Space: 1889 & Beyond—Journey to the Heart of Luna

By Andy Frankham-Allen

Copyright 2011 by Andy Frankham-Allen

Space: 1889 © & ™ Frank Chadwick 1988, 2011

Cover & Logo Design © Steve Upham and Untreed Reads Publishing, 2011

Cover Art © David Burson and Untreed Reads Publishing, 2011

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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Other Titles in the Space: 1889 & Beyond Series

Vandals on Venus

The Ghosts of Mercury

Abattoir in the Aether

A Prince of Mars

Dark Side of Luna

JOURNEY TO THE HEART OF LUNA

By Andy Frankham-Allen

For John Ainsworth, in thanks for introducing me to Space: 1889 in the first place.

And in memory of Elisabeth Sladen, who unintentionally set me on the path to Space: 1889. 1st Feb 1946–19th April 2011

“Goodbye, my Sarah Jane.”

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: The Scientist Travels

Chapter Two: Journey to the Moon

Chapter Three: Arrival on the Moon

Chapter Four: Short of Breath

Chapter Five: Down Among the Insects

Chapter Six: Ambush in the Tunnels

Chapter Seven: An Audience with Q’theletockus

Chapter Eight: Into the Russian Camp

Chapter Nine: Insect Insurrection

Chapter Ten: The Heart of Luna

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Prologue

1.

IT WAS impossible! Aether flyers were not, by definition, designed for a crew of one, a fact that Annabelle Somerset felt with ever increasing dismay as she raced from the control to the navigation station. Just getting the Annabelle (yes, God bless her uncle, he had named the flyer after her) out of the gorge had been hard work. Starting up the boiler single-handedly, then rushing the length of the flyer to the control room to check the instruments to make sure the water was creating enough steam, then back to the engine room at the rear of the flyer to set out the rocket engines her uncle had designed especially to combat the awkward gravity of Luna.

She cursed Tereshkov once more, and squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment.

I have to do this, she continued to tell herself. She had survived much worse. Annabelle almost laughed at that. Living for two years amongst Geronimo’s band of Chiricahua Apaches had tested her when she had been a mere slip of a girl. She had survived that, and she was certain she would survive this. That she had no choice was beyond question; there was no other left who could get the message to Earth. Uncle Cyrus’ life was in the balance and she could not allow herself even a moment of weakness in her endeavour. She had let her parents down, and she refused to let history repeat itself with her uncle.

She was not a little girl anymore, and the Russians be damned!

Instruments were laid out before her on the navigation station; some of standard design like the orrery, a mechanical analogue of the Solar System, and an astrolabe, which allowed precise measurements of the planets’ positions; others were of her uncle’s making, and these she did not even know the names of. They were recent creations of his, and her decision to join the expedition had transpired late in the day, ill affording her the time to study these new inventions. Annabelle was no expert at reading the standard instruments, but she understood enough from having watched Blakely at the station to ascertain the current position of the Annabelle. The flyer was barely a kilometre from attaining a low lunar orbit.

She scrambled across to the control station once more, almost colliding with the bulkhead as the flyer shook around her. The damage sustained to the aether propeller by the Russians was too much. When she had first set her eyes on the propeller she had been certain she would never be able to navigate the flyer, despite the relatively unscathed nature of the aether propeller governor. She was fortunate the Russians did not recognise the governor for what it was, or they most certainly would have found a way to remove it from the Annabelle, and if not the whole apparatus then certainly they would have taken the diamond that served as the aether lens. Without it the governor would have been less than useless.

She gripped the aether wheel, a small ratchet-operated wheel that controlled the aether propeller at the rear of the ship, and turned it slightly. Annabelle looked out of the window and was elated to see the distant shape of the Earth, and before it, barely a speck in the depth of space, Her Majesty’s Orbital Heliograph Station Harbinger.

When she had first happened upon this plan with K’chuk she had hoped to be able to pilot the flyer to Earth; it was a difficult task, one fraught with many dangers, but the odds were not insurmountable. Upon seeing the damage rendered by the Russian okhrana, Annabelle knew she would have to adapt her plan. Obtaining a lunar orbit was the best she could hope for, but it would be enough to put the Annabelle in a position relative to the Harbinger. It was operated by the British Empire, and that served her purposes perfectly, as the help she required was located in England and not her native America.

She turned to the heliograph apparatus and was just about to start tapping in her coded message when her eyes espied a most terrible image through the port window. Annabelle’s finger paused over the key, and her eyes stared wide. Its iron clad surface reflected the light from the Sun, rising from Luna like the Great Beast of Hell.

“No,” Annabelle hissed. “This cannot be the end.”

So, she determined, it would not be. The Russian flyer was closing in, its gun ports no doubt opening as she looked, her mind trying to catch up with the increasing beat of her heart. Uncle Cyrus’ flyer was not a warship; he was an inventor, and his flyer echoed that. It was designed for exploration, not for battle. Any armaments it did have were minimal, and even if Annabelle were able to get to them in time, she doubted greatly their effectiveness against a fully armed Russian ironclad.

Annabelle turned away from the approaching flyer and focussed her attention on the heliograph before her. She began typing out her message, praying that the orbiting station would pick it up and relay the message with haste.

2.

THE ADMIRALTY; it was always good to be back at the Ripley Building, Captain Folkard mused to himself. This was the first time he had been called there as a captain, and so the occasion was even more prestigious than usual. He had not been in Whitehall for several years.

Folkard had since been given his new command, the first in a new class of aether battleship, and with his command came a promotion to captain. Serving as commander of a frigate was one thing, and it certainly gave him much experience of the aether, but they were living in dangerous times and as such his request for battleship command had finally been granted.

Folkard knew he was thought of highly in the upper levels of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, but he did try not to entertain the scuttlebutt of the ratings, which almost always happened to filter its way up through to the officers’ mess. Thus, when rumour had reached him that he was being considered for command of Her Majesty’s Aerial Ship the Sovereign he chose to ignore it; a singularly difficult task considering the topic.

He had yet to see his new ship, although he had spent the last week going over the blueprints, familiarising himself with design and layout. It would not do for a captain to ask directions on his first day. He had been hoping to visit his ship today, see George Bedford once again, and begin the shakedown cruise. He was en route by train to Kent for that very purpose when he had got intercepted, and speedily transported back to London on the Intrepid. Clearly the mission the Admiralty had for him was of paramount importance.

Folkard looked down at the respirator mask and goggles that sat in his lap. The downside of being in London, of course, was the amount of gas and debris in the air. Breathing fresh air in the City of London was a thing of the past, and it seemed that the darkness of night only served to exasperate the problem. Still, he would be in the aether soon, and would be breathing air freshly oxygenated by the plants in the greenhouse of the Sovereign.

He looked up from his lap as the door next to the chair on which he sat opened. Folkard immediately stood to attention and saluted. He had expected to be greeted by an aide, not by Lord Chillingham himself. Chillingham looked Folkard up and down and let out an hmm. Folkard was not sure if it was an hmm of approval or an hmm of distaste. Lord Chillingham’s eyes gave nothing away, as they were wont to do. Things must be pretty rum if the Lord Minister Overseas feels the need to attend the briefing, Folkard mused, holding his salute.

“As you were, Captain Folkard. Please enter.”

“Yes, sir,” Folkard said, and walked passed Lord Chillingham and entered the board room of the Lord Commissioners of the Admiralty.

Chapter One

The Scientist Travels

1.

EXCERPT 1.

“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press)

Friday April 12th, 1889.

I think my time at the Her Majesty’s Naval and Aeronautical Construction Yards is coming to an end. William has been a great host, very understanding of my quirks (quirks! The eternal damnation of a young genius!), and it has been exhilarating to be a part of his design team, incorporating my own design into the construction of the latest class of Naval battleship – the first proper aether flyer design based on the battleships put out to sea. Mankind has only been in space for less than three decades, barely a scratch of time when compared to the length of our infestation of the waters of Earth. I fear we shall disturb things sleeping in the vastness of space in the same way we have disturbed the sleeping creatures of the deep. Yet the will of mankind is indomitable; it is a fire that will not be doused, no matter what the elements throw at it.

For my own part I cannot but help myself in improving the initial designs Doctor Grant and I developed; that it brings mankind a more efficient way of traversing the solar sky cannot be helped. I did not ask to be born with this intellect, and I would be remiss in my duty to the British Empire if I were to attempt to hide it beneath a rock. So I do not. I invent, I design, I explore…It is what God made me to do.

Yes, God. The Almighty. My father would no doubt be amused to see me write such words, although he ought not to be as it was he who instilled in me this belief in a Divine Creator. Perhaps this is why I am happy to help William in his construction of more powerful aether flyers; my father, the Honourable Reverend Ronald Stone of Putney Parish Church, believes God is out there. Perhaps one day, if mankind continues to stretch out through the aether, we will find him.

When we do, I hope I am there. For I would like to ask him this: Why, O Lord, did you make me wrong? My dean at Mortarhouse College could never answer such a question, and he was a very learned man. Only the Almighty can answer me now.

Alas it seems any more deep mental meanderings of mine will have to be saved for another day since there is an insistent knock at my door. William said he wished me to dine with him tonight, so this must be it. He has never asked for me to dine with him before, and this is the root of my belief that I am soon to depart the Naval Construction Yards. I will be sorry to go, however it will also be nice to be back home. The last five months here have been wonderful, full of…

No, I must stop, before whoever is knocking at my door bursts forth. Confound it! I do so hate having my ruminations disturbed. I hope I do not make bad company for William, but the incessant pounding on the door has now unsettled my mood.

I shall return.

2.

“IF YOU want things to happen in this world, Professor, you have to make them happen. Did I ever tell you how, at the age of only fourteen years, I managed to get my apprenticeship at the Royal Plymouth Dockyard?”

Nathanial shook his head and smiled indulgently. Certainly William Henry White, Director of Naval Construction and Assistant Controller of Her Majesty’s Navy, had indeed told Nathanial of his ingenious method of meeting the height requirements for the entrance examination. Nathanial was happy to hear the story once more. William liked to tell his stories; he had collected so many of them in his forty-three years. For his own part Nathanial had very few such entertaining stories. His short career thus far paled greatly when compared to that of his illustrious benefactor. He listened intently as William told him of how he increased his height by folding pages of blotting paper into his shoes.

“Of course they soon discovered my deceit, but they applauded my initiative and I was put to work at the dockyard, for the princely sum of three shillings a week, and assisted work on converting HMS St. George to steam. Which rather brings me back to my point, Nathanial. My current position is only so because I have made it happen. And so must you.”

As always Nathanial deeply appreciated William’s counsel, but he found himself in the position of wondering as to the source of this new piece of advice.

They sat in the drawing room of Commissioner’s House, while the servants prepared the meal in the kitchens; William’s wife was away visiting relatives, so it was just the two of them. Nathanial had spent much time in the House since he’d been summoned to Chatham Dockyard just five months ago, and it was most unusual to not have Mrs. White fussing him. Nonetheless, while she was away it afforded him the opportunity to speak frankly with William.

“As always I appreciate the hospitality you have shown me, but I fail to understand the source of such advice. I am here, am I not? Would I be here if I had not always sought to take hold of every opportunity afforded me?”

For a moment William regarded him, the let out a bellow of a laugh. “Well put, Professor, well put indeed.” He took a sip of his port. “I hope you bear that in mind when you receive the telegram I have to give you. It arrived this morning from the Admiralty, which I’m certain you will agree, means it cannot be rebuffed.”

“Orders from the Admiralty? But, William, I am not a part of Her Majesty’s Navy and therefore not under the command of the Admiralty.”

“Be that as it may, Nathanial, you are on secondment to the Director of Naval Construction, and your assistance is required.” William held his hand aloft to keep at bay any more objections. “Pray, read this and then we shall discuss your agreement.”

Nathanial removed himself from his chair and walked the length of the room, taking the slip of paper from William. He did not like the emphasis William had put on “discuss.” He deeply appreciated William’s faith in him, and the opportunity he had been given to advance the efficiency of the aether propeller, but if William thought that meant Nathanial was now subject to the orders of a faceless board of commissioners then William was gravely mistaken.

3.

THE THREE and a half hour journey from Chatham to Dover was spent in more luxury than Nathanial was used to. He sat in a First Class carriage, surrounded by three gentlemen and their wives, all very agreeable souls quite willing to discuss a plethora of interesting topics. But Nathanial found himself tiring of their conversation quickly; there was only so much he could stand about how bad things were getting on Mars before he turned to Lloyd’s News.

He had been quite busy at the yard over the previous week and consequently he had been afforded little opportunity to indulge in the stories told within the pages of Lloyd’s News, and so he read the paper cover to cover, despite being asked constantly for his opinion on such things as the appointment of Sir Henry Routledge as the new governor of the British colony on Mars or the tentative alliance the British Empire had with Austria. Politics held no interest for Nathanial, and so with every question he sank deeper into his newspaper, and even deeper into his thoughts.

He stepped off the train at Dover into the bright morning light. Certainly Nathanial believed in starting the day early, but six o’clock was just on the wrong side of early for him. Now it was some time past ten o’clock, and the sun was blistering in the clear blue sky. A gig was waiting for him. The driver, no doubt hired by William himself, took Nathanial’s cases and placed them in a small compartment at the rear of the gig and then joined Nathanial inside the little carriage. Nathanial was offered a small blanket, with which he covered his legs, before the driver took the reins. As the horse pulled the gig, Nathanial returned to his thoughts.

“Here we are, then, sir,” said the driver at length, some time later, “the Dover Cliff Embarkation Platform.”

Nathanial shook himself out of his thoughts and looked to where the driver was pointing. It was quite a sight. Despite his work on aether flyers, he had never been very close to one. He was more suited to land travel; he did not care to remove his feet from solid ground. He had seen many lift off from the yard, of course, but to him that always seemed a little sterile, like seeing a mouse in a laboratory, but this…This was seeing a flyer in its natural habitat.

Most of the flyers Nathanial had witnessed in construction had been Navy craft designed for the aether, but the one lowering towards the embarkation platform was of Zeppelin origin designed for atmospheric flight only. It was a familiar design, being the most widespread; a large dirigible filled with hydrogen beneath which hung the gondola, a sternly made unit held in place by a latticework of cables and wires.

The platform itself was immense in its size, built at the edge of the cliff, some 351 feet above the water, a scaffold of wood and steel. Nathanial was no swimmer, and the prospect of standing on the platform filled him with dread. But according to his orders he would meet his contact on the Zeus, the aerostatic flyer ahead of him, and so he had very little say in the matter.

