “I dare say you may find it difficult to be rid of me.”
Weatherby’s heart jumped in his chest. “I should find that a most welcome predicament.”
June 23, 2134
Shaila stowed the last of the cargo containers from the depot ship, thinking about the time, less than a week ago, when she was excited about laying in supplies for the voyage home. JSC thoughtfully included all-new meal items for the voyage back to Earth, the idea being it would help break up the monotony.
Shaila desperately wished for monotony now. She’d happily take the longest, most boring flight ever in exchange for reversing the events of the past several days.
But it wasn’t going to happen. And she kicked herself for the umpteenth time for wishing it otherwise. Wishes wouldn’t make it right.
“Archie, this is Jain. Supplies are stowed. How’s refueling?” she asked over the comm.
It took a moment for the crusty old engineer to reply. “We’re tanked up. Think you better come take a look at something, though. Common room.”
Shaila pulled herself out of the cargo bay, trying hard not to look at the corner where she and Stephane had their first zero-g experience together. She instead focused on her destination, but even floating through the ship now was off-putting. There was just more bustle, more sounds, with five other people moving around. There were more e-mails and alerts, more voices and movement. Now, it was dead silent. It felt haunted.
Shaila pulled herself into one of the access tubes and crawled down the ladder into gravity once more. In the common room, she found Archie sitting at the conference table, leaning back and looking very, very tired.
“What you got?” she asked, sliding into the chair next to him.
He tapped a few commands on the table; the lights dimmed and the holoprojector sprang to life. “JSC retasked one of the Saturn survey sats to keep an eye on Enceladus since we lost the dedicated sat in the explosion,” he said. “They caught this.”
An image of Tienlong started moving in the air above the table. It approached the debris cloud that was once Enceladus. It had its cargo hatch open.
It then disappeared in the dense cloud of ice crystals.
“What the hell?” Shaila said.
“JSC broke down the image. They had all their hatches open. All the goddamn doors and windows. And they let all that ice into their ship,” Archie said.
“The Cherenkov readings,” Shaila mused. “Not just ice. Something else.”
“Maybe those proteins. Maybe something even weirder.”
Shaila leaned back in her chair and rubbed her hands down her face. “Where are they now?”
“JSC says they just went through that cloud, came out the other side, and fired up their main engines on a course toward the inner solar system. Tough to get resolution at this distance, but best guess is Earth.”
“It’s a plague ship,” Shaila said quietly.
“Maybe so,” Archie said. “Meantime, we got a long-ass vidmail from your old boss, Diaz, in the latest data packet. She sent it to me, too. I guess I’m in the loop.”
Shaila’s ears pricked up. “What’d she say?”
“Long story short, they had something go down back on Earth that they think is related. And that maybe your friends from the other side had something go down, too. Honestly, didn’t make sense, but I figure you got plenty of time to explain it to me on the way home. We’ve been ordered back ASAP.”
“Our launch window isn’t for another month,” Shaila protested.
“Yeah, well, Tienlong didn’t seem to mind. JSC wants us right behind ’em. The way Titan’s positioned, we may even catch up by the time they reach Earth.”
“And then what?”
Archie shrugged. “Hell if I know. But I’m gonna rig the damn emitter to make it the best goddamn weapon I can.”
Shaila nodded. “You got the burn OK?”
“Course is laid in, fuel’s good and the depot ship is at safe distance.” Archie held up his datapad. “I could punch it now if yo
u want.”
“Punch it,” she said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
With a single finger-tap, Archie gave the order. It would take another ten minutes for the ship’s ring to stop its rotation, then another few minutes for the reactor to come online for the burn. But within the next half-hour, they’d be slingshotting around Saturn once more, on their way back to Earth.
Shaila gave Archie a pat on the shoulder and climbed up the access tube, heading for the command center so she could take the stick and monitor the burn. She settled into the pilot’s seat and put her visor and gloves on. Her vision gave way to a field of stars, with Saturn looming off to her right, the rings stretching out before her. It was a glorious sight, and at the moment, it just made her feel numb.
