series 01 03 “THE GHOSTS OF MERCURY”

by By Mark Michalowski

  “Pardonnez-moi, Nathanial, but I had assumed that you had come to help me with her work. It appears that I was incorrect in that. My apologies.”

  “Not at all. In what particular field of research was she occupied?”

  Arnaud waved expansively at the rubble-strewn desk. “Perhaps these will explain….”

  Chapter Two

  “In Which Annabelle Learns About the Ghosts”

  1.

  Ernest Shawbridge had been a friend of Annabelle’s father, so did not strictly count as a real uncle. But it was what she had always called him. During the voyage from Venus, Annabelle hadn’t been completely sure that she would even recognise him—but as she and Nathanial had descended the steps from the flyer to the planet’s surface, she’d spotted him instantly. He was a stocky, pugnacious man, with as far as it was possible to tell in the half-light, a pale, ruddy complexion and slicked-back black hair with more than a touch of grey at the temples. She imagined he must have been in his sixties, but he stood sharply upright like a much younger man—possibly more due to Mercury’s low gravity than to his own stamina. But rather than an effusive greeting, he’d seemed somewhat distracted. He’d shaken hands with Nathanial, muttered something about being sorry that he couldn’t give them a guided tour at the moment, even as Nathanial had started his bombardment of questions. Uncle Ernest listened politely—and silently—for a few minutes and then promptly handed them over to a very charming aide, Lieutenant Palfreyman—and vanished.

  But now, surely, he would have some time for her.

  Annabelle made her way through the brick buildings and whitewashed huts of the settlement. The few personnel she saw nodded respectfully when they saw her but didn’t engage in any conversation more meaningful than “hello”. She began to wonder whether she was imagining a certain atmosphere: something slightly oppressive, slightly worrying. She had caught a couple of people looking over their shoulders, as if fearful that they might be being followed. Others jumped as she moved into their line of sight—and then visibly relaxed when they saw her properly. Annabelle couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was, but there was something not quite right. And Uncle Ernest was the obvious person to ask.

  The weather was pleasantly balmy—not as hot and humid as Venus—but there was a constant mild breeze. In the distance she could hear the sound of running water. Nathanial had explained the planet-girdling World River to her on the journey, but other than a brief glimpse of it as the flyer had landed, she had yet to see it properly.

  The settlement, small though it was, was well-signposted, and there was something of an English village about it. Well, if you discounted the strange sky and the permanent twilight. Electric lamps burned brightly on the corners of the gravel walkways that led between the buildings which were generally single-storey affairs. Nathanial had told her, during the voyage, that a new generation of steam turbines were at work here, providing ample and (more importantly) uninterruptible power. Native bushes and trees sprang up from the yards and gardens of the buildings, their foliage a dull purple.

  She turned a corner—and almost ran straight into Lieutenant Palfreyman, who let out a muted cry.

  “The colonel is over there,” he said, regaining his composure and gesturing towards the only two-storey building, fifty yards away. “I am sure he will be delighted to see you.”

  And as quickly as he had arrived, he left—and still as jumpy as before. She tried to find the right word for it.

  Spooked.

  2.

  Inside, a neat middle-aged woman sat behind a large reception desk, a portrait of her uncle himself on the wall behind her. She was reading a book, and gave a little start as Annabelle let the door bang to behind her.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” the woman said, putting her book down hastily and adjusting her posture. “You must be Miss Somerset.”

  “I am indeed,” Annabelle said, noting the name plate on the woman’s desk: Iris McConnon. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss McConnon.”

  “Oh, please call me Iris,” she said, her fluster abating a little. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m looking for my uncle. I was told he was here.”

  Iris looked a little discomfited and Annabelle drew herself up, expecting Iris to try fobbing her off as Lieutenant Palfreyman had. But before Iris could say anything, there came a startled cry from the corridor leading off the hallway. Both women turned their heads sharply. Annabelle took a couple of steps towards the source—before a man, young and tanned with closely-cropped black hair, came racing out, his face sweating and panicky. He ignored Annabelle and rushed straight over to Iris’s desk.