The driver guided the gig through the crowds that had gathered to watch the flyer in action. People who could never hope to afford passage on such a ship, but nonetheless took some pleasure from watching the flyers come and go. Dover Cliff was a busy area, from what the gig driver said, always some flyer coming into land for the “toffs” to go off on their jaunts. Nathanial said nothing about this slight, and just hoped the driver didn’t consider him of the toffee-nosed persuasion. After all, he heralded from Putney, and there was nothing supercilious about that parish. Genius had its rewards once known, and he was benefiting from such now. He glanced back at the crowd, and was warmed by the simple pleasure they got from watching the Zeus come to rest by the platform. It was a timely reminder for Nathanial; he would never take the life he had fallen into for granted.

He alighted from the gig and retrieved his cases from the driver, who doffed his cap with a polite smile, and turned to the platform. Many gentlemen and ladies gathered on the platform, standing to one side so that the passengers were able to disembark first. Nathanial climbed the steps, taking them slowly, keenly aware that with every step terra firma was further away. He stopped at the end of platform, a mere three feet from the ground, and held back as the passengers, more of the gentry, emerged from the gondola of the flyer, chatting among themselves, nodding politely to their fellows whom they noticed waiting to board the Zeus. Nathanial fancied he saw two of the gentlemen who had shared his train carriage waiting, although now they had on their arms different women from those Nathanial remembered on the train. He smiled to himself. Clearly the wives of those gentlemen were not enough for all of the gentlemen’s pursuits.

Once the platform had cleared of all but two deckhands who stood by to untether the ship, Nathanial stepped forward. The wood beneath his feet creaked and he froze. He looked sideways and saw nothing but the Dover Strait, miles and miles of water. He closed his eyes and swallowed. He was a scientist, not an adventurer, a man who used his mind, happiest when entrenched in books and theories. Even when he had ventured to Arizona to assist Grant, Nathanial made a point of securing himself in his cabin and never venturing onto the deck for the entire voyage across the Atlantic Ocean. Steeling himself, he opened his eyes once more and his face immediately turned to a ruddy complexion.

A man stood at the entrance of the Zeus’ gondola. No, not just any man, but a captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. It would have been a remarkable coincidence if it proved to be any captain other than Jacob Folkard, the contact with whom Nathanial was scheduled to meet.

He was looking at Nathanial with utter disdain.

“If you would care to expedite your embarkation, Professor Stone, I am certain we would all be most grateful.”

Nathanial opened his mouth to reply, but found no words forming, so he closed his mouth again. He was honoured that Captain Folkard recognised him, although they had never previously met, but he also found it rather humiliating that the good captain’s first experience of him should be like this.

Bracing himself, Nathanial gripped the handles of his cases firmly and forced himself forward, holding his head up high in defiance of the disparagement on Captain Folkard’s face. The captain watched him closely, his expression never changing. Nathanial stopped by the entrance, and peered easily over Folkard’s head into the interior of the gondola. He looked back down at the captain, who was a good foot shorter than he, and cleared his throat.

“Permission to board, Captain Folkard?”

Folkard raised a dark eyebrow, and stepped aside. “Professor Stone, this is a commercial ship, not among Her Majesty’s Armada; I have no authority here. Or perhaps you thought this was the HMAS Sovereign?”

“Well, of course not,” Nathanial replied quickly. “A dirigible based flyer could never hope to attain orbit, let alone enter the aether. Captain Folkard, sir, I may well be a little…erm, deterred by the thought of falling into the English Channel, but I am no dullard. Please do not insult me…” He suddenly stopped, instantly regretting the words that had poured out of his mouth.

Folkard’s eyebrow, which had remained raised throughout Nathanial’s little diatribe, lowered slowly, and his lip edged up into a slight smile. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Professor Stone,” he said, and offered his hand.

Not sure how to reply, but knowing he been on the receiving end of some amusement, Nathanial placed one case beside him and took the captain’s hand in his, and for his troubles he received one of the firmest handshakes he had ever experienced. Even William did not clasp so hard.

“Shall we enter, Professor? Our mission is rather pressing.”

“Yes, of course, sir, if you would care to lead the way?”

Captain Folkard nodded and did so. Nathanial, glancing once more at the English Channel beneath his feet, stepped gingerly across the massive two inch gap between the platform and the flyer, and just hoped nothing would go wrong as the Zeus flew over the North Sea.

4.

CAPTAIN FOLKARD indicated that Nathanial take a seat by one of the portholes, and with a tip of his top hat, Nathanial did as suggested. The seating was plush, not unlike the rest of the interior of the gondola, and Nathanial made himself comfortable. The captain sat next to him, removing his own cap. Never having been inside the gondola of a dirigible, and certainly not one made for the gentry, Nathanial looked around, taking in every detail. It was not too dissimilar from the interior of the steam-powered omnibuses that frequented the streets of London, although it was clear that the general public would never be travelling in such luxury. The Zeus even had servants, proffering trays of drinks; port for the gentlemen and champagne for the ladies.

“Don’t be a cad, Bertie,” said a voice nearby. Nathanial found his attention taken up by a portly young man, sitting on the opposite side of the aisle and a few seats back. The fellow to whom he was talking, sitting in an aisle seat, was much thinner and looked around with embarrassment. He caught Nathanial’s eyes and smiled weakly. “Teaching is surely an admirable career to pursue,” the portly one continued, impolitely loud.

Bertie, who by Nathanial’s estimation could be no more than twenty-two years of age, looked at his companion, and said in a quieter tone; “That is as may be, but we live in trying times, and there are tales to tell. Allegory. It is the only way to…”

“Bertie, old chap, you are not one to draw the long bow. If you want fantastical tales, then all you need do is take a trip to Venus or Mercury. I hear tell that life there is quite fantastic.”

“If I had such funds, then I surely would.”

Nathanial smiled at Bertie, and looked away. Right now he would have gladly exchanged places with Bertie. Teaching sounded positively more appealing than where he was going. Thinking of which…

“Captain Folkard, if I may enquire, just where are we going, sir?”

The captain looked at Nathanial for a moment. “Are you telling me you were not informed?”

“If I were, then I would hardly need to ask,” Nathanial pointed out, once again feeling like he was being mocked by the captain.

“Quite so, Professor, quite so.”

Nathanial shook his head, and held up a hand. “Please, Captain Folkard, desist with the ‘professor’. I am merely a student of…”

“Here we are,” Folkard said, just as the gondola began to tremble. Sounds of distress and surprise filled the gondola.

Nathanial gripped the arms of his chair. “This is beyond the pale!”

“Do not fret, Professor, the vibration is merely a result of the altitude. Aerostatic ships are not designed for such altitudes.” The captain stood. “If you would care to follow me?”

“Follow you?” Nathanial shook his head fervently. The shuddering of the gondola was getting worse. The glass casings of the gas lamps rattled against their holdings. “Follow you where, sir?”

“This is the pinch of the game, Professor.” Folkard raised an eyebrow. “If you would care to look out of the porthole you will soon see our destination.”

Nathanial did as he was told. “Hallo!” said he in surprise.

Some distance away but drawing ever-closer was the HMAS Sovereign herself. And what a ship! He had, of course, seen the blueprints while working on the governor, and he had even toured the engine room while she was being constructed at the Chatham Slips, but this was really seeing her in all her majestic glory. From bow to stern she measured in at 420 feet, a mixture of wood and steel-plating. Gun turrets protruded half way along the length of her, while two chasers, powerful cannons, stood at the ready either end of the aether battleship. Seen from below, which was Nathanial’s current vantage point, the doubled-plated glass bottom protected the liftwood slats that kept the ship afloat in the cloudy blue sky above the North Sea. At the stern, hanging like some upside-down tower was the antenna, covered in 152 mirrors which served a two-fold purpose. For the first the mirrors, when in the aether, gathered in the heat of the sun’s rays which in turned boiled the water contained in the large vats at the heart of the engine room. For the second, the mirrors served to communicate the Morse-based heliograph messages sent to and from the ship.

Nathanial shook his head in awe. It was a tremendous sight to behold; never had there been an aether battleship so large, so powerful! Although still untested, with the successful application of the all-new governor, the Sovereign was designed to be the most manoeuvrable aether flyer ever built, not only in any type of gravity, but also in the luminiferous aether itself.

“Pray, we must make haste, Professor.”

Nathanial dragged his eyes away from the view outside, and looked up at Captain Folkard who was now removing a pair of goggles from a bag Nathanial had failed to notice before. He handed the goggles to Nathanial and rummaged once again inside the bag.

“You…” Nathanial swallowed, looking at the goggles in his hand. “You propose we board the Sovereign from an altitude of…”

“Twenty thousand feet,” Folkard supplied, removing a second pair of goggles and forcing his cap into the bag.

“Twenty thousand feet above the North Sea.” Just at the thought of such a thing Nathanial could feel the blood leaving his face. “Captain Folkard, I must protest, I am not a tightrope walker. I am…”

“Ready?” Folkard straightened up and lifted the bag from the floor. He smiled and walked towards the back of the gondola. The eyes of the passengers, those who were not mesmerized by the bulk of the Sovereign which all-but blocked out any sign of the sky now, followed Captain Folkard as he moved to the door. Two men, the same deckhands who had untethered the Zeus earlier, waited by the door, each tied by rope to protuberances from the bulkhead. Both men held the ends of the same thick rope that had kept the dirigible moored to the Dover Embarkation Platform.

Nathanial closed his mouth abruptly, suddenly aware that it had been open the whole time, like some gormless street urchin. Although every fibre of his being screamed against it, he carefully rose to his feet and began making his way to the rear of the gondola, where one of the men was now securing the thick rope around Captain Folkard’s waist.

Nathanial almost stumbled, but an arm shot out from one of the seats and steadied him. He looked down at the young man gratefully. “Thank you,” he said.

“You are most welcome,” the man, Bertie, replied, his eyes alight with excitement.

“Would you care to trade places, sir?” Nathanial asked wanly.

For a second Bertie clearly believed the veracity of the offer, but then he merely smiled. “I would if I could, sir, truly.”

Nathanial shrugged. “Lucky me, then.” He swallowed once again and joined Captain Folkard and the men at the door. “Is this really necessary?” he asked the captain, while rope was tied about his waist. “Surely the Sovereign could have met us at the Dover Cliff?”

“Even if the Cliff Embarkation Platform were big enough, Professor, it would have taken far too much time for my ship to lower itself so. Better that we met her en route, if you take my meaning.”

“Quite clearly.”

“Capital!” Folkard tugged at the rope now secured around Nathanial’s waist. “Splendid. If you gentlemen would be so kind?”

As one of the men set to unlocking the iron door, the other addressed the passengers of the Zeus. “Ladies and gentlemen, listen up and listen good. These two gents are about to embark on a most daring task,” he said in a manner that indicated he was missing his calling, Nathanial considered; the man would have been better in the heart of a Big Top. “Crossing from this tiny blimp to that enormous battleship which could squash us as easily as we crush a cockroach underfoot. Now, when I open these doors it’s going to get very windy, and bloody cold. Pardon me, ladies. So if I were you I’d see about holding tight to any valuables, and maybe think of the tale you can tell those that you’ll be meeting when we reach our destination.” The man smiled. “If we reach our destination, of course, lots of precise adjustments are needed to keep these two ships this close. Smallest mistake and…” He paused for effect. “Well, I am sure you understand.”

“You enjoyed that a little too much, I think,” Nathanial said.

The man winked at him. “Sure I did, guv’, adds a bit of colour to the toffs’ lives.”

Nathanial looked out at the scared faces of the passengers. Even the gentlemen, although trying to appear brave before the ladies, had much in the way of fear in their eyes. One man, however, was not afraid. Only laughter came from him.

Nathanial turned to Captain Folkard. “I still think that this is…”

“Exhilarating? Quite right, Professor.”

The man was off his chump! The iron door opened and a gust of wind, strong enough to force Nathanial back against the wall of the gondola, blew in. With effort he forced himself forward once more. The door men held firm, secured by their own ropes, while Captain Folkard stepped outside.

Nathanial edged closer to the open door, his hand grasping the handle ever-tightly, and watched as the captain walked the gangplank that stretched out from the Sovereign. He made it look so easy, and once he reached the broadside of the Sovereign two seamen, themselves tied together with rope, leaned forward of the gangway to secure their captain to them. The thick rope was untied, and it dropped. Nathanial looked down, but he didn’t see the rope as it was gathered up by the man just behind him. All he saw was the sheer drop beneath. There was a small gap between the edge of the gondola and the gangplank, but enough for Nathanial to get a good view of the North Sea thousands of feet below. Suddenly the Cliff Platform didn’t seem so high.

“Your turn, sir,” said a voice behind him. Nathanial glanced back and saw the gap-toothed face grinning at him. The man pointed towards the Sovereign, where Folkard and the seamen stood, secured with rope, standing safely behind the deck railing.

Nathanial closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. Instantly his lungs were on fire and he gasped.

“You probably don’t want to be taking deep breaths up here, sir, air’s a bit thin.”

Praying that the men behind him were stronger than they looked, Nathanial took a step forward, his hand still firmly on the handle of the iron door. His foot found the gangplank and, despite his better judgement, he brought his other foot beside it, at the same time releasing his grip on the handle. For a moment he stood there, swaying precariously, feeling the winds battering at him. His top hat flew off, and immediately his head felt cold. He looked around, and either side of him there was nothing but sky. Sky and a very long drop.

Some strange sound reached him, and it took him several moments to work out that it was a voice. The words made no sense, thrown about as they were by the wind, but he was, with some effort, able to make out their origin. Directly ahead of him Captain Folkard stood, one hand holding the railing, the other beckoning Nathanial forward.

Slowly, but determinedly, Nathanial began the long journey along the plank. With only a few feet to go, Nathanial stopped, his vision distracted by the Union Flag which was bolted to the hull of the Sovereign just below the plank. He was suddenly hit with the urge to sing the National Anthem, and even went so far as to salute the flag, when a hand gripped his arm and pulled him forward. He blinked, and found himself looking down at the windswept visage of Captain Folkard.

“Are you with us, Professor Stone?” he shouted.

Nathanial couldn’t find his voice; all he could do was nod.

“Good,” the captain said, and helped Nathanial on to the deck. Once both his feet were on the deck of the ship, more seamen move forward from the companionway and untied the thick rope from his waist. He paid it no mind; instead, holding onto the railing, he looked around him. The gun turrets, which looked so small when viewed through the window of the Zeus, were much larger close up. He could probably lay his body along the length of the guns and still have room for more of him.

He laughed.

“That’s the spirit, Professor,” Captain Folkard said, and turned to a seaman. “Get him inside, Leading Hand, I suspect it is more delirium than high spirits that have taken hold of him.”

“Yes, sir!”

The Hooky, as Nathanial believed the leading hand was colloquially known, gently guided Nathanial down the companionway to the door which led inside the great battleship. Distantly, behind him, he heard Captain Folkard issuing orders.

“Get these bitter ends tied together. The men on the Zeus are standing by with the professor’s luggage, not to mention my own bag. And be quick, I do not trust these winds.”

Nathanial stepped inside the Sovereign, and looked around. A corridor led aft and forward. A thick-set man in lieutenant’s uniform stood there, and saluted the captain as he entered behind Nathanial. Folkard returned the salute.