An alert popped up on the starfield in front of her: INCOMING TRANSMISSION.
“Real time?” she asked, incredulous.
CONFIRMED.
Her heart started to beat faster in her chest. “Accept transmission.”
A holographic image superimposed itself onto the space in front of her. It was Stephane.
He looked even more horrible now—pale, sallow, sweaty, with nearly black circles under his bloodshot eyes. “Stephane,” she whispered.
“No,” he said, emotionless.
Shaila blinked. “What do you mean, no?”
For a moment, it looked like he struggled to say something. The composure faltered. There was something in his eyes. Then it was gone. “I am not Stephane. I am Rathemas.”
“Whoever you are, you’ve taken unauthorized control of Tienlong,” she snapped. “I order you to immediately surrender yourselves and your ship upon your return to Earth.”
“No.”
It was worth a shot. “Where’s Conti?”
Stephane looked confused a moment, then seemed to remember something. “The woman. Yes. She is with us now. One of us.”
Shaila shifted in her seat. “Right. What are your intentions?”
Stephane answered immediately this time. “Liberation.”
“What?”
Stephane shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Right now, he will not let me be until I deliver a message.”
Shaila shook her head as if to clear it. “Who? Whose message?”
“This one. The one I hold now.”
He’s in there. He’s still in there! “And what message is that?” she replied, her voice breaking just slightly.
“He . . . loves you.”
The transmission went dead.
She sat stock still for several moments before taking the transmission recording and sending it off to JSC.
Only then did she break down, allowing herself the body-wracking sobs that had built up since seeing his face.
November 12, 1798
Captain Samuel Hood, commander of HMS Zealous, looked at his visitor askance and with a great deal of bemused disbelief. Of all the strange and seemingly inane things he had to contend with since becoming commodore of the fleet keeping station at the mouth of Aboukir Bay, this was likely the strangest. Though not inane in the slightest.
“Admiral Nelson did mention you and your . . . investigations . . . in his orders to me,” Hood said. “But the tale you weave here is, well, it beggars the imagination.”
Dr. Andrew Finch, seated on the other side of Hood’s table in his cabin, and still covered with the dust of the desert, simply shrugged and pointed to the papers he had laid before the captain. “My notes on The Book of the Dead are here, sir, and your own alchemist can attest to their veracity if he’s indeed worth his Salt. And the stone from Rosetta with the translation is with me as well.”
“And what happened, then, to this book after the incident with Monsieur Berthollet?” Hood asked. “For if it does as you say, it would be a dire threat to England, would it not?”
Finch straightened his robes and looked the man in the eye. “The book is no longer a threat, sir. I saw to it myself. Unfortunately, Berthollet evaded capture at the oasis. It’s quite possible he died in the desert. Sheikh Karim and his tribe swore oaths to Allah that they would tell me should they chance upon his remains.”
Hood clucked his tongue and leaned back in his chair. “These people swear oaths to their God every time they say hello,” the captain said. “But . . . Nelson spoke quite highly of you. And your former commander, Thomas Weatherby, also recommended you to me. In fact, he sent word from Saturn that we should keep a watch for you.”
“Saturn?”
“Yes indeed. Captain Weatherby chased a French renegade all the way to Saturn, and uncovered some sort of plot involving the Xan and some alchemical nonsense I’m sure I don’t understand,” Hood said, reaching into a small chest upon his desk and withdrawing a paper. “His dispatch is here. It’s rather lengthy, and he specifically requested you read it.”
Finch practically snatched the paper from Hood’s hand, and scanned the contents with prodigious speed. “My God . . . that’s incredible.”
“So I’m not the only one, then. I thought it quite queer indeed.”
“No, sir, not queer at all,” Finch said, trying to hide his impatience. “I find this clarifies more than a few questions I’ve struggled with of late.” The alchemist stood. “With your permission, sir, I believe it imperative that I return to England at the earliest possible convenience.”