  “I’ve seen one!” he cried, gripping the edge of the desk with his shaking hands. He glanced over his shoulder, as if fearful that whatever it was that he’d seen would be following him. Or chasing him.

  Iris threw the man a look, her eyes darting between him and Annabelle. The subtext was clear: keep quiet!

  “Seen a what?” asked Annabelle, crossing to the man and putting her hand on his shoulder. “What have you seen?”

  “It’s nothing,” Iris said brusquely.

  “Of course it’s not nothing!” snapped back Annabelle, tired of this game. “Look at the poor man—he’s terrified.” She turned his face towards her, gently. His eyes were wide with terror and he was still trembling. His forehead was beaded with sweat.

  “What was it?” she asked firmly, making sure she made eye contact with him. “What did you see?”

  The man opened his mouth to answer, and glanced at Iris, as if asking for permission.

  “Look at me,” Annabelle said firmly. She saw a burgundy leather Chesterfield and two matching armchairs over in a nook, and gently prised the man’s fingers from the edge of the desk and took his hand. He seemed to calm a little. “Come and sit down,” she said to him. “Iris—could you get this man some tea? Strong and sweet. And one for me, please. Thank you.” Before Iris had chance to object or make excuses, Annabelle led the man to the sofa and sat him down.

  But Iris continued to hover behind her desk.

  “Tea.” Annabelle reminded her in her best school ma’am voice, “please.” And then she sat down opposite the man. “Right,” she said. “Everything’s fine. Iris will bring us some tea, and you can tell me all about what you saw.”

  His head snapped up sharply and he fixed her with his dread-filled eyes. “Why me?” he asked, almost pathetically. “Why me?”

  “What did you see?” Annabelle repeated, taking one of the man’s hands in hers. “Tell me, and then maybe I can help you work out why.”

  “A ghost,” he said simply, and his bottom lip began to tremble as he fought to stop himself from crying.

  “You saw a ghost?” Annabelle glanced towards the corridor from which the man had come. “What sort of ghost? What did it look like?”

  He bowed his head again and she could feel his hand shaking in her own.

  “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

  “It was like everyone says,” he began. “I didn’t really see it—not properly, you know?” Annabelle nodded, although she didn’t know at all. “It was just…just standing there, by the window. He was just standing there.”

  “And what made you think it was a ghost?”

  “Because it wasn’t properly there, if you know what I mean. It was sort of half there and half not.”

  “You mean transparent?”

  The man’s face creased up in a frown. “Not…not quite, miss. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. He was sort of there and sort of not there at the same time. It’s like…it’s like I dreamed about him, if you know what I mean? When you wake up and it’s all clear in your head, and then a few minutes later….” He shrugged and rubbed his nose with the back of his free hand. “I’m sorry, miss—I must sound like a right ’un.” He gave a choked off little laugh.

  A flurry of movement caught Annabelle’s eye and she looked up to see Iris standing there—with Uncle Ernest right
beside her. Uncle Ernest patted Iris on the arm. “It is all right,” he said. “I shall take care of this now, Miss McConnon.”

  Annabelle rose from her seat, and released the man’s hand. “He’s had a terrible fright,” she said as Iris returned to her desk.

  “He’ll be fine, won’t you lad?” her uncle said.

  Annabelle bristled at his brusque tone—it was a statement more than a question, and one founded, as far as Annabelle could see, on nothing more than wishful thinking. The man got to his feet quickly and tugged down his jacket, looking ashamed.

  “Uncle!” protested Annabelle. “Look at him!”

  “Annabelle,” said Shawbridge. “I know you mean well, but really—this is nothing to concern yourself with. He’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep, won’t you, lad?”

  The man nodded, composing himself, and awkwardly avoiding eye contact with Annabelle.

  “That’s the spirit,” said Shawbridge, patting the man on the shoulder. “Get yourself off to bed. And a glass of rum might not be a bad idea,” he added. “Help you sleep.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, slipping past Annabelle and heading towards the door. “Thank you, ma’am. Very kind of you. Like the colonel says, just tiredness, that’s all.”