“It is agreeable to see you again, Lieutenant Bedford.”

“And you, sir.” Bedford addressed the leading seaman. “See that the door is secured once Professor Stone’s luggage is safely aboard.”

As Bedford gave his orders, Folkard stepped up to Nathanial, who remained by the door, looking out at the dirigible which seemed so small now. “How are you holding up, Professor?”

“I…” Nathanial shook his head. “Surprisingly well, Captain,” he said, turning to Folkard with a smile. Although his legs felt a little weak, all in all Nathanial felt quite exhilarated by the little adventure. “But I fear my hat will fair less well.”

“Quite so, your hat is by the board now.”

“It was a gift from Edwin, that’s my youngest brother, when I left London,” Nathanial said. He made a note that he would surely have to replace the hat before returning home. Edwin would be most displeased to learn his favoured brother had lost the gift he had taken so long to save up for. Nathanial gathered himself together, pleased by the look on Folkard’s face. The man seemed surprised. “Yes, Captain, I believe you misjudged my character.”

“Indeed, you are quite the bully trap, sir. I am willing to be proven wrong if it benefits the mission ahead.”

A compliment. “I thank you, Captain; I hope to remain a source of constant surprise to you.”

“Yes, I think you will.” That said, the captain looked away. “Lieutenant, would you please show our guest to his cabin?” he asked of his second-in-command, then looked back at Nathanial. “We shall dine after a banyan, and then we shall discuss the mission ahead.”

“Very good, Captain Folkard,” Nathanial said, wondering what was meant by a banyan. He supposed he would have plenty of time to learn all the naval terms, after all, even with the power of the Sovereign at Folkard’s command, it would still take the best part of the day before they reached Luna. Folkard offered Nathanial his hand, which he gladly accepted.

“Welcome aboard HMAS Sovereign, Professor Stone,” the captain said with a smile. Although there was humour behind it, for the first time since they had met it seemed the captain was no longer mocking him.

Perhaps they would grow to be friends after all, Nathanial considered, as Bedford approached to lead him to his appointed cabin.

Chapter Two

Journey to the Moon

1.

EXCERPT 2.

“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press.)

Saturday April 13th, 1889.

I never truly believed this day would come; certainly I never courted such an event. I suppose my work, and my presence here now, puts me alongside the pioneers who brought us into the aether in the first instance. It has barely been twenty years since Edison built that first aether flyer, and to think of all the advances in that time. I have grown up in a world where travel in the infinite vastness of space is a reality, and yet when I was born it was barely a dream, the forum of those of the creative bent.

Practical aether travel as we know it today all began with Professor Etienne Moreau, who in 1860 hypothesised that the aether, like the matter and energy throughout the universe, was not evenly distributed. If it was instead affected by its interaction with matter, it might be distributed in vortices, thin patches, and even compacted clumps. He also theorised that interaction of matter, energy and aether indicated that it was possible for each to be used to manipulate the other. Just as matter could be burned to release energy, and energy expanded to move matter, so could matter be used to grip or grasp the aether, and energy used to manipulate it.

Thomas Edison, an American inventor, fell into discussions with Moreau about his theories, and through these discussions it was Edison who devised a practical use for the luminiferous aether. Its nature suggested to Edison a device which could sail at speeds heretofore undreamed of. But this prototype hit a problem; it could not overcome the atmosphere. Edison communicated this problem to Moreau, and further tests with small models showed that the device would only operate properly at an altitude of 24,000 feet or higher. In 1868 Edison perfected his prototype and called it an aether propeller, a device that manipulated the aether by generating an electromagnetic field. He manned the first voyage himself, accompanied by the soldier of fortune, Jack Armstrong. Together they piloted their craft via hydrogen balloon high enough to enable the propeller to work, and from there they sailed the aether all the way to Mars. Unfortunately their landing on Mars was not smooth and their flyer was damaged, but fortunately the planet was inhabited. The two men spent over a year on Mars, learning the language of the natives, and were eventually provided with material to repair the flyer. They returned to Earth on August 7th 1870. Edison and Armstrong received fame and fortune, and within a year there was several dozen companies manufacturing Edison flyers, and flyers of several other nationalities were soon making frequent trips to Mars.

These are the facts, how the aether age came upon us. Since then mankind has spread out among the inner planets, but due to the mechanics of aether travel they have not been able to find a way to travel beyond the asteroid belt and thus explore the outer planets. After all, it is by garnering the heat of the sun that enables the water to boil and thus produce the steam that powers the aether propeller.

Despite my own intellect, I have never dreamed of visiting the planets; never has such a thing held sway in my imaginings. Even when I first heard from Grant at the beginning of last year I had no interest in aether travel, but the cantankerous old fool piqued my interest with his designs of a theoretical governor that could enable an aether propeller to navigate the airless surface of the moon. And, I suppose, it is true to say that I was a little enticed by the thought of becoming a peripheral part of the exploration of that, hitherto, uncharted world. I believe minor expeditions have visited Luna from time to time, but mostly the nations of Earth have sought out the more interesting “inner planets”. Except the Russians. I have heard talk of a missing Russian scientist…But I digress.

For almost eight months Grant and I worked together, perfecting his initial design, but still I had no desire to actually venture into the aether itself, although it was inevitable that I would do so. After all, how could I work on this governor and then not witness it in action?

Alas, as I have previously documented in this journal, that was not to be.

Any thoughts of leaving the Earth died when I returned to British soil. Even when I was enlisted by William the thought of aether travel and I did not return. I was simply content to help the engineers at the dockyard work on designing the first aether battleship, improving on the governor design.

And now here I am. In the aether. In less than five hours we shall be navigating the surface of Luna. Despite myself I cannot rest, even if Captain Folkard did insist I take a banyan, sleep is furthest from my mind. It is less to do with the anticipation of being in Luna’s orbit than it is to do with…aether travel.

I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a seasoned traveller. Terra firma is where I am most comfortable. I sit here on my cot, I believe it is called, in a cabin which I am sharing with several ratings. They are all hard at work throughout the ship now and I am alone. The Sovereign is a battleship and guest quarters do not exist. Clearly it amused Captain Folkard to billet me with the ratings, instead of allowing me the luxury of an officer’s cabin. But I must not complain; I suffered worse when I was child. As I sit here, writing this, I am reminded of my journey to and from America, locked away in my cabin, feeling the ship move around me as it sailed the ocean. It was a long journey, both ways, and I was intensely ill both times. Although the “aetheric ocean” is quite unlike the oceans of Earth, many people have drawn a comparison between travelling the two. For one thing there is much less listing as we journey through the aether; I cannot feel the ship move around me, except for the slight vibration beneath my feet. And, although I fear I am not a swimmer by any means, I think would fair much better in water than I would in the emptiness of space. For that is all that surrounds me. And yet I do not feel nauseous as I did when I travelled to America; there is no tightening of my stomach, no overwhelming desire to deposit my breakfast onto the wooden planks that make up the floor.

Perhaps I am finding my aether-legs in a way I was never able to find my sea-legs. If this is so, then maybe, just maybe, I am suited for aether travel after all.

2.

“WHAT DO you know of The Agreement Governing State Activities on Luna, Professor?” Captain Folkard asked, once they were all seated.

Nathanial noticed a dark look thrown at Folkard by Lieutenant Bedford. Nathanial was not entirely convinced that such a look of annoyance suited the strong features of Bedford’s face. The captain seemed not to notice, or if he did he chose to pay it no mind. Nathanial mentally shrugged, and replied. “This would be The Luna Treaty? I believe it prohibits any one nation claiming rights to Luna, and prevents the establishment of any colony or research facility on the planetoid.”

Folkard nodded. “Quite succinct, Professor. Over the past year we have become aware of an increased Russian interest in Luna, but the British Government, though concerned, have been unwilling to investigate. Luna has been of very little interest to the British Empire ever since Edison and Armstrong found their way to Mars.”

“And now things have changed?”

“Indeed. Perhaps you are aware of Vladimir Tereshkov?”

Nathanial looked from Folkard to Bedford. It was quite clear that Bedford was not happy with the way this conversation was going, but he knew better than to question his captain in front of a guest. Now Nathanial understood why Folkard had dismissed the cabin boys once they had finished laying the captain’s table. The information about to be parted was not for the scuttlebutt. Clearly Folkard thought Nathanial needed to be aware of it, although the young scientist could not think why, and it appeared that the first officer was of the same opinion as Nathanial. Bedford was now looking at Nathanial with his dark piercing eyes. Nathanial held his eyes steely; there was something of a predator about Bedford, Nathanial thought, and he intrinsically knew that to show weakness would be a mistake.

“I am familiar with the name, Captain,” he said, inwardly sighing in relief as Bedford looked away. “I believe I have heard talk of him. A Russian nastavnik of some repute, unless I am mistaken?”

“Of some repute indeed. It will, no doubt, be of little surprise for you to learn that we have spies close to the Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias.”

“No surprise at all,” Nathanial agreed with a soft smile, “to learn Her Majesty’s Government has spies anywhere, Captain Folkard. Be it in the Russian courts or, indeed, in Arizona,” he concluded pointedly. This provoked a smile from Folkard, but only increased the frown on Bedford’s countenance. “Which is, of course, how I came to be conscripted to work at the Construction Yard in Chatham in the first place. British spies are quite good at what they do.”

Folkard raised his glass. “A toast to British spies, may they continue to serve the Empire and be ‘quite good’,” he said, and sipped the port within. Both Nathanial and Bedford joined him in the toast, and once their glasses were back on the table, the captain resumed. “Tereshkov was working for the Russian government; in 1887 he was at the forefront of their research on precision modulation of the aether flow. I am no scientist myself, Professor, but I believe that you are familiar with such work? Similar to the experiments you helped Doctor Grant with, am I correct?”

Nathanial nodded. “You are well informed.”

“We need to be,” Bedford interjected, speaking for the first time since they had sat down to dine. “Forgive me, Captain Folkard, sir,” he continued, turning to his captain, “but I fail to see how all this will be relevant to Professor Stone’s role in our mission. His presence is merely to ensure that if we have any trouble with the propeller governor we have an expert on hand. The nature of our mission is of no concern of his.”

Folkard sat there, resting his knife on the edge of his lip, the gravy dripping from it. Forgotten. He did not even blink; he merely listened as his first officer spoke. Once Bedford paused for breath Folkard raised an eyebrow. “Are you quite finished, Mister Bedford?”

“No, sir, I…”

Folkard carefully placed his knife back on the table beside his plate and rose to his feet. “No, Lieutenant, you are finished. And dismissed. Please return to the bridge and relieve the coxswain.”

Nathanial swallowed, his eyes following Bedford as the gruff man stood. According to Bedford, when he had finally engaged Nathanial in conversation while escorting Nathanial to his cabin, the first officer had served with Folkard on the HMAS Raleigh. From that Nathanial had made the assumption that the two men were stout friends, but judging by the tension between them now Nathanial came to the conclusion that he was perhaps wrong. The way the two men faced each other, Bedford the younger yet taller of the two, reminded Nathanial of two boxers stepping into the ring. Presently, after what seemed the longest minute in history, Bedford nodded sharply and saluted Captain Folkard.

“Yes, sir!” He turned to Nathanial with a polite smile. “If you will excuse me, Professor?”

Nathanial watched Bedford leave the captain’s quarters, his eyes lingering on the closed door for a few moments after Bedford’s departure, a smile plaguing his lips. The scraping of the chair on the wooden deck alerted Nathanial to the fact that Folkard had resumed his place at the table. Nathanial’s smile quickly faded, and he looked back at the captain.

“I do not wish to cause conflict on your ship, Captain, so please do not feel obligated to…”

“My dear Professor Stone, the HMAS Sovereign is my ship and this is my mission. Who I choose to take into my confidence, although possibly against regulations, is my choice and mine alone. If I deem the particulars of this mission to be important enough to share with you, than I shall. Lieutenant Bedford has been on this ship since it launched, and I think he got used to me not being around.” Folkard chuckled. “But he will get used to my presence once more, as he always does. A shift as coxswain will remind him, and any wondering why my first officer is now playing the role of helmsman, that although I may seem to be of good humour I still run a tight ship. Now then, Professor, just where was I?”

3.

THE EARTH in a downward sky! Nathanial never thought he would see anything as amazing in its awesomeness as it was terrifying in its horror. He had witnessed the twinkling of the stars on many a dark night, their lights flickering through the misty atmosphere, but now, to see them with that veil removed…It verily took his breath away.

Seen through the porthole, the Earth was a blue globe surrounded by stars, and for a moment just the knowledge that his beloved home was beneath him filled Nathanial with vertigo. He reached out to steady himself against the bulkhead.

A point of reference to balance himself was needed, just one thing to focus on; blank out the vastness that surrounded him. From this distance, it wasn’t much more than a blip, but it was enough, and Nathanial was almost certain he knew what that slowly moving object was.

The aether equivalent of a tugboat, a single-purpose flyer built to pull large objects through the aether. In this case, unless Nathanial was very much mistaken, this tugboat was pulling a small section of the new heliograph station away from the orbital construction yard and out towards the mid-way point between Earth and Mars where the station was being built. It was another thing Nathanial was not supposed to be aware of, but working alongside William White threw such secrets out of the way. It seemed, for reasons Nathanial had never been able to understand, people always chose to take him into their confidence. He must have a pleasant, open face.

Captain Folkard was the latest. As Nathanial stood there, his mind going over what Folkard had told him, waiting for his tour guide (whom he hoped would be Lieutenant Bedford; more constructive discipline from Folkard), Nathanial wished he was still none the wiser. The mission ahead sounded dangerous, and despite Folkard’s asseveration that Nathanial was up to the task, Nathanial himself was full of doubt. He was not an adventurer, he was a scientist. He agreed to come on this mission so he could see his design work as a practical part of this great ship, and, of course, he wanted to know what had happened to Annabelle first hand, not be stuck on Earth awaiting a telegram from the Admiralty.

Ever since he had known her, Annabelle Somerset was getting herself into some sort of trouble. It always seemed to Nathanial that she actively sought such things, so to learn of the potential danger she was in now came as no surprise to him.

Once Bedford had departed the room Folkard explained to Nathanial the particulars about nastavnik Vladimir Tereshkov, and just how his work on precision modulation pertained to the mission ahead.

Late in 1887 Tereshkov and a team of Russian scientists piloted a flyer to Luna, now equipped with Tereshkov’s prototype governing device, a precursor to the propeller governor design that now sat in the engine room of the Sovereign. The tests must have been successful since Tereshkov and his team returned to Luna several times over the following year; these frequent visits started to attract the attention of the major powers, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, the Confederate States of America, the Democratic and Social Republic of France, and Germany. None of these powers made any great moves to find out what Tereshkov was up to; as far as they were concerned if Russia was really that interested in the lifeless ball in Earth’s orbit, then it left the more important territories open for them. So their attentions soon returned to the inner planets.

