Under the Burning Clouds

by Steve Turnbull

  Her watch showed five minutes had passed. Is that what he had meant? That it would be five minutes in the storm and then five more? How could he have known?

  Looking down, she saw they were already beyond the perimeter of the city. In fact, there was not a single building in sight, though with the light coming from all directions it was hard to make out anything. The ground itself appeared to be a flat plain of green except where the water reflected the brightness of the sky.

  Like Earth there were copses where trees grew close together. In each of them, always near the middle, was one larger than the others, almost as if the smaller ones were children gathered around a parent.

  The surface was generally flat, or at least it appeared so in the strange light, and the expanses of water must be level. Further towards the horizon, she could make out undulations in the terrain, as well as storms pouring their abundance onto the surface.

  Then there was a road; it cut in from their left. Reggie flew across it but turned to parallel its course. It was the only way she could judge their height and she estimated they must be at least two kilometres up.

  Movement nearer the horizon caught her eye. She turned her head in that direction and stared. A herd of lilac monsters, legs like tree trunks, heads the size of houses, bodies bigger than the carriage of an atmospheric, ponderously splashed across a shallow lake. There were perhaps twenty large beasts and a dozen more young ones that moved faster and—it was unmistakable—played with one another. One of them had a branch or a root and two others were pulling on it, trying to take it.

  As they passed out of sight it was their lilac colour that seemed to stick with her.

  She felt her stomach sinking hard. The thruster had reduced its speed but the lifters were now running faster and they climbed into the sky.

  vi

  Somehow Reggie had known precisely where they were and how far the edge of the storm was. Françoise shook her head, it was impossible. She studied the back of Reggie’s neck—she could see skin between the flying hat and his threadbare shirt.

  She clenched her fist as she recoiled at the strangeness. His skin was the dark colour that she saw in his features, but, rather than the soft continuous surface she expected—or even skin that had been become brown and cracked from exposure to the horrors of Venus—it was leathery, with darker lumpy nodules and green moss growing on it.

  Françoise sat back and stared at the back of his head. She wondered what was under his hat. Perhaps she did not want to know.

  They were still climbing. The road they had been following had become little more than a line winding through the luminescent green. Though it was hard to make out, a hill that had been blocking their view no longer did so and behind it several buildings came into view.

  In the spaces between them were flying vessels. She could make out people walking between the buildings and one of the machines. Whether one of them was Maliha, she could not tell. She thought Reggie’s flyer must be visible, but then anyone looking would be staring at the burning clouds and nobody wanted to do that for very long.

  She cried out and grabbed the chair as Reggie threw them to the right. Fleshy ropes floated past them on the left. Françoise leaned against the window and peered up.

  A writhing mass of tentacles drifted a dozen feet above them, above which a bulbous, veined balloon rippled in the wind. “What is it?” she said breathlessly.

  “Kraken,” came the grating voice with the unplaceable accent. “Small.”

  Françoise estimated the balloon to be twenty metres from end to end.

  “Lost,” was Reggie’s final word on the matter.

  It was lost? It was a nightmare.

  Below them one of the fliers had taken off and was heading ... Françoise had no idea. It was heading away from them. Reggie engaged the thruster and the little vessel accelerated after it.

  Françoise tried to relax, but the seat was very uncomfortable. It had been designed for someone smaller. Did Reggie have a wife? Or was Reggie female and had a husband? Or a wife? Françoise shook her head.

  What would Maliha do in this situation?

  Nothing. She would just observe. Well, Françoise thought to herself, I am not her. I am in a vessel I don’t understand, being flown by something that does not appear to be human, to a place I don’t know, on a planet where I do not belong. She shivered. She had not been so afraid in a long time.

  “See,” said Reggie. He waved in the general direction of forwards.

  Françoise looked out and down. The green of the land was coming to an end; it had an edge. As they moved across it the surface changed, no longer the flat mossy green with trees but a torrent pouring from the flat highlands. As far as the eye could see it was the same, one long cascade tumbling over the edge. The slope descended for over a kilometre until it met another body of water, churning with waves.

  They had reached one of the oceans—or was it all just one ocean? She could not remember.

  And then they were past the strange coastline. Now there was just the sea. The waves and swell reflected the light of the burning clouds with the same brilliant yellows and reds. She closed her eyes against the glare.

  * * *

  She awoke to a jerk from the flyer. Through the windows, the world was dark grey and water streamed across the panes. Another storm. Françoise lifted her wrist to check her watch, but it was too dark to see. Her neck and legs ached with stiffness. She tried to stretch, but there was no space.

  “Where are we?”

  “South.”

  Françoise remembered Maliha saying something about every direction being south when you’re at the North Pole.

  “Are we still over the ocean?”

  “Yes.”

  “In another storm.”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know where to go?”

  “Follow.”

  “But you cannot see anything!”

  “Follow good.”

  Françoise closed her eyes. She just wanted to be out of this damned ship. She wanted to be on solid ground or, better, on dry land, if such a thing existed on Venus. She wanted to be on Earth.

  She clung to the seat of the chair with both hands as panic swept through her.