  He saluted Shawbridge and left.

  “That poor man’s had a terrible shock,” began Annabelle.

  “My dear, I know you mean well, but I really think you should leave these things to people who know.”

  “Know what?” She was struggling to contain her annoyance at the offhand way her uncle had dismissed the soldier’s reaction. “Know how upset he was? Because I think we all saw that, didn’t we?”

  Uncle Ernest sighed wearily and his expression softened to something between defeat and conciliation. “Let’s continue this in my office, shall we?”

  He led the way into the corridor and through the first door they came to.

  Shawbridge’s office was more Spartan and functional than Annabelle had expected. She knew he’d seen duty in Africa, India and the Far East and so had expected the usual mixture of elephant-foot umbrella stands and trophy heads mounted on the wall, but other than a tribal shield mounted near the door, there was little to hint at his previous military experience—although behind the green leather-topped mahogany desk there was a massive portrait of Queen Victoria looking as stern and forbidding as Annabelle had ever seen her. On the corner of the desk stood a beautifully-crafted—but clearly hand-made—scale model of an aether flyer. It bore a striking resemblance to sea-going ships, Annabelle thought, not for the first time.

  “Esmeralda,” her uncle said, noticing her interest. “An old flyer I’ve taken to tinkering about with during my few spare hours, down at the edge of the landing pad. Might have noticed it when you came in. Gives me something to do, you know?” He motioned Annabelle to take a seat before taking his own behind the desk. “Did Miss McConnon offer you any tea?”

  “She did,” said Annabelle curtly, “but seemed to confuse tea with you.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “I asked her to bring tea for the young man out there, and she returned with you. I think that speaks volumes, doesn’t it?”

  Uncle Ernest raised an eyebrow, just a smidgeon, and crossed to the door and called to Iris to bring a tray of tea for the two of them.

  “A good woman, Miss McConnon,” he said, sitting back down. “Thinks the world of me. With me in Jaipur. Closest thing I had to a friend, you know. It was her idea to paint the city pink for the Prince of Wales’ visit, you know.”

  Annabelle remembered hearing of how the whole city had been decorated in the most gorgeous pink for Edward’s visit in 1853, and she was suitably impressed at Iris’s part in it. “She must be a great comfort to you here, then—especially considering everything…” Annabelle let her voice tail off meaningfully, hoping her uncle would take the bait.

  “Everything?”

  Annabelle tipped her head on one side ever so slightly. She could play this game for a while longer. “The atmosphere here.” She paused artfully. “And the ghosts.”

  A sudden change came over Uncle Ernest and he sat up sharply in his chair. “Ghosts?”

  “Yes, ghosts. Like that man—what was his name, by the way? It seems awful just calling him ‘that man’…”

  “Private Blair?” Uncle Ernest’s face shook dismissively. “Nothing at all—just stress, my dear. It’s not easy being here, you know. Takes a certain kind of man to cope with everything—the gravity, the daylight…”

  “Stop it,” said Annabelle gently. “Stop fobbing me off, Uncle. He’s not the only one who’s seen ghosts here.”

  He was suddenly on the defensive. “What d’you mean? Who’s been talking?”

  “No one’s been talking—but when he came into reception, he seemed as upset about his seeing one, as he was about seeing one at all. And he told me that it was like the other ones.”

  “Nonsense!” Uncle Ernest snorted.

  “I know what I heard, and I know what I saw,” she insisted gently. “Please, Uncle, I only want to help. After all the wonders and sights Nathanial and I have seen recently, the idea of ghosts is less bizarre than you might think.”

  She fixed him with her gaze—a gaze only broken when Iris knocked at the door and brought in a tea-tray. The cups were clinking and clattering in a way that suggested that Iris either had some sort of tremor, or was still shaken by Private Blair’s experience. She set the tray down on the edge of the desk. “Is everything all right, Colonel?”