However, despite this, certain people in the British government continued to observe, secreted on the Harbinger, and concern grew towards the end of 1888 when the Russians failed to return from Luna. This was when Nathanial found himself brought to Chatham.

Nathanial already knew that the original governor design was a success, as he had received a missive from Annabelle to that effect, telling him of her uncle’s first successful journey to Luna in September. Since then, though, it seemed that Grant had returned to Luna, this time with his niece. The British government was now concerned that Grant had teamed up with Tereshkov, helping the Russians in whatever was keeping them on Luna.

Just over a week ago Annabelle herself had sent a heliograph message from Luna, but that message was incomplete, the only words that were picked up by the Harbinger had been “insane…scientist found…Doctor Grant…Russians holding…enslaved natives…threat to Earth”. Certain voices in the House of Lords expressed a theory that perhaps Doctor Grant’s niece had discovered a secret plot between her uncle and Tereshkov. The biggest supporter of that notion was Lord Chillingham, but the Admiralty remained unconvinced.

The HMAS Sovereign was thusly rushed off the assembly line, the new aether propeller governor still untested. She had a shakedown cruise for a week, taking her out into the aether, while Folkard was briefed on the full scope of the mission, but still he was worried. She was a new ship, theoretically the most powerful and capable flyer in Her Majesty’s Navy, but they had no idea what awaited them on Luna.

When Nathanial questioned why he was being told this, since he leaned towards Bedford’s own opinion on the sharing of this information, Folkard had told him; “Because, Professor, you are coming to Luna with me. You know both Miss Somerset and Doctor Grant, and I’m gambling that your connection to them might persuade them against any further involvement with the Russians.”

So ended the meal in the captain’s quarters. He piped a command to have someone sent to take Nathanial on a tour and had left the young scientist to his own devices. Feeling a little awkward remaining alone in Folkard’s cabin, Nathanial had waited out in the gangway, his eyes drawn to the view afforded him by the porthole directly outside the cabin.

As Folkard left him, Nathanial pondered what concerned him the most. It was not the performance of the battleship, or the danger that they would probably find on Luna. Grant was a cantankerous old fool and could look after himself, although if Folkard was to be believed, then the doctor had got himself into more trouble than he probably even knew. Grant did not concern Nathanial, his niece did.

He had heard very little of Annabelle in recent months, save the odd telegram to report on her growing boredom at Ottawa University. Still he remembered with some bitterness the day Grant had decided to send his niece away, “to better yourself, and keep you away from the English scientist. Do not think I failed to notice how he has caught your eye!” Nathanial appreciated Doctor Grant’s protective nature, after all she was an orphan and he had taken it upon himself to look after her following her return from harrowing circumstances of which Nathanial was still none the wiser. Every family had their secrets, Nathanial supposed, including the Grant/Somerset family it would seem. That they did concerned him not, for he had not gone to Arizona to “catch” Annabelle’s eye. Besides which, at that point Annabelle was only eighteen years of age, and to suggest he was interested in such a young woman was an affront. Certainly Nathanial was not so old himself, and there was only six years between them, but even still…

It was that exchange which sealed the date of Nathanial’s own departure. With the removal of Annabelle, Grant was no longer tempered by her gentle nature and became increasingly “cranky”, as the Americans would say. In truth Nathanial was not sorry to leave Arizona. Cyrus Grant had a brilliant mind, that was beyond dispute, but his manners were found wanting and Nathanial could not countenance another week of forgiving the old man his foibles. He had been glad to leave, although disappointed that he would not be there to see the successful application of his work.

“Professor Stone?”

“It is not…” Nathanial drew his eyes away from the tug-boat, and looked at the owner of the voice, cast down to find it was not Lieutenant Bedford whom Captain Folkard had sent. He looked the young seaman up and down; he was barely a man, probably a landman still, with less than two years service in the Navy. Nathanial shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It does not matter. I take it you are to show me the ship, Landman…?”

“Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, sir. Landman has not been used for some time.”

Nathanial nodded. Clearly he needed to brush up on his Navy jargon. “Thank you for the correction,” he said with a smile.

Stevenson smiled back; a smile that simply bounced from his blue eyes. “A pleasure, Professor. Where would you care to start the tour, sir?”

The answer to that was simple. “The engine room, naturally,” he said, and followed the seaman aft. He might not have been able to witness the design perfected by Grant, but he could certainly see his own, bettered, design in action.

4.

THE ENGINE room was located at the stern of the Sovereign, on a lower level all by itself. Nathanial remembered the mirror antenna he’d seen when the great battleship had approached the aerostatic flyer almost half a day ago, and worked out that the engine room must have been situated directly above that.

He stopped at the doorway. He had seen the room while it was being constructed and the aether propeller installed, of course, but that had been in the slip at the dockyards. A sterile room of brass and steel. Now the engine room was alive with steam and noise. The pipes rattled under the pressure as steam was pumped through from the large solar boilers at the end of the room. There were two boilers on the lower level of the two-tier engine room; the biggest of the two was used to power the aether propeller, while the smaller (yet still twice the height of any man) one generated heat throughout the ship and powered the small dynamos that provided the charge for the electricity used on the Sovereign. Two large pipes ran past Nathanial, almost at head height, and through the walls either side of the doorway. Already, after barely standing there two seconds, he could feel sweat forming under his arms and on his back.

“This way, Professor, and I shall introduce you to the staff engineer.” Stevenson glanced up at Nathanial, a smile playing on his sweating face, and stepped politely past him. Nathanial watched him walk away for a moment, his eyes lingering on the wet patch forming on the back of the ordinary seaman’s uniform. He smiled. At least he was not the only one sweating.

Nathanial followed Stevenson, his eyes taking in every piece of equipment, every temperature gauge, every piston…everything! On the upper tier he espied the combustion boiler, which powered the air screws, the propellers that directed the ship when it was in an atmosphere. He could see the large propellers now, both retracted into their cradles, currently out of use in favour of the more impressive aether propeller.

“Chief, any more slush left?”

Nathanial was brought up short by a seaman who could have been no more than twenty-two years of age, thin with narrow features, hair as black as night now damp with sweat which was being held at bay by a neckerchief wrapped around his forehead. Clearly they played it less formally in the engine room.

“Terribly sorry,” Nathanial said.

The seaman laughed. “That’s okay, sir,” he said, his grey-blue eyes looking around, “just blame the steam. Takes a little while to get used to.”

It was true that the amount of steam venting from the solar boilers was a restriction on clear sight but Nathanial had allowed himself to be distracted by the mighty air screws and as a result failed to pay attention to where he was going. He stepped back, to allow the young seaman passage, and watched as an older man, greying hair now almost black from sweat poking out of his hat, uniform covered in damp patches, appeared from the steam which was thickest near the boilers. Stevenson was beside him, and now looked almost as dirty as the crew working the engine room.

“We’re all out, Fenn,” the older man said, addressing the seaman, “go to the galley and see if the chef has some more for us. Tell ’im I’ll settle up with ’im later.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Seaman Fenn said, offered a salute, and pushed past Nathanial with an almost-polite “’scuse me, sir”.

The older man chuckled to himself. “You’ll have to pardon the young ’un, Prof, it gets a bit ’ectic down ’ere.” The older man stepped forward and offered his greasy hand. Now directly before him, the man was at least a head shorter than Nathanial, which seemed to be positively tall for someone serving on the Sovereign. Nathanial was used to being the tallest, but somehow he expected Navy officers to be a bit taller. Not that six-foot was short by any means, but it was amazing the difference eleven inches made. Reluctantly, although he was careful to hide his disgust, Nathanial accepted the hand and shook it. “Senior Lieutenant Boswell.”

Nathanial nodded, and looked at Stevenson enquiringly, wondering why this man was introducing himself. For a moment Stevenson responded with a blank, puzzled look. “Oh! Sorry, Professor,” he said, once his reasoning cleared. Nathanial couldn’t really blame him, after all the heat in the engine room was stifling, and without even a single plant in sight it was clear that it was the least oxygenated area of the ship. The thin air did impede the swiftness of thought somewhat. Nathanial wondered how the men coped down here. “Senior Lieutenant Boswell is the staff engineer,” Stevenson continued, “he’s in charge of everything to do with engineering on the Sovereign.”

“Ah, I see, then a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Staff Engineer Boswell. I am Nathanial Stone, your servant, sir.”

“Yes, I know who you are, Prof.” Boswell wiped his sweaty grey moustache with the back of his sweaty hand, a rather self-defeating move Nathanial thought. “The pleasure’s all mine. S’pose you come to see your baby in action?”

“My…baby?”

Boswell nodded profusely. “The governor, Prof,” he said, as if explaining something to a small child.

Nathanial was not sure whether to be affronted or amused by the informality. So, as usual when faced with a situation beyond him, Nathanial merely nodded curtly. “Yes, in that case I am indeed here to see my ‘baby in action’.”

“That’s what I like to see, Prof, an academic who don’t mind getting his ’ands dirty. This way then.”

Boswell turned and with one step he was enveloped by steam. Nathanial idly wondered if perhaps Boswell had also served with Folkard before, they certainly seemed to be of the same humour. Although clearly Boswell’s personal background was quite different from that of the captain. He glanced at Stevenson, who was looking up at him oddly, no doubt concerned by the bemused look on Nathanial’s face. Stevenson was young, out to impress his betters, a goal Nathanial agreed with wholeheartedly. Boswell could do with a lesson from Stevenson, he thought, and removed all appearance of mirth from his face.

“Well, then,” he started, “quite. Come, Stevenson, let me show you my baby!”

They stepped into the mist of steam. Reflexively Nathanial took a deep breath, and found himself coughing as the hot cloud of water hit the back of his throat. Stevenson threw him an understanding look, but Boswell glanced back with a look that showed his disapproval. Clearly he expected better of the “prof”. Nathanial said nothing. After all, it was not like he was well acquainted with fully functioning engine rooms.

“How do your men cope down here, Staff Engineer?” Nathanial asked once he had stopped coughing. “I have been here but minutes and already I feel lightheaded from the lack of clean air.”

“Short shifts, Prof, that’s how. Only way, otherwise I’d ’ave engineers out cold all over the place. And, as you see, we keep the entrance clear, in the ’ope that we get some of that clean air you spoke of.”

Condensation created a wet film all over the steel plated surface of the boiler before Nathanial, and he felt an instinctive urge to reach out and place his hand on the steel surface. Barely an inch away he pulled back sharply with a gasp. He looked at his hand, already blistering from the sheer heat emanating from the water bubbling away within. Boswell was by his side in an instant.

“What in the name of all that’s holy were you thinking, man?” he snapped, then called over to one his engineers. “Get me a cloth, and dunk it in some cold water!” The engineer saluted and rushed out of the engine room. Boswell, still scowling, turned back to Nathanial, and grabbed his arm. “Let me get a closer look.” Nathanial wanted to protest at the rough handling, but the pain in his hand won out over his propriety. “You’re very lucky you didn’t touch the boiler, Prof,” Boswell said, his tone mellowing back to his previous humour, “otherwise it would’a been a trip to the sickbay for you.”

“Perhaps I ought to go regardless?” Nathanial asked, wincing as Boswell manipulated his hand, testing the extent of the damage. He watched his now red skin blanch with the pressure applied.

“Stuff and nonsense. Second degree burn at best, that is. You’ll be quite okay, Prof, as long as you keep the ’and covered for a week or so.”

“I see, so a degree in medicine is included in Naval engineering training, Chief?” Nathanial asked, subconsciously finding himself slipping into the familiarity that was so prevalent in the engine room.

“No, Prof. I’ve seen me fair share of accidents while working in the Navy, enough to know a second degree burn when I see one.” Boswell let go of the hand, and offered Nathanial a smile. “Superficial. Ah, ’ere comes the wonder of medical science.”

Nathanial looked up from his hand as the engineer returned with a wet cloth. Boswell thanked him for it, and wrapped it around Nathanial’s hand. Immediately the coldness created a feeling of contentment in Nathanial and the pain eased. As a quick-fix it would serve, but he still intended to visit the ship’s doctor at the earliest opportunity.

“Better?” Boswell asked.

“Much. I am in your debt.”

“Aye, lad,” Boswell said, giving Nathanial a hearty slap on the back, “and you will not be the last and that’s a fact. Whatever possessed you to touch the boiler? You’re a man of great intellect, or at least I’ve always imagined the designer of the governor to be so, surely you must be aware of the temperature the water boils at in there?”

Nathanial felt his skin flush under the looks of both Boswell and Stevenson. It was like being back in his father’s study when he had been a child and the twins had told on him for playing with his father’s new telephonic device. “I have always been a tactile man, Chief, as far back as I can remember. Touching things, taking them apart to see how they work.”

Boswell smiled broadly. “Just my kind of fellow!”

Nathanial found himself returning the smile. “And I doubt the thin air helped much.”

Boswell laughed. “You’ll fit in ’ere well enough, Prof, you see if you don’t.”

“Thank you, Chief. So, the governor…?”

Boswell nodded, no doubt impressed by Nathanial’s steel. “Follow me, then.”

Boswell led the way and Nathanial followed, with Stevenson taking up the rear. They passed through the small gap between the two boilers, the heat almost stinging their exposed skin. Even under the damp cloth, Nathanial’s hand throbbed, almost as if it were keeping in time with the gentle vibration of the floor. Nathanial knew, however, that in truth the vibration beneath his feet was a result of their vicinity to the electromagnetic field generated by the aether propeller. The unit which housed the propeller sat behind the boiler on the left; six feet in height and thirteen feet long, it was finished off with a wooden veneer that appeared to be buckling slightly under the intense heat coming from the boiler which was attached to it by a man-sized pipe of brass. The propeller, based on the original design first created by Thomas Edison in 1868, was the most advanced of its kind; a mechanical apparatus that generated an electromagnetic field outwards from the stern of the ship.

Nathanial approached the propeller unit, careful not to fall down the gaping hole in the floor. He glanced down, his eyes following the steel pipe that ran the length of the shaft. Now he knew exactly where he stood. Below him was the antenna, and that pipe channelled the heat generated from the multitude of mirrors that made up the antenna. He stepped around the opening of the shaft. There really should have been some kind of railing around the opening. The thinness of the air could cause someone to lose their balance easily enough, and it was a long way down to the bottom of the antenna shaft.

He walked the length of the propeller housing, feeling ever so nauseous as he did so. He presumed this was from the electromagnetic field. Attached to the far end of the unit was the propeller governor. Nathanial stopped there, and regarded his invention with pride. Outwardly it looked no different than the rest of the propeller unit, except for the excess of gauges and valves; instruments that allowed precise alterations to the effectiveness of the governor. Inside, however, was a very different thing. Although he could not actually see it, Nathanial only needed to close his eyes and he saw it clearly. An intricate lattice work of gears, pulleys, cogs and, at the heart of the governor, which was exposed to the aether itself, three flawed diamonds; serving as lenses by which the governor was powered. It was thing of genius, of beauty, and he had created it.