  The grey outside and the growling of the engine were constant. The back of Reggie’s head was unchanging. Her heart thumped in fear. She was far above an infinite ocean in a storm.

  “Nearly there.”

  Reggie’s words were like a balm on her electrified nerves. She relaxed a little, much to her own surprise.

  “How long?”

  “Six.”

  A hoarse laugh exploded from Françoise’s throat, as if it had been put there by someone else. “Six,” she whispered and giggled. “How long before we come out of the storm?”

  “Not.”

  She absorbed the meaning of that. They would be reaching the mountain before they came out of the storm. She had no alternative other than to trust him, but another wave of fear gripped her.

  The journey continued. At first Françoise tried to count, mouthing the numbers to see how much time had passed, but she gave up when she realised that she was counting too fast. And she did not know how long Venusian seconds were.

  She peered into the fog, hoping to be able to see what Reggie could see, but there was nothing but constant grey. She could only see as far as the ends of the lifting drums. Then the grey directly in front of them became much darker.

  Reggie reduced power to the thruster and the vessel tilted to the right as it turned, though the only real evidence of the turn was that the dark shadow moved around to their left.

  This must be the mountain, she thought.

  Her stomach lifted into her mouth as Reggie suddenly dived and turned in towards the mountain. The shadow went across the top of them. Françoise saw lights, electric lights, through the mist and against the shadow.

  Françoise swallowed. The mountain was flying. Somehow it made her hate Venus even more. How co
uld mountains fly? Perhaps it wasn’t a very big one.

  Reggie did not stop beneath it but flew straight until they came out of the shadow, then up the other side. Now the shadow was on their right. She was about to ask how they were going to get onto the mountain, when he turned in towards it and accelerated.

  Françoise screamed as the approaching blackness resolved into a solid wall of rock.

  vii

  Maliha recognised the advanced Faraday effect she had felt in the Pegasus with Sellie and Johannes. So, a mountain could be made to fly if it were made from that material. It would still need power to make it stay up—rotors most likely—but it was only a matter of scale.

  They called it a mountain, but she wondered how true that really was. In the mind of common men it would only need to be five or six times the size of a large vessel to qualify. And with the additional gravity reduction, the power to keep it up would be proportionally less.

  The flyer that had brought her was of a standard British design, with four rotors, each of which could swivel from horizontal to vertical.

  However, the cabin of the vessel had been designed for comfort. It resembled a small drawing room with sofas, armchairs and occasional tables, though each item was firmly attached to the floor and each seat possessed a restraining strap.

  She climbed out of the armchair. She had not been tied up and there had been no attempt to disguise their direction of travel; not that that meant anything, since their destination could move. It must, however, have a fixed flight plan so it could meet other vessels. The logistics in keeping it supplied with fuel alone must be quite challenging.

  The cabin had air-cooling, which had made the whole journey quite comfortable. Today she had chosen to wear a sari. Her choice of costume was partly one of convenience, since it was designed for hot and sweaty climates. The other factor in her choice had been more complex.

  She had woken with a dry mouth and an aching head. She remembered every part of her drunken behaviour the night before. It might not have been as excessive as some she had witnessed—it had only been half a bottle of wine, but that was far more than she was used to.

  It was in that moment of contemplation she felt she knew at last who she was. She would never be a European. They would never accept her. To them she would be, at best, a second-class citizen. At worst she would be sub-human.

  No. She was Indian. And they could accept her as that, or not at all. She had ceased to care. Françoise had not commented on the sari, though there had been one or two sidelong glances.

  The main passenger cabin possessed a kitchen, which was not stocked, and an adjoining toilet and W.C. She retreated to the convenience before her contact, a man called Andrews, returned to take charge of her.

  She made use of the facilities and washed her hands thoroughly. She took pleasure in the pure hot and cold running water; it was a style of living she might have enjoyed if she had ever had the chance. She dried her hands on the towel and looked into the mirror. The dark glasses hid her eyes. She removed them.

  It was still her face that looked back at her: the lightly tanned skin, deep brown eyes, her hair, in need of a brush, but there was no time now. She reached into her reticule and removed the package the spectacle-maker had provided. She undid the outer wrapping and pulled it open. Inside, padded with cotton wool, were two small leather pouches.

  She pulled open the ties on the first and slid out a very thin piece of black glass. Its curve made it look like a piece of an egg that, if complete, would be about an inch and a half to two inches across. The other pouch contained another.

  Being careful not to touch the inner surface, she ran a fingertip around the edge. It seemed smooth. Nothing to catch or scratch. While the glass was very thin, it was coloured so densely it was difficult to see anything through it. The two pieces were not circular but mirrored one another. Each had a straighter section on one side and extended deeper ‘below’ the straight part than above.

  “Where are you?” shouted a voice from the other side of the door.

  “I am utilising the convenience,” she said with enough penetration to reach him.

  “Hurry up.”

  “Some things cannot be rushed,” she said. That should embarrass him into silence for a while.