Hood frowned. “Dr. Finch, I cannot spare a ship solely to ferry you home after your hardship in the desert. You’re not even in the service anymore.”
“That, at least, will change,” Finch said. “I feel it time I should take up my commission once more.”
At this, the captain actually laughed. “An officer cannot simply resume his commission solely by declaring it. You make it sound as if you’re simply changing your waistcoat!”
Finch’s last shred of patience finally gave way. “Captain Hood, I require a ship to take me to England. Once there, I will immediately convene both the Naval Board of Alchemy and the Royal Society—and yes, I can do that, and they will listen. And if I have to explain to Nelson why you failed to help me, or even allow me to return to service simply because of the manner in which I did it, I’m very sure the admiral will make his displeasure known.”
Without waiting for a response, Finch rose from his seat and stormed out of Hood’s cabin, striding across the main deck and into the alchemist’s lab in the fo’c’sle, where his effects were taken when he boarded. Finch had dispatched Jabir to Cairo to check up on his house and possessions, and Finch had already determined on his walk across the ship that he would simply give them to the boy outright. He’d been a fine apprentice, and was quite ready to strike out on his own path in the Great Work. Finch knew he would practice and teach an ethical, respectful style of alchemy. Jabir would be fine.
The rest of the world remained to be seen.
Finch produced a key from his pocket and opened a small chest—the worst sort of thing to carry on any trip through the desert, but security was paramount. Inside, he carefully unwrapped The Book of the Dead, running his hand across the pitch-black cover.
The Book of the Dead. The Emerald Tablet. One dark, one light. Two parts of the same thing.
Something, or someone, pointed Berthollet toward Siwa. Of the millions of documents stored in the Vatican Library, he came across the only one that might drive him toward where The Book of the Dead was kept. Furthermore, Berthollet’s notes were gone—not only from the temple, but from his tent and those of the savants as well. There were other forces at play here, there was no doubt, and Finch recognized that while he had the book, someone else may have at least part of the lore within it.
And meanwhile, another part of the French plan nearly succeeded as well. They almost took the Emerald Tablet right from under the noses of the Xan.
Finch thought back to the portal he saw in the temple of Amun-Ra. He remembered the people on the other side. Two parts of the same thing . . . ?
Then it struck him, like a veritable bolt of lightning t
hrown by Zeus himself.
What if the Known Worlds and the other . . . place . . . the place from whence Diaz and her people were from, were once part of the same universe? After all, if the warlord Althotas was shunted into a shadow prison in ages past, that “place between places” of which Rathemas described and Weatherby wrote—and bless Tom’s prodigious memory for such detail!— it may have been possible that the Xan somehow sundered one universe from another in creating that place. If you create a place between places, after all, it stood to reason that there would need to be two places for it to reside.
Twice now, Finch had seen that other place, a dimension in which technology was ascendant and alchemy unheard of. Calling it coincidence would stretch the bounds of credulity. Althotas could make his Will known in both places. They were linked . . . and perhaps it was due to the fact that they were once bound together.
Finch stared down at the black book upon his lap. This would not be the end of things, Finch knew. It was likely just the beginning.
EPILOGUE
July 3, 2134
Of all the nations in the Islamic League, Dubai remained the best place to drink your troubles away.
Problem was, Harry Yu pondered as he nursed his fourth Scotch, his troubles outnumbered all the gleaming bottles of liquor behind the immaculately kept bar.
Harry knew he played it fast and loose, sure. That’s why he stashed a couple billion terras in Swiss accounts. That’s why he had a couple of different ident-chips, which was not exactly legal but certainly attainable. To make money, sometimes you had to take risks. So you did the prep work to mitigate the risks, then rolled the dice.
But this . . . this was beyond fast and loose. There was a million kilometers of red tape to cut through to arrest a multinational conglom executive—and another half-million if that exec had ties to China.
Maria Diaz had gotten a warrant in just six hours.
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