“My baby,” he whispered.

“Which we shall be putting into practice very soon, I should think,” Boswell said at his shoulder.

Nathanial glanced at him. “Is that so? We are approaching Luna?”

“Close, that’s for sure. Close enough for most ships to try and navigate the Earth’s orbital wake.”

Nathanial’s eyes lit up. “An aether vortex?”

“You know your stuff, Prof. Yes, an aether vortex. Venus and Earth’s wakes are about to merge.”

“Oh Lor’!” The excitement Nathanial had briefly experienced was now giving way to dread. He knew all about aether vortices.

As the planets orbit the sun their aether wakes, the slipstream of their movement around the sun, are pressed outwards. When the wakes of more than one planet overlap, violent aether vortices are produced; gravitational disturbances in space, quite capable of tearing apart aether flyers. Horror stories of the worst kind of vortex miscalculations had reached even Nathanial. There was no doubt in Nathanial’s mind that the Sovereign was manned by the best navigators Her Majesty’s Navy had to offer, highly trained men who knew how to avoid the lee of the planets, very capable of predicting the convergence of planetary turbulence, but they were on a direct approach for Luna, and the Earth’s orbital wake was unusually turbulent due to the interference of the moon. There really was very little way to avoid a vortex when the Earth’s wake was about to converge with that of another planet.

It was one of many things he had been mindful of when re-designing the aether propeller governor. On the one hand it was designed to carefully modulate the performance of the aether propeller when in Luna’s dense gravity, but it had also been designed to provide an efficient way to navigate through an aether vortex. It had, of course, yet to be tested in a practical way, and if Nathanial knew anything of Captain Folkard from their short time together, it was that he liked to test the mettle of his people. Nathanial doubted Folkard would treat his ship any different.

As if to prove his estimation right the pipe whistled a short distance away. Boswell grinned, turned, and walked away, leaving Stevenson looking up at Nathanial. The fear in his blue eyes was felt acutely by Nathanial.

“Sir, can the Sovereign withstand such a vortex?”

Nathanial had almost forgotten that Stevenson was only in his second year as a seaman. Certainly he had never served with Captain Folkard before. Nathanial placed a reassuring hand on the ordinary seaman’s shoulder, and winced as the cold cloth pressed against his skin. “It shall if my governor has anything to do with it, Stevenson,” he said, offering what he hoped was an affirming smile.

Stevenson swallowed, and gathered himself to attention. He saluted Nathanial. “Yes, sir!”

Boswell returned, an excited grin on his face. “This is it, Professor! Would you care to work the governor?”

Nathanial did not know what to say at first. Instead he stood there, looking at Boswell, thinking off all the lives on the ship. How could he be responsible for all of them! He was a scientist; he did not belong on a battleship. Being in the engine room, in the company of Boswell and Stevenson had disarmed him, made him lower his defences. He had almost forgotten who he was. What he was. He should be at home, wherever that was…it was most certainly not aboard a Navy ship venturing on a mission into unknown territory, navigating its way through an aether vortex that would almost…

“Professor?”

Nathanial was dragged out of his thoughts by a plaintive voice. He looked down at the imploring features of Ordinary Seaman Stevenson. So young, so innocent. A boy, really, hardly a man at all. Stevenson blinked, his eyelids seeming to move in slow motion.

“What is your name, Stevenson?” Nathanial found himself asking.

“Erasmus, sir,” Stevenson said, puzzled.

“Erasmus! A superb name! And you have a mother, a father?”

Still it was clear Stevenson had no idea why Nathanial was asking such things. “Yes, sir, and a baby sister, Emma, who I’ve yet to see. She’s only four months old,” he said.

The ship buckled, the first indication that it was entering the aether vortex.

“Professor,” Boswell snapped, “make a decision now, sir, or stand aside.”

Nathanial did not even look at Boswell, instead he staggered towards Stevenson and gripped the young man by his shoulders. The ship rocked again. Nathanial smiled. “I do this for you, Erasmus, so you will get to see your sister.” He released Stevenson and looked to Boswell. “What must I do, Chief?”

Boswell nodded, smiling himself despite the rocking of the ship. “Take your station, Professor, and follow my instructions to the letter.” Boswell’s smile faded, and, his face now grim and focused, turned back to steam behind him, to where Nathanial could just make out the seaman he had almost bumped into previously, standing with the pipe in his hand, ready to receive and relay orders from the bridge. “Seaman Fenn, inform the bridge we stand ready.”

Nathanial stumbled back to the governor. He looked at Stevenson, who was steadying himself by the side of the propeller unit. The two men smiled at each other and Nathanial focussed on Boswell who stood, almost shrouded, in the steam. For a brief second, as Fenn relayed the bridge orders to Boswell, Nathanial wondered again as to what he was doing. Taking responsibility for all the lives on the largest flyer in the fleet. No, he thought, shaking his head, he was a scientist and he had developed the most precise way of measuring and manipulating the aether since Edison had built his first prototype propeller. The governor would not fail, and neither would he.

5.

AS HE approached the closed door Nathanial felt his body shake. Shock, or the result of the adrenalin surging through his body from the excitement in the engine room. It had proved to be less dangerous than he expected; a simple stream of instructions passed between Fenn and Boswell and the boatswain on the bridge. Instructions that Nathanial found himself very capable of following.

The turbulence itself was almost nothing after all. The ship rocked, certainly, and Nathanial had successfully managed to bang his head against the bulkhead next to the governor, but otherwise, according to Boswell, little damage was done.

Once they had successfully navigated the vortex Nathanial was summoned to the bridge. Stevenson led the way once more; the young man seemed to have composed himself nicely, once they had emerged from the aether vortex. Glad, no doubt, at the thought that one day soon he would be able to see his family again. As he followed Stevenson, Nathanial could not help but smile at the thought that he had somehow played a role in restoring the young man’s confidence. He was also relieved to breathe oxygenated air once more. He brushed his fingers along the leaves of one particular plant which stood in the short corridor leading to the bridge.

He looked at his hand closely. It was filthy, covered in grime and sweat. He did not even wish to consider how he would appear to Captain Folkard; his clothes were still damp with sweat, his ginger hair stuck to his head in clumps, and his whiskers…Nathanial touched them. They had curled under the heat and steam of the engine room.

“I think the captain has probably seen worse sights, Professor,” Stevenson said.

“Ah, I am that transparent to you?”

Stevenson smiled at Nathanial. “No, sir, but I remember feeling much the same after my first visit to the engine room.”

For reasons Nathanial could not quite fathom, he found the support and camaraderie from Stevenson very comforting. They had reached the door, however, and so any further conversation was immediately curtailed. Stevenson rapped his knuckles on the door and waited. With a click, the door opened. Directly in line of sight stood Captain Folkard, hands behind his back, looking directly at Nathanial.

Beside him Stevenson snapped to attention. “Ordinary Seaman Stevenson reporting Professor Stone to the bridge as ordered, sir!”

Folkard nodded once. “Thank you, Ordinary Seaman. Dismissed,” he said, and added, “next time I see you I expect you be in a clean uniform.”

“Aye, sir!” Stevenson turned swiftly and marched away.

“Welcome to the bridge, Professor,” Captain Folkard said as he stepped towards Nathanial. “Please do enter.”

Nathanial did so. He expected a larger area than the one he was in. Visiting the bridge while the ship was being constructed was not something that had interested him, after all his concern was with what enabled the ship to sail the aether; the heart of the ship, as it were. The brains did not interest him. Until now.

A few men worked at their stations; a navigator sat at his desk, checking over the orrery and astrolabe, the helmsman, or coxswain as the Navy called them, stood at the wheel, a small ratchet-like device that controlled the precise changes in the electromagnetic field of the aether propeller through a system of ropes and pulleys routed throughout the infrastructure of the ship. Others went about their own business, of which Nathanial knew naught. Lieutenant Bedford was nowhere to be seen, Nathanial noted with a brief sensation close to disappointment; he was probably not needed on the bridge while the captain was in charge and was most likely enjoying a banyan of his own.

“I hear you acquitted yourself quite admirably with the propeller governor, Professor, despite your…ah…injuries,” Folkard said as Nathanial walked further onto the bridge. Nathanial glanced down at the now grotty cloth wrapped around his left hand. What a sight he must have appeared! “As I believe I said before, sir,” Folkard continued, “you are quite the bully trap. I suspect old Boswell took you for a coward?”

Nathanial grimaced. “I am not quite sure I would put it like that, Captain, but…” He stopped, seeing the slight lift of Folkard’s lip. Once again he was the source of Folkard’s amusement. “Yes, well, quite, Captain Folkard. I must say, from what I have seen of the Sovereign she is quite the…Oh my!”

Nathanial stopped just past the coxswain and looked at the sight outside the window. As a child he had little interest in stargazing, laying on his back on the wet grass of Putney Parish, looking up at the moon on a dark night. But now he was here, looking at the grey orb, so close and so big, he realised that in some ways he had always wanted to be here.

Luna.

“Quite an awe-inspiring view, would you not agree, Professor?”

Nathanial swallowed and licked his lips. He hadn’t realised just how parched being in the engine room had made him. “It is…spectacular, Captain. Spectacular,” he said once more, the word barely a breath of air.

He remained standing there for a few moments, while the crew busied themselves, bringing the Sovereign ever closer to Luna. He glanced up at the stars behind the moon, and wondered at the vastness of space beyond, and the mystery it must have contained. Secrets lost to the ages, things beyond the reach of current science. For the briefest of heartbeats Nathanial felt a deep desire to uncover those secrets, to discover just what was…out there!

“Very well, then, Professor.” Folkard look over at the bosun. “Mister Dinnick, see that the atmosphere suits are prepared.”

Nathanial slowly emerged from his dreaming as he became aware of a presence beside him. Standing there, now also looking out to Luna, was Captain Folkard. “Do you intend to stand there for the remaining hour, Professor?”

“I beg your pardon, Captain?”

“We have an hour until we attain a lower lunar orbit, then we shall find this ‘glow’ Doctor Grant’s research spoke of.”

Nathanial frowned. Annabelle had mentioned the glow before, in one of her letters, but he had not shared this information with anyone. “You do seem remarkably well-informed, Captain, if I may say so.”

Folkard smiled slightly. “British spies, Professor, remember. We learned a lot more about Grant’s research than just the work you and he did on the governor.”

At first Nathanial did not respond. After all, what more could he say? Instead he looked down at his clothing and grotty makeshift bandage. “I really must freshen up before we land.”

“Do not concern yourself too much; I anticipate that you will become a lot more haggard before this mission is complete.”

Chapter Three

Arrival on the Moon

1.

EXCERPT 3.

“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press.)

Saturday 13th April, 1889.

It has been over an hour since I left the bridge, and in that time I have visited the sickbay to get my wounds properly treated. It was a pleasant surprise to find the doctor there, one Robert Beverly, a formal man. Stout, resolute and very Welsh. His prognosis; remain chipper and the wound will heal in no time. It is refreshing to find such people on the Sovereign; I was beginning to fear that the ship was crewed by blackguards. Not that I have any disrespect for Staff Engineer Boswell and his crew in the engine room, but it does seem to be that perhaps Captain Folkard allows his crew a little too much informality. The British Empire is founded on strong character, strength of purpose, rules and propriety. Folkard insists he runs a tight ship, but I have so far seen little evidence of this. That is not to say that the crew of the Sovereign are incompetent; quite the opposite is true. But they could do with a stronger hand.

I have since returned to my cabin. Well, I call it my cabin, but of course I still share it with several ratings, one of whom I have discovered is Mister Stevenson – he was just finishing getting changed into a clean uniform when I arrived. Short he may be, probably no taller than five and a half feet, but he is well developed. He has gentle eyes, eyes that smiled at me as soon as I entered, despite his formal salute. As if I, an ersatz professor, deserve to be saluted by a member of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy! We barely had time to exchange pleasantries before other ratings arrived for their own rest-bit.

We stood there in an awkward silence for several moments while the ratings went about their business, before Stevenson placed his cap on his head and returned to duty. The newly arrived ratings barely spared me a glance, instead they quickly undressed, folding their uniforms neatly, and climbed into their cots. No doubt the Sovereign is soon to be a very active place, and the ratings knew to get their sleep while they could. For my own part I barely noticed them, moving about the cabin as quietly as I possibly could, changing into something a little more respectful, my mind taken up with thoughts of Stevenson.

I am keen to sit down and talk to that young man more. It is quite possible that I shall not be returning to Earth for some time, and it is agreeable to see that I may have found…made a friend aboard ship.

I am now, once again, sitting on the edge of my cot waiting. I do not know this ship enough to just walk around it unguided, besides which I suspect Captain Folkard would not appreciate his guest acting as if he owns the ship. And so I wait, and hope that when my guide arrives he does not awake my sleeping cabin mates. I should think that they would not be wholly appreciative of being so awaken.

2.

NATHANIAL DID not have to wait long. Stevenson returned presently, careful not to disturb his fellow ratings, and informed Nathanial that he was needed on the bridge. Nathanial’s curiosity was instantly piqued. Being asked to the bridge was one thing, but to be needed was quite another. He promptly left the cabin, and followed Stevenson through the ship. He entered a busy bridge, and noted with interest that this time Folkard did not dismiss Stevenson, who instead stood back and waited, standing at ease by the now closed door.

“Ah, Professor,” said Folkard, and motioned Nathanial over. “Would you care to identify the object below?”

For a brief moment Nathanial glanced at the steel grating beneath his feet, then realised the captain meant outside the ship. So he walked past the coxswain and joined Folkard. He peered out of the glass that formed the viewing port from which the helmsman was able to direct the path of the ship. He nodded at Bedford, who was standing next to the navigator’s console. He looked up and nodded in response, his expression grim.

Nathanial swallowed and felt his heart beat that bit faster. Clearly something serious was going on.

They were now within the non-atmosphere of Luna, and in his mind Nathanial could see his governor working away, delicately making adjustments to the aether propeller. A smile passed his lips; he would wager that even the design of Cyrus Grant was not as efficient as that which he had perfected. Guilt at that thought soon jumped to the forefront of his mind once his eyes saw the object to which Folkard had alluded.

A wreck of a flyer rested on the lunar surface, several yards from a crater that stretched on for miles. Abstractly, Nathanial’s mind calculated that the crater was at the very least four times the diameter of the Grand Canyon. The basin stretched across into shadow, the dark side of the moon facing away from Earth. Even though they were miles above the wreck, the flyer was big enough for Nathanial to immediately indentify it. The last time he had seen it was in Arizona, resting on the birthing scaffolding. It was the flyer of Doctor Cyrus Grant, designed especially for lunar navigation.