  She picked up the first piece, the one for the left. She took a deep breath, pulled her lower left eyelid out between finger and thumb and pressed the glass between eye and lid. She blinked furiously and had to stop. She had known, intellectually, that placing a foreign object in her own eye was going to be difficult. She had intended to practice, but the drink had made her forget.

  Her eye was watering. She took another deep breath and held it. She willed herself to calm and slid the bottom into the lower part of her eye. She suppressed the panic and lifted her top lid. She found she had to move the lens even deeper to get it under the eyelid, but then she was able to move it back.

  “If you don’t hurry up I’ll break down the door.”

  “Your master would not like you to damage his vessel. I will be ready shortly.”

  The second lens was easier in some ways—at least she knew she could do it—but more difficult because her body’s natural resistance fought even harder. But she overcame it and the second lens was soon in place. Both eyes were leaking tears that crawled hesitantly down her face in the very low gravity. She let them be. Crying was a symptom of a weak female in men’s eyes.

  Maliha tidied and flushed the packaging down the toilet, while the pouches she put in her reticule. She adjusted the pallu hanging over her left shoulder, then pulled a fold over her head and eyes.

  She unlocked the door, forcing the bolt back so it made a solid sound. She did not want to surprise him; he had a gun.

  She paused in the open door.

  “I am ready.”

  viii

  If she had not known she was on a flying vessel—they had flown underneath it—Françoise would have sworn they were in a cave on the ground. It definitely was a cave: the vehicle had shot through a small hole and ended up in a stone-walled room with pipes running through it.

  As her eyes adjusted she could make out a sealed door to one side. It was hotter than hell in here. But she had no time to consider. Reggie was climbing out of the ship and he waved at her to follow.

  Her aching muscles and stiff joints did not want to obey, but she forced them to move. Reggie held out his hand to steady her; without thinking she took it and felt the knobbly skin she had seen on his back and neck beneath his glove. She snatched her hand away. He didn’t seem to mind and still offered his support.

  What would the goddess do? Françoise really needed his help, so she let him take her hand. She clambered down and stretched. Reggie headed off towards the door into the gloom. She followed. The pipes set into the wall radiated heat so intensely it felt as if it would sear her skin.

  Reggie turned a circular handle on the door several times until it swung open. A blast of freezing air poured through and the cave was instantly filled with mist, along with the sizzling sound of water landing on intensely hot metal.

  A calloused hand grabbed hers and pulled her through the door, which was slammed behind her. There was more light here, but it was so cold, like the deepest freezing winter in Dijon. She shivered and tried to look around.

  “Help,” said a weak voice beside her. She turned to see Reggie on his knees. He reached out to her. His face was as pitted and calloused as the rest of him. And his eyes were a dark and alien red. She gasped as he fell forwards.

  Françoise could feel her damp clothing freezing. It cracked as she moved. She hesitated. It was unnaturally cold in here and it would probably kill her if she stayed put. Reggie had already succumbed; he might be dead.

  She grabbed Reggie by the back of his jacket, which was slippery with ice, and pulled. Getting him moving was hard; the cold was draining the strength from her, but gravity here was like it had been on the Voidship.

  Ahead was a passage. She to
ok it, moving as fast as she could. It led up a short slope into another room of pipes, but in this one her frozen breath joined the crunching frost on the floor and the icicles hanging from every surface.

  Another door. Breathing had become painful and the cold dryness tore at her throat.

  She dropped Reggie, then, using her sleeves to protect her skin, she turned the slippery handle. It took a while to get the door fully unlocked, but she managed and pushed it open. Another cloud of mist went up as the freezing air met the warmer air beyond the door. She pulled Reggie through and pushed the door shut. She gave the lock a few turns for good measure as she shivered in the warmth.

  It was another corridor. She left Reggie’s body where it was and sat against the opposite wall. She felt the warmth seep through her clothes and into her skin. She swore she would never complain about the heat of Venus ever again.

  As she recovered she looked around. There was a sign on the door in English: ‘Heat Exchange’. She shook her head. What had possessed Reggie to land here? More importantly, perhaps, how had he even known about it?

  She looked at the prone body. Previously Reggie had been rigid, frozen in the position that he had originally fallen. Now his joints were relaxing and he collapsed to the floor. She had seen someone revive a frog that had been put in ice. Perhaps Reggie was like a frog. There were definite similarities: He was very ugly.

  And not human. Another secret.

  Maliha had talked about the human population being much bigger than was expected, though Françoise was not sure how she knew that. But here was a frog man. A real Venusian. From what Françoise had gathered from people talking here and there back on Earth, there was no intelligent life on Venus, just creatures that resembled primeval man.

  But Reggie was living in the city and Maliha’s disreputable travel agent knew all about him. Used him. Paid him.

  Françoise shook her head; it did not bear thinking about. She hoped Reggie really was like the frozen frog so he could fly her off this floating rock.

  She had warmed through, though she felt as if she might have caught a chill. She laughed inwardly at the mere idea of catching a cold on Venus. She stood and moved along the passageway. Maliha had given her a specific task: to gather any intelligence she could from the offices of Timmons while Maliha was distracting him.