  “It’s fine, Miss McConnon, really. Thank you.”

  Iris exited the room without once making eye contact with Annabelle.

  “I don’t think she likes me very much, does she?”

  “Who?” asked Uncle Ernest checking the teapot was hot. “Miss McConnon? Oh, she’s fine when you get to know her. Even now she still insists I call her ‘Iris’, but, you know… Give her a chance. Milk?” He picked up the jug.

  “Please, yes—no sugar, thank you.”

  The milk looked uncommonly yellow as he poured, and he noticed her frown. “From one of the local beasties,” he explained. “Marvellous creature, really—looks a little like a pony crossed with a salamander. Odd thing, but very friendly. The milk tastes fine—a little sweet, but have you any idea how difficult it is to get the real thing here? We brought a few cows over but they didn’t do well. Stopped giving milk within a week. Had to put the poor blighters down, I’m afraid. Pining for the blue skies and grass of home, maybe.” His voice had taken on a melancholy air, and Annabelle wondered if perhaps it wasn’t the cows he was talking about.

  At least the tea tasted better than what the locals had to offer on Luna.

  “This is an alien world,” he continued eventually. “Oh, I’ve read all about Mars and Venus. Rum places. But…this place can get to you.” He tapped the side of his head. “Up here. I don’t mean dolally. I mean…without the usual night and day, it’s as though the brain never really has chance to relax—you know? We operate to a 24-hour day here, and the quarters all have good, solid shutters to block out what little light there is. But it’s not the same. It plays with the mind.”

  “But why ghosts? And how many people have seen them?”

  There was still a noticeable reluctance from her uncle, but clearly he was thawing. “So far, more than twenty people have reported seeing something. At first, I just thought it was some sort of hysteria—you know, the way people start seeing things once someone else has?” He leaned forward again. “You mustn’t tell anyone else about this, my dear. Do I have your word?”

  “But why? Surely this is a matter to report back to Earth?”

  Uncle Ernest’s face fell in a quite comic parody of horror. “Dear Lord no! Imagine what people would say!”

  “They’d say that there’s something about Mercury that’s causing it and send someone to help.”

  “They’d say that Ernest Shawbridge couldn’t keep control of his men, a
nd let wild, stupid tales of ghosts and spectres infect everyone here, that’s what they’d say. I only have another two years before I retire, and the thought of going out with such rumours hanging over my head…. Unthinkable.”

  Annabelle could see his point, however much she might disagree with his response to it. “Well,” she said, “that’s as may be. But yes, I give my word—no one off this planet will hear about it from me.”

  He relaxed again and took a breath, recomposing himself. “It must seem awfully silly to you, all that. But look at it from my point of view. It’s all bound to be a storm in a tea cup. Best not make a fuss. At the last count, twenty five people have seen things, and numbers increase every week. Started three, maybe four weeks ago.”

  “Have you seen one?”

  He gave a gruff little laugh. “You may be disappointed to hear that I haven’t. But from all accounts, they look very much like ordinary people—like us, which is rather what you’d expect of ghosts, isn’t it? Or at least people’s ideas of what to expect.” He threw her a look. “But it’s very curious. People are certain that they’ve seen one, but can’t remember any of the actual details.”

  “Like a dream?” said Annabelle, remembering what Private Blair had said.

  “That’s exactly how some of them have described them, yes. Which rather suggests that they’re nothing more than figments of the imagination, doesn’t it?”

  Annabelle wasn’t quite sure of the logic of that conclusion, but she let it pass, not wishing to appear too argumentative. “And have they been seen everywhere?”

  “All around the station, you mean?” Uncle Ernest thought for a few moments. “You know, I’m not sure—I’d have to have a word with Doctor Schell. He’s the chappie to speak to about that kind of thing. I assume so, yes—why?”

  “Oh, nothing really. Just wondered if there was some particular location. You know the way ghosts linger in the places that they passed on?”

  “Oh, my dear, don’t tell me you believe in all that spiritualist nonsense. Contacting the Other Side and all that?”