“Oh Lord,” he said, a whispered prayer. If only they had instruments that detected life signs. As advanced as their science was, still their medical knowledge was lacking, and instruments to measure heart rate from a distance was still many years away. “Captain,” he continued, not able to take his eyes off the wreckage, “that is the Annabelle, Doctor Grant’s flyer.”

“Yes, Professor, that’s what we feared.” There was a beat of silence, the background rattle of the ship the only sound that permeated the bridge. “Very well,” Folkard said, his voice now quiet with authority, “Lieutenant Bedford, assemble a team to investigate the Annabelle. I want Ordinary Seaman Stevenson on that team.”

“Yes, sir!” Bedford snapped to attention, saluted, and left the navigator’s station. “Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, you have had low-gravity training?”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“Capital! You’re with me,” Bedford said. He glanced over at Nathanial. “Do not fret, Professor Stone, if Miss Somerset is in the wreck we will do everything we can for her.”

Nathanial, the wind having been taken out of him by the sight of the flyer and the possibility of Annabelle’s demise, straightened up, his mind now set. “I appreciate the sentiment, Lieutenant, but if I may? I request permission to join your team.”

Bedford was about to reply, but Folkard stepped in. “Request denied, Professor. I’ll be in need of your help in the search for Doctor Grant.”

“But, Captain, I need…”

“No, Professor, while you’re a guest on my ship you will consider yourself under my command. Besides which, the gloves of the atmosphere suit would never fit your bandaged hand.”

Nathanial looked down at the offending hand. It was a flimsy excuse at best, and he wanted to argue the point, but the look in Folkard’s eyes brokered no alternative but obedience. Nathanial lowered his head and turned back to the view of the wrecked flyer below. “Yes, Captain.”

3.

“REMEMBER, THE oxygen tanks contain only enough air for an hour.”

Stevenson looked up from the oxygen tank on the floor before him. He held the pipe in his hand nervously. He had been trained to use an atmosphere suit, but had never been in a situation that required practical experience of one. He was but eighteen years of age, and the thought of being in an airless vacuum, with just a suit keeping him alive, did not fill him with much confidence.

Outwardly, of course, he did not show any sign of his doubts. He had been in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy for almost two years, and was looking forward to advancing beyond able seaman in a few years. His service record, so far, had been exemplary; he had heard his boatswain say so on many occasions, and he did not wish to discredit that reputation now by looking like a nervous school boy. His behaviour in the engine room earlier had been enough to shame him, and it would have done had there been another officer in attendance. Fortunately Boswell was not the kind of officer to report what he considered a minor moment of weakness.

“The pinch of the game, sir?” he said, lightly, as he hefted the oxygen tank onto his back. He almost staggered into the nearest bulkhead, the weight of the tank catching him off his guard. It was only the steady hand of Lieutenant Bedford that prevented him from damaging either the tank or bulkhead – or, perhaps, even both!

“Quite right, Ordinary Seaman,” Bedford said, no responding lightness in his tone. “Now, no more chatter.”

Stevenson attempted a clumsy salute, which went unremarked upon by Bedford. “Yes, sir.”

Bedford, who already had his tank attached, helped Stevenson fasten the straps that held the tank to him, then turned to assist the seaman who stood beside Stevenson. Even though Bedford walked as if the tank weighed nothing on his back, Stevenson was glad to see that the rest of the Luna party were having as much difficulty with the weight as he. Most of the team had more experience than Stevenson, although there was one lad, surely younger than he, for whom serving on the Sovereign was his first active role in the Navy. They had only been on the ship for two weeks, helping her to get ready for the shakedown cruise that was supposed to happen the following month…It was simply meant to be a routine trip through the aether, to ensure that all systems were operating before the captain took over, but the urgency of the current mission had negated that shakedown. Now, three weeks ahead of schedule, they were out in the aether, on an actual mission. Most performed their duties well, not allowing the unexpected change to affect them, but Stevenson had seen the lad, Stevenson was sure his name was Miller, here and there, looking more nervous as each day passed.

Stevenson offered the rating a reassuring smile, which only served to make Miller more nervous. Not that it was his place to question his superiors, but Stevenson did wonder why anyone would recommend this young man attend this mission.

“Helmets on,” Bedford ordered.

Stevenson could not be sure, and would not like to place a hand on the Bible and testify to the fact, but there did appear to be a slight trace of humour in Bedford’s voice then. As well there ought to be.

Their helmets sat between their legs. While the other ratings sought different ways to manoeuvre themselves into a position that would enable them to retrieve their helmets without being capsized by the weight of the tanks on their backs, Stevenson stood there and waited. He had always been taught by his father that the best way to learn was by seeing the mistakes others made, and not repeat them himself. Such mistakes were being displayed in the airlock around him. He glanced over at Lieutenant Bedford who had somehow retrieved his helmet already and was bolting it into place.

Stevenson watched him, studying his superior, wracking his brain for some clue as to how Bedford had achieved the patently impossible. Movement from the corner of his eye offered the solution he needed. Ensign Challoner was in a crouch, one hand resting on a handle that had been screwed into the bulkhead, balancing himself, while the other hand reached down for the helmet. Stevenson turned his head, and saw similar handles ranged along the deck behind the seamen still struggling to claim their helmets. Now he understood. Bedford had clearly known about the handles, since there was one behind him, too, as well as lined across the bulkhead opposite, but he had counted on the nervousness of actually going into a vacuum to disorientate his team. It was a test.

Stevenson had heard stories about Captain Folkard, how he liked to test new members of his crew to ensure they were worthy of serving with him, and it seemed that it was a trait Lieutenant Bedford had picked up.

Stevenson gripped the handle and lowered himself into a crouch. He would remember this about the first officer. Another thing his father had taught him; to be always mindful of others.

Once everyone had finally secured their helmets, with a little help and guidance from Challoner and Stevenson, an act Bedford watched closely, Bedford ordered them to insert and secure their airpipes. This they did, and with a final click Stevenson heard a hissing in his ear. The air from the oxygen tank had begun to fill his helmet. Once again he gripped the handle, steadying himself from the wave of dizziness that was a result of the sudden rush of oxygenated air. Once his head was clear again he looked over at Ensign Challoner, who was turning the big wheel which released the locks on the massive iron door.

The door opened and all Stevenson could see was the stars of the aether. He knew that forty feet below was the surface of Luna, but due to the angle of the Sovereign the lunar landscape could not be seen. For a second he imagined himself, floating helplessly away from the Sovereign, lost to the vastness of the aether. He had no fear of aether travel, of course, or he would never had sought a career in the Royal Navy, but the thought of suffocating, dying so painfully and so slowly, brought in him a primal fear from a deeper well he did not know he possessed. He shook it off and stepped forward, quite certain that Miller would not move first.

Challoner was lowering a boarding ladder out of the doorway. Stevenson was not entirely sure how they expected him to climb down the ladder in the atmosphere suit; it was cumbersome and heavy, the gloves making any delicate handling an impossibility. It was for that very reason the Royal Navy had re-designed the grips of the carbines to be more effectively used while wearing an atmosphere suit. The weapons in question were strapped over the shoulders of each seaman in the rescue party, while Ensign Challoner also had a derringer strapped to his right leg. For the lieutenant, though, he carried not only a carbine and derringer, but also a double-barrelled Lancaster pistol about his person. The scuttlebutt had it that Bedford never ever missed a target. As he put one leg over the edge of the doorframe, Stevenson wondered idly if this were true or not. Something told him that before this mission was over, he would know one way or another.

He realised something else as he shifted his weight onto the rope ladder; the low gravity of Luna made abseiling down the ladder in the atmosphere suit simplicity itself. He barely needed to place his booted foot on the rungs, just by alternatively placing one hand lower than the other he was able to gently direct his way down the forty feet between the Sovereign and the dusty surface of the moon, his lower body practically floating. He glanced up, and with the limited visibility provided by the lack-of-helmet movement, he could just about make out a similarly suited figure looking down at him. He was a good ten feet away and could not ascertain who it was that was watching him, but he suspected it to be Lieutenant Bedford, once again checking to see if the boatswain’s pride and joy was performing as well as anticipated.

Stevenson had no idea intention of sullying the bosun’s opinion of him.

Just then, his eyes not on the ladder, Stevenson’s left hand failed to grab the rope. It was as if his greatest fear had come to meet him.

This was it, he would float away, out of Luna’s gravity, running out of oxygen before an aether cutter could be dispatched to rescue him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to visualise his increasingly hectic heart. It was a technique his father had taught him; whenever fear grips you, close your eyes and imagine seeing your heart as it steadily returns to normal.

An image of his mother, dressed in her finest clothes, passed by his eyes. She was waving him goodbye. Almost two years had passed since that time, and he intended to make it back home to see her and Father, and his baby sister.

He hit something softly and opened his eyes.

Stevenson laughed, the loud noise echoing in his helmet.

He had not drifted off; merely fell to the lunar surface gently, the low gravity seeing to the gentleness of his descent. He stood up, and tilted his body towards the Sovereign, which hung above him like some leviathan of brass, steel and wood. The sight almost took his breath away. It was not often one got to see an aether flyer from below, and certainly not a great battleship like this one. Although from some angles she looked much like her water-bound cousin ships, from below there was no mistaking her impressive, space-worthy design. The glass bottom seemed to go on forever, protecting the hundreds of liftwood slats from meteor bombardment, or worse. The antenna, itself over thirty feet long, rested only a short distance above the surface.

He walked, well he thought of it as walking, but it was more like taking long strides with several feet between them, over to the ladder which still hung two feet above the dust. Stevenson waved at the figure still looking out of the doorway, indicating that he was okay. The next person emerged and began to descend.

As the party joined him, Stevenson took in his surroundings. The rocky and dusty ground was not, as he had always believed, grey, but rather a shallow shade of black. Nearby, about half a mile Stevenson guessed, was the lip of the crater they had seen previously from above. From his new vantage point it looked more like a kopje of dust, similar to the perimeter of a gravel quarry perhaps, and he suspected the crater was deceptively smaller when seen from the ship. Not that it mattered to him; he was not here to explore the crater, but rather to explore the wreck of the Annabelle.

There she rested, a shadow of her former herself. Even from this distance the damage looked extensive. Stevenson was no expert on aether flyer design, that was more Professor Stone’s field, but he would wager that the Annabelle was beyond salvaging. He glanced up at the Sovereign just in time to see the remainder of the ladder be pulled inside the ship and the door closed by the able seaman who manned the airlock.

His mind returned to the scene on the bridge earlier, when Captain Folkard had told Professor Stone that he was not to join the away team. Although he was careful to hide it, Stevenson had seen the pain in Stone’s eyes, the same eyes that had been so reassuring, so kind, since Stevenson had first been sent to escort him around the ship. He shook his head inside his helmet. For the sake of Nathanial Stone, Stevenson hoped that his friend was not in the wreck. If she were then he did not fancy her chances.

Stevenson turned back to the landing party, just as Bedford plugged the telephonic jack into his helmet. He reeled out the cables and handed the jacks out to the rescue team. Stevenson took his and plugged it in.

“Stevenson, are you with us?” Bedford came through loud and clear inside Stevenson’s helmet.

Stevenson affected the best salute he could manage in the atmosphere suit. “Yes, sir!”

“Good, then perhaps you would like to lead the way?”

“Sir!” Stevenson said and set off, removing the carbine rifle from his shoulder. He was pleased to see the slight smile on Bedford’s face, sweating away inside his own helmet. Following Stevenson’s example, the rest of the team presented arms. Stevenson had no problem with leading the team to the wreck, but he was not such a fool to ignore the rumours passed from space mariner to space mariner about the moon men.

4.

AS THE Sovereign edged closer to the basin, Nathanial returned to his “post” at the viewing glass at the front of the bridge. Behind him the crew worked, reporting to their captain, bringing the ship forward. No one even blinked at him as he returned; had his presence become so quickly expected? It seemed that Bedford and his team had disembarked the ship with little trouble, although Nathanial was certain he had seen the first member of the away party fall from the ladder. He had watched them disembark from a small porthole along a gangway just off the bridge. The view, even through a plate of glass no bigger than his face, was magnificent. He had to admit, although he had never had even the slightest bit of experience in an atmosphere suit, a big part of him was itching to be out there and explore a planetoid that had seen so few visitors. If it came down to a choice between Mars and Luna, Nathanial knew he would most certainly pick Luna. Mars was occupied aplenty, not only by various Earth colonies, but the natives covered the planet. Luna, however, was, discounting rumour, a lifeless rock. Largely unexplored.

He smiled to himself. Perhaps, deep down, there was an adventurer in him after all. Captain Folkard would be most pleased. He turned to look at the captain, who was busy giving orders to the bosun, who in turn was piping them down to the engine room. Why was it that he felt this desire to please the captain? Nathanial was not sure. He surely felt no such desire with his own father, and Folkard was much younger.

Folkard looked away from the bosun and noticed Nathanial looking at him. Giving a final order, he walked across the bridge and joined Nathanial once again.

“Tell me, Professor, how much do you know of Luna?”

“Very little, Captain. Mostly unexplored, although it has been visited over the years, chiefly by the Russians as we discussed previously. I believe the first man to visit Luna was Sir William Otterbein in an aether flyer designed by himself. He was assisted by an Italian called Luigi Piachetti, funded by industrialists in London, correct?”

“As you say. Although the particulars of such missions are not the purview of this mission, I took the liberty to obtain further information before meeting you at Dover. Sir William hoped to find cheap sources of iron on Luna, and although they discovered that Luna is prone to ‘moonquakes’ and that the surface, in particular that of the so-called ‘seas’, is very difficult to traverse on foot, he found on his return to Earth that the samples proved Luna to be barren of useful material. His backing was thusly removed.”

“But still others continued to visit the moon, despite this,” Nathanial pointed out, looking down at the captain, who he felt sure was leading this conversation somewhere.

Folkard nodded. “Yes, curious, would you not agree?”

“Very. I have heard rumours, of course, of a native life form.”

“Ah, yes, the moon men. An unsubstantiated rumour, spread by space mariners hoping to drum up interest from the wealthy who wish to fund trips to Luna. Treasures, a wealth of diamonds, the usual talk of a great bounty. None of which has ever been found, of course, you understand, Professor?”

Nathanial smiled. “People often prefer the romances to the truth, Captain Folkard, sir.”

“This they do, Professor, this they do. I assume you have heard of ‘the glow’?”

Once again Nathanial was reminded of the missives he had previously received from Annabelle. He closed his eyes briefly, an image of her twisted body lying in the wreckage filling his vision. His heart caught in his chest.

“Are you quite all right, Professor? You seem a trifle off colour.”

Nathanial took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “I will pass muster, Captain.”

Folkard narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. Then, abruptly, he reached up and gave Nathanial a hearty slap on the back. “Dash-fire, Professor, we will make a Navy man of you yet.”

Nathanial smiled grimly, forcing the image of Annabelle away. He would deal with that later, for now he had to focus. He was in the company of stout men, and he had to be one of them.

“So, Captain, this ‘glow’…Miss Somerset did mention it in one of her letters, but I suspect that Doctor Grant, no doubt chasing the dragon at the time, revealed such information to one of our government’s increasingly clever spies?”

At this Folkard laughed. Nathanial looked around the bridge, as heads were raised, some smiling, most in surprise. “That sums it up rather aptly. Indeed, indeed. I have read the documentation on the ‘glow’, and very little is known. It seems that if one is in the right position a faint glow can be seen from a very particular part of Luna’s far side. The glow is barely a pinprick when seen with the naked eye, but when seen through a telescope the glow would appear to be almost a mile across. To the best of our spies understanding the glow, greenish-white in colour, has never been scientifically explained.”

“And it is most likely that Doctor Grant returned here to examine it.” Nathanial considered this. It made perfectly good sense, after all in Annabelle’s letter detailing Grant’s initial trip to Luna, she did mention that they had seen the glow many miles away from where they had landed. Nathanial knew that Grant returned to Earth to gather to himself more resources and assistance.

“Our concern is that according to all reports, Vladimir Tereshkov was investigating the glow on his last visit to Luna. The one from which neither he, nor any other Russians, have been seen to return. This does rather add support to the concern that Doctor Grant and Tereshkov are working together.”

“On a threat to both the British Empire and America?” Nathanial shook his head. “I do not believe so, Captain.”

Folkard raised an eyebrow. “With all due respect, Professor, Grant is a scientist, and I have met many in my time, and it is often the case that they will do almost anything to prove their theories, to be the first to make the greatest discovery in human history.” He stopped and turned so he was facing Nathanial. “Are you telling me that Doctor Grant is different from every other scientist out there?”

Nathanial shook his head sadly. “I am telling you no such thing, Captain; I am merely saying that Doctor Grant would not risk his niece’s life on such a mission. The potential risk of working with nastavnik Tereshkov is too great. I have never been acquainted with that man, clearly, but I have heard he is quite insane. Doctor Grant’s concern for Miss Somerset supersedes all other concerns.”

Folkard was silent, then he nodded his head slowly. “Hmm…For Miss Somerset’s sake then, I hope you are correct.”

With that, Folkard returned to his previous position next to the bosun and enquired of the helmsman their current bearing. For a moment longer Nathanial just watched, feeling rather insulted by Folkard’s accusation of all scientists. Perhaps the captain forgot that, despite his youthful appearance, Nathanial was just as much a scientist as any other he may have met. Folkard was clearly aware of Nathanial’s watchful gaze, but he chose to ignore it.

Could it be another test? Folkard continually referred to Nathanial as “Professor”, so perhaps he had said such a thing to see if Nathanial would stand up for himself. Regardless, the moment had passed them both by. He turned back to the window, and his mouth fell open at the sight that greeted him.

“Captain!” he said, his voice much louder than expected.

“What is it, Professor?”

“Look!” Nathanial pointed, his eyes still locked on the distant glow. It seemed to come from several miles away, but the greenish-white tint was unmistakable.

5.

“AIRLOCK IS not going to be necessary, sir,” said Ensign Challoner through the cable linking him to Bedford, as they neared the wreckage.

He was quite correct. Huge rents had been torn into the hull of the Annabelle, where the ship had buckled upon impact. Stevenson glanced up to the sky, and saw in the distance the small globe of the Earth. He wondered what altitude the Annabelle had managed before she had been gunned down; high enough to get a message to the Harbinger, that was for sure. At least forty thousand feet, then, and assuming the Russians hit the aether propeller first then that would have resulted in quite a rapid descent, even when taking into account the lower gravity of Luna. Flyers were not light, and without the lighter than air properties of liftwood to avail themselves of, a flyer would drop to the surface of Luna like a brick from the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

“Very well, Ensign, proceed with caution,” Bedford said, looking around. “I am certain we have all heard the rumours of the moon men, and there are almost certainly Russian okhrana on Luna somewhere, with secrets to protect. Ensign Challoner, take Platt, Swallow and Clements with you and search the aft.” He pointed to a particularly large tear in the flyer some feet away. “Stevenson and Miller with me. We’ll take the forward section. Be alert!”

Challoner and his team removed their jacks from the cable connecting the main team, and then split off. Stevenson was familiar with Challoner’s team, having served with some of them on previous assignments, but Miller he did not know. All he knew was the younger man troubled him. Even in his atmosphere suit it was clear Miller was twitchy. Once again Stevenson wondered at the wisdom of bringing such a man on a mission like this.

He looked up as soon as he felt it; it was as if the atmosphere suit had picked up the vibration that shuddered its way through the low gravity of Luna. Slowly, but most definitely surely, the Sovereign began to move away. The second team did not appear to notice, slipping out of sight behind a large piece of the Annabelle which had been torn off the mainframe during the crash impact. Bedford looked up.

“What the deuce?” he rumbled.

“Sir,” Stevenson said, “where are they going?”

“To investigate that glow, I suspect,” Bedford said, his tone severe. His brows knitted together, and pointed.

Stevenson looked, and sure enough, although somewhat hazy, a greenish glow could be seen over the tip of the crater’s lip. “But, sir, we only have less than an hour of air left.”

“Indeed, Mister Stevenson,” Bedford responded. For a moment he watched the Sovereign, his expression dark. Abruptly he snapped out of whatever had besieged him and reasserted his usual commanding presence. “I suggest we proceed with haste. I suspect there are oxygen supplies in the Annabelle, unless the Russians or the natives stripped the ship after it crashed.”

A reassuring thought, Stevenson considered. He looked to Miller, and offered a smile. The younger rating was perspiring badly. Somehow Stevenson doubted it was because of the heat generated by his enclosed body. Sighing inwardly, and wondering why he had to get stuck with such a sap, Stevenson led the way once again, hoping Bedford was right about the oxygen supplies, while the lieutenant took up the rear.

Stevenson lifted his carbine, nudging its nose through the rent first. Nothing, not even a hint of disturbance. Carefully he stepped through the rent and found himself in the greenhouse, cast in shadow by the Earthlight seeping through the hole in the hull. Plants of all kinds filled the area. Once having sat in their cradles, providing the oxygen needed throughout the small flyer, they lay scattered across the metal grating that served as the deck. His booted foot crunched the dirt underneath, shattering the stems of a rubber plant. One more dead plant would make no difference now, with the tears in the hull any oxygen the ship had would have long since vented out.

He stepped deeper into the greenhouse, almost feeling the nervous breath of Miller, which was very unlikely since both of them were contained by atmosphere suits. Stevenson stopped abruptly.

He had definitely felt something on the back of his neck. He twisted his head, trying to get a look at the back of his helmet, for a glimpse of whatever it was, but he could not see.

He hooked his carbine over his shoulder and reached for the bolts securing his helmet.

“Stevenson! What do you think you are doing, man?”

Stevenson blinked, and his eyes widened at the sight of his gloved fingers that were about to unbolt the helmet, exposing himself to the vacuum. He moved his hand away slowly and turned to Bedford.

“Sorry, sir, I thought I felt…”

“Pull yourself together, Stevenson,” Bedford snapped. “You have received vacuum training, you are fully aware that the oxygenated air, and the claustrophobic conditions of an atmosphere suit, can play havoc with your reasoning.”

Stevenson looked to Miller, and was struck by the sheer dread in his eyes. He had to be an example for the younger man, otherwise Miller would crack. Stevenson nodded sharply. “Yes, sir!” He turned back to the shadows ahead and took hold of the carbine again, feeling a little more reassured by the weight of the gun in his hands.

He continued on, a small part of his mind telling him that he had not imagined the sensation. Something had definitely breathed on the back of his neck.

Chapter Four

Short of Breath

1.

THE SOVEREIGN approached the dark side of the moon, following the source of the now-absent glow. It had not lasted very long, but long enough for the navigator to get a bearing. Nathanial remained standing by the window, straining for any further sign of the glow. He could feel his heart beating faster, as excitement of potential discovery overcame him. Rescuing Grant, or at least uncovering what he and the Russians were about, troubled him less than the possibility of learning the secret of the glow. He had not been asked, nor had he wanted, to come along on this mission, but now he was here the scientist in him was taking over.

“Sir,” the coxswain said, pointing, “I believe we have located the source.”

Nathanial peered ahead, unsure as to what the helmsman was referring, and then he, too, saw it. “What is it? An entrance to an underground cavern?”

“A gorge of some kind,” Folkard said, now at Nathanial’s side. “What do you think, Professor? At least twice the length of the Sovereign?”

Nathanial considered this. The gorge seemed to sit in the heart of the basin, a dark pit into Luna. “I would estimate at least three times that, Captain.”

“Capital! In that case it is into the gorge we shall go. Fortunately the Sovereign does not use the standard solar panel apparatus atop ship, so the narrowness of the gorge should not present a problem.”

“Perhaps not, Captain, but this ship is still powered by steam and the solar panels are attached to the antenna beneath the hull. How are we supposed to draw the heat of the sun in the gorge?”

Folkard chuckled at this. “Come now, Professor, did you not tour the engine room? We do not simply use solar boilers. Have you forgot the combustion boiler? That will be in use once the heat has run its course. I must say, despite your work on the design of this ship, you do seem remarkably lacking in the understanding of how the Sovereign works.”

Nathanial glanced around the bridge, surreptitiously he thought, but he was noticed by many of the crew who were themselves sneaking glances at the two men as they conversed by the viewing window. The navigator even seemed to smirk at the captain’s berating of Nathanial.

“You seem to forget, Captain Folkard sir, that my primary role was advancing the aether propeller’s efficiency, and I had very little to do with the rest of this ship’s functions. That was the purview of Director White, not I.”

“And a good job you did of that, Professor, very good indeed. Now then,” Folkard continued, as if he had somehow proven his point, which, Nathanial thought, seemed to be to make him feel as small as possible in front of the bridge crew. Perhaps the captain, not short by any means, did not like the fact that he was almost dwarfed by Nathanial. “If the Russians were active on the surface of Luna we would have heard word of this by now, so it is logical to guess they are working out of sight, and most likely use that gorge, or one similar, as a point of entry to the caverns that are purported to exist beneath the surface.”

“Perhaps they are also in collusion with the sub-lunar natives?” Nathanial asked. Since they seemed to be in collusion with everyone else, he thought to himself with more than a streak of sarcasm.

Folkard nodded. “Quite so, Professor. Maybe less of a rumour than we have heard?” He turned to the helmsman. “Coxswain, prepare the ship to enter the gorge.”

There was the briefest of hesitation before the helmsman replied with a hearty, “Yes, sir!”

Nathanial looked curiously at the captain, who seemed to not notice the hesitation. “What of the rescue team? We are abandoning them,” he said, his tone more accusatory than he had intended. In his mind Annabelle’s lifeless corpse was now joined by that of Erasmus Stevenson. Nathanial could not countenance such losses, and if being in the Navy meant such things then he was glad that he was not a Navy man.

“Not so, Professor,” Folkard said. “Lieutenant Bedford is a resourceful chap; he will quickly ascertain my intention and adapt his mission accordingly.”

Nathanial was quiet for a moment. He did not care for the dismissive tone in Folkard’s voice, and was reminded of the way the bridge had responded when the captain had ordered the ship towards the glow. The crew were too well trained to openly question orders, but even to someone like Nathanial, who had no military blood in him whatsoever, he could feel a change in the crew. It was almost of if they were all uncertain of their captain, but this did not stop them carrying out his orders.

“Then I trust to your faith in your officer, Captain Folkard,” Nathanial said shortly. What choice did he really have? Besides which he had been around Folkard for some time now, and believed he was starting to understand the captain a little. This was likely another of his tests.

“As you should, Professor, as indeed you should, after all your safety, and possibly that of Miss Somerset, lies in the hands of me and my crew.”

2.

GEORGE BEDFORD had his eye on Ordinary Seaman Stevenson; there was something about the lad he did not trust, and he still could not figure it out. It was much the same with Professor Stone, which disconcerted Bedford. He liked to have the cut of a man’s gib, but with Stone it was not his concern since the professor was a guest of Captain Folkard and thus not his responsibility, but the personnel on the ship were very much Bedford’s concern. He had to trust, implicitly trust, those who worked beneath him on his ship, and Stevenson was something of a mystery. He came recommended highly enough, the boatswain had served with him before on their previous assignment, and thus far Stevenson had given no reason for Bedford’s ill feeling. Nonetheless, still it was there. So far Stevenson had performed admirably; taken the lead on more than one occasion. He was good officer material. Even now he led the way as they walked through the damaged flyer, his carbine held before him.

In Bedford’s experience, though, most men proved to be brave when they held a weapon in their hands; even cowards. It was as if by the very presence of a tool of death they tapped into something primal. Bedford had never been a believer in God, despite his parents’ continued attempt to instil in him strong Christian values, and when he had discovered a copy of Darwin’s book at the inquisitive age of fourteen so much had made sense to him. All one had to do was look around, see what was happening on Mars between the Red Devils and the Earthmen. He was reminded of Mister Kipling who, upon returning from Mars, had a poem published in The Times only a few months ago; Earth Man’s Burden.

“Take up the Earth Man’s burden,

Send forth the best ye breed.

Go bind your sons to exile,

To serve your captives needs;

To wait in heavy harness,

On fluttered folk and wild.

Your new-caught, sullen peoples,

Red Devil and Earth Child.”

The poem went on to describe the need for the people of Earth to go out and educate and spread their culture among the natives of the other worlds. It was something Bedford agreed with wholeheartedly; mankind was born to be superior to all of nature.

Which brought him back to Stevenson. This was a young man who knew the truth, who saw the nature of man. He took to the ladder fearlessly, regardless of the potential risk of entering the vacuum in only an atmosphere suit, when more experienced ratings stood to one side, hesitating. Now, despite, of perhaps because of, the risk he led the way through the wreckage. Perhaps armed Russian okhrana awaited them in the shadows, or maybe even those moon men of which they heard such horrific tales. Cautious Stevenson may have been, but if his reactions were not extra sharp he would soon fall before a superior force if one awaited them. Yet onwards he continued.

Certainly something about Stevenson did not sit well with Bedford, but he was developing a growing respect for the young man. Miller, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Still too fresh, but ideal material for shaping into the kind of officer Bedford himself had become over the years. In fact, Miller reminded him a little of himself at sixteen, before he had met Jacob Folkard. Back then, twenty years ago, Folkard had been very much like Stevenson, officer material from the moment he stepped aboard ship. A pity his discipline had declined with his age.

The lab had been empty of bodies, just more collateral damage. Bedford had little interest in the advance of science, except for where it contributed to the continued might of the British Empire, but he expected that Doctor Grant’s flyer would have a well-stocked laboratory, and he was not disappointed. Bedford could not identify most of the equipment, although he was certain he did see a new ratchet-operated aether wheel. Smaller than the one on the Sovereign bridge, but Bedford would wager it was no doubt a more advanced design. They soon continued on, through the common area to search the captain’s quarters. At least, to Bedford’s mind the small room on the port side would have been the captain’s quarters had this been a more official ship, but as it stood it was quite clear that the room they had entered was the personal quarters of Doctor Grant.

The room was, as anticipated, quite a state. Papers lay strewn across the floor, the cot ripped from its moorings.

Once more there was little of interest to Bedford, but Stevenson had other ideas. He walked deeper into the room, to peruse the scattered papers. After a few moments, and mindful of the depleting supplies of oxygen, Bedford stepped further into the room, leaving the ever-nervous Miller on guard at the door, and tapped Stevenson on the shoulder.

“If you are quite finished, Mister Stevenson, may I remind you that we are not here to gather information, but rather to discover if Miss Somerset survived the crash.”

“Yes, sir,” Stevenson said, looking up from the papers, “sorry, sir, but it occurs to me that if Miss Somerset is not here then we can at least return to the Sovereign with information that may be of some help to Professor Stone.”

Bedford had to admit, to himself at least, that he approved. “Be that as it may, we have only a limited supply of oxygen…”

“That’s the thing, though, Lieutenant,” Stevenson said quickly, and Bedford did not much care for the interruption, but he did not draw attention to it, after all it would be good for Miller to see the difference between a seaman out of his depth and a seaman born to be an officer. “According to these notes we may not need to find extra canisters,” Stevenson pointed out.

Now Bedford’s interest was piqued. “If you would care to explain?”

“According to Doctor Grant’s notes here, there would appear to be several grottoes and caverns beneath the surface with a gravity of thirty percent to Earth’s. That’s only ten percent less than Mercury, unless I am much mistaken.”

“You are not, mister. I have been to Mercury; traversing the terrain is heavy going, but not impossible. This only confirms the rumours about sub-lunar caverns; however, I fail to see how it assists us in our current predicament. Regardless of the gravity, without an atmosphere we will all be dead within another forty minutes.”

“Agreed, sir, which is why this particular passage will interest you.” Stevenson handed him a sheet of paper and pointed to the passage in question.

“Not only have previous expeditions proved the existence of animals and fungus-like plants, but there are pockets of atmosphere in these sub-lunar caverns. Ah! A serendipitous find, Mister Stevenson.”

“Yes, sir, which means all we need to do is find an entrance to one such cavern.”

Bedford nodded decisively. “Splendid! Let us quickly finish our recce of the Annabelle then and pray we find a cavern before the oxygen fails us.” He turned to Miller and made his way out of Grant’s quarters. “Shape up, Mister Miller, we may yet survive our little excursion.”

The expression on Miller’s sweaty face told Bedford that the young man was unconvinced. Bedford smiled to himself grimly, once he was out of Miller’s line of vision. The young seaman would soon be convinced. Stevenson would not let them down.

3.

“NOW AT a depth of fifteen kilometres, sir,” the coxswain said.

“And still no glow,” Folkard pointed out to Nathanial.

Nathanial had to confess he was somewhat disappointed. It seemed they had been descending the gorge for an eternity, although in truth it was probably no more than twenty minutes. So far there was little of interest to be seen. Just rock all around them. He, like Folkard, had felt sure they were on the right track. That this is where either Doctor Grant or the Russians had gone. Perhaps such gorges did exist in the other craters that scarred the surface of Luna, just as Folkard had surmised. None other, though, was the source of the glow. A fact that almost certainly would have attracted the attention of the Russians. It was a foregone conclusion; after all they already knew that both nastavnik Tereshkov and Doctor Grant displayed a more than idle curiosity about the glow.

“The glow is clearly not a continuous occurrence, Captain. Perhaps it is the result of some heretofore unknown intelligence.”

“An…alien intelligence, Professor? Further supposition about the moon men?”

“Maybe, after all there has never been any indication that the glow appears at regularly occurring intervals. Perhaps it is some form of communication, analogous to the smoke signals of the Indians?”

“If that is so, Professor, who could these moon men be communicating with?”

“Another mystery, Captain. It seems this mission is replete with them.”

Folkard smiled. “All the best missions are, Professor, that is why I am out…” His riposte was cut short by an abrupt jerking of the ship. He turned to the coxswain, as Nathanial grabbed at the nearest station for support. “Report, coxswain!”

“Sir, the aether propeller appears to be having trouble responding,” the coxswain said, as he tried to manipulate the aether wheel.

The pipe whistled and the bosun snatched it up quickly, putting the end to his ear. He listened, responded, then turned to the captain. “That was the trimsman in the liftwood room, sir. It would appear the liftwood is reacting to something.”

“Reacting? How is that possible? Mister Dinnick, contact the engine room and discover the situation with the aether propeller.”

Still the bridge continued to shake, as the coxswain attempted to coax a response from the propeller. Nathanial looked out of the glass window, something in the back of his mind was trying to wiggle its way free. Something Annabelle had told…

His eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the gorge wall drawing closer.

“Captain, we’re going to be smashed into little bits!”

“At ease, Professor, the Sovereign can withstand a little buffering against rock.”

Nathanial wished he could agree, but since Folkard appeared to be so nonplussed by the situation he decided he would also attempt the same resolve. Nathanial turned his mind to the problem. The propeller was designed to work at its best in the aether, or in a marginal way in the thin atmosphere high above the Earth’s surface. For the latter it needed the assistance of the liftwood. In the upper atmosphere the propeller merely served to direct the ship with more accuracy, it was the liftwood that kept the ship afloat.

“Of course!” Nathanial exclaimed, slapping his forehead. “Captain, I know to what the liftwood is responding,” he said as he staggered across the bridge. He stumbled into the bulkhead and reached out his left hand to stop himself from hitting it too hard. He let out a gasp of pain as the bandage pressed even tighter over his burned hand.

“Professor, are you okay?” asked a member of the bridge crew.

Nathanial did his best to ignore his throbbing hand, and nodded. “I will survive,” he said, with a wan smile. He would have to visit Doctor Beverly again at some point, see if he could receive something for the pain. For now, though, he carried on towards Captain Folkard. “We have hit an atmosphere pocket,” he said once he reached the bosun’s station.

“Professor?” asked the puzzled captain.

“In Miss Somerset’s letters to me she told me that in the caverns beneath Luna there are pockets of atmosphere. They get more frequent and thicker the deeper you go, which is probably how the moon men survive.”

“Very well,” Folkard said, looking at Dinnick. “Bosun, instruct Boswell to deploy the air screws.”

“Aye, sir!”

“I hope you are right, Professor.”

“I am,” Nathanial said, standing up straight despite the buffering. Folkard just watched him, and slowly a smile plagued his lips. For sure the captain was getting to like his guest. Nathanial positively glowed at this thought; he wanted to ensure his own worth with the crew. He may not have been an expert on aether travel, or indeed any kind of aerial travel, but he had an amazing deductive brain and it was an asset to the mission. As, indeed, was he after all.

For a while they waited in anticipation, as the bridge continued to be buffeted by the coxswain’s best efforts with the aether propeller. Then it happened. The aether wheel froze up as the propeller was disengaged and the air screws were activated. The rocking subsided. Nathanial looked to the viewing window, and was relieved to see the rocky wall of the gorge moving away from them.

“Well done, Professor,” Folkard said, patting him on the back. “Coxswain, take over at the air wheel and continue our descent.”

“Yes, sir,” the coxswain said, and moved to more traditional looking wheel.

“If she survived the crash, remind me to thank Miss Somerset for her letters, Professor,” Folkard said, bearing his biggest smile yet.

Nathanial wanted to return the captain’s smile, but the image of Annabelle’s corpse filled his mind once more. He certainly hoped the rescue team found her.

4.

“LIEUTENANT BEDFORD, sir!”

Stevenson looked up with a start. Loud and clear was an understatement! He had been trained in the use of atmosphere suits, but the practical use of the telephonic cable was something he had not been prepared for. It was like having people talking directly into your ear or, as in the case of Miller, shouting.

Just at the rear of the small bridge, to the starboard, was the airlock, the most secure and structurally intact section of the flyer still. Miller had been sent to that room to check for extra oxygen canisters; even with the possibility of caverns with atmosphere, Bedford still insisted they locate extra supplies of oxygen. Stevenson agreed that was prudent. They only had about half an hour of oxygen left at best. The inner iron door of the airlock was open, and Miller was calling from inside it.

Bedford looked up from the station on the opposite side of the bridge, glanced at Stevenson, and indicated that he should respond to Miller instead. Without a second thought Stevenson moved from the navigator’s station and crossed the bridge. Once again it was his turn to be the star pupil.

“What is it, Miller?” he asked, as he stepped into the airlock. “Oxygen canisters not viab…” He stopped abruptly, both in speech and in actuality.

Miller stood at the far end of the airlock, by the still secure exterior door, next to a supply of more compact oxygen cylinders. They looked similar to the one resting on Stevenson’s back, although much smaller. If he had to guess, he would have estimated no more than half an hour’s worth in each. It was not, however, the discovery of the cylinders that had caused Miller to call for his commanding officer, but rather the body laying next to them.

A slender female, thin but not tiny by any means. Something like a see-through neckerchief covered her mouth and nose, a small tube protruding from it and running to a much larger oxygen canister by her side. This one, five times as large as that worn by the men, was no doubt the primary source from which the smaller cylinders were filled. A design of Doctor Grant’s Stevenson would wager, and one that could be of great benefit to the Navy.

“Sir, Miller has found Miss Somerset,” Stevenson said, making full use of the telephonic cable. As long as they were connected, Bedford would hear every word.

With a hand from Miller, Stevenson crouched to his knees and knelt beside the woman. She looked so young, probably about his own age. Her face, now bruised with dried blood caked below her nose, was quite pleasant, almost pretty he would have said if it wasn’t for the frown. He did not need to check for a pulse, not that he could with his gloved hands, to see that she was alive. That kind of frown could only come from unpleasant thoughts during unconsciousness.

“Report, Mister Stevenson.”

Stevenson glanced up at Bedford. “She is alive, sir. I suspect she scrambled to the airlock moments before the ship impacted with the surface.”

“Upon what do you base such a supposition?”

“If she had been in the bridge upon impact, her body would be as broken as the flyer. As it stands, sir, her body seems to have suffered little damage. Of course, I am no doctor, and a more detailed examination may reveal more intense internal injuries.”

“Indeed. However, secure in the airlock she would have sustained the least damage possible, while at the same time having access to her best chance of survival. These oxygen canisters.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bedford frowned. “Still…It has been a week since her distress call.”

“I suggest this canister,” at this Stevenson indicated the large one, “clearly contains more oxygen than it would appear.”

“Yes, that would seem reasonable. Doctor Grant is quite the genius it would seem.” Bedford was pleased. “Excellent. Try to revive her. Miller, I want you to locate the rest of our team. We have what we came for, now it is time we found those caverns Doctor Grant spoke of, from where we shall wait out the return of the Sovereign.”

Stevenson patted Miss Somerset gently on the cheeks in an effort to revive her from her deep sleep. He glanced up, noting that Miller had yet to move. The young rating was looking down at Miss Somerset.

“You have a problem with your hearing, Mister Miller?” Stevenson asked, before he realised he was over stepping his authority. He looked to his lieutenant, but Bedford was regarding Miller with steel in his eyes.

“No,” Miller replied, “but…alone?”

Stevenson understood Miller’s hesitation. There was something a little unnerving about the crashed flyer. He hadn’t felt anything unusual since that occurrence in the greenhouse, but he was still convinced that somehow they were not alone. Nonetheless, Miller had been given an order.

“Yes, alone. If there were anyone else here, we would know by…”

Once again Stevenson’s words were cut short. This time, though, it was not the sight of a body that had interrupted him, but rather a reverberation so powerful it almost knocked the three men off their feet.

“What was that?” he asked, and he struggled up.

“Miller, remain here, protect Miss Somerset,” Bedford said. “Stevenson, you are with me.”

Stevenson removed the jack from Miller’s helmet and raced out of the airlock. He found Bedford advancing towards the rear of the flyer. “Sir?”

Bedford removed his derringer from its holster. “Felt like something was ripped from the hull, Mister Stevenson,” he said grimly.

“Another breach. Russians?”

“Let us hope so, I would not like to consider the alternative!”

5.

THE SOVEREIGN steadied its descent at twenty-two kilometres. There was still plenty of gorge below the ship, but it had become too narrow for the great flyer to go any further. There was talk of releasing a cutter, since the Sovereign carried two for emergency purposes. They had been especially designed for the Sovereign and were more advanced and larger than the standard two-person cutters, with enough space in the rear of each to carry twenty standing men, and fitted out with light armaments for defence. Using a cutter would mean further exploration of the gorge, but Folkard had decided that he wished to proceed on foot. This was a task made simple by the fact that they had spotted an entrance to a cavern along the port side of the ship a couple of kilometres before the gorge got too narrow. It was decided, however, that a small team, complemented with Royal Marines, would take a cutter deeper into the gorge to ascertain if there was a Russian presence at the lowest level.

They were now walking through the ship, as the Sovereign climbed the two kilometres back up to the cavern entrance, just Nathanial and the captain, and one seaman, on their way to the open deck. Nathanial was not entirely sure he liked the idea of just stepping into the sub-lunar caverns. He was not wholly familiar with all the rumours, but he knew enough to find the thought of venturing out there a bit daunting.

“Captain, are you quite sure this is wise? Surely my deductive brain would be best suited on the bridge?”

Folkard laughed at this. “Stuff and nonsense, Professor. As I explained earlier, when we discover Doctor Grant I will have need of your deductive brain to tell me exactly what Grant is up to. I am not a stupid man, Professor, but neither am I a scientist. I hardly suspect I will get much understanding from Grant, and especially not from Tereshkov, but I am counting on you translating it into layman’s terms for me.”

“I see. In that case, I hope I serve you well.” Nathanial hoped he sounded sincere, but he was not overly impressed by the role Folkard had assigned for him.

“And besides, Professor, I have every intention of making an adventurer out of you yet. Who is to say what we may discover in these sub-lunar caverns? Indigenous life forms hitherto unknown, perhaps the real source of the glow? This is why we are out here, after all, for the adventure, the exploration.”

“Something tells me, Captain, you would have been better suited to the life of a space mariner.”

“Between you and me, I quite agree, however here I am, captain of the most advanced aether flyer ever built.” Folkard glanced behind them at the rating that followed. “I am sure I can count on your discretion, Able Seaman Ainsworth?”

The seaman nodded in a very serious fashion. “Of course, sir.”

Nathanial was amazed how Folkard seemed to know the names of every member of his crew. He had been on the ship no longer than Nathanial, and none of the crew wore name badges, yet somehow it seemed as if Folkard had some kind of special sight when it came to the names of his crew.

“And here we are,” Folkard said, reaching for the steel wheel that secured the door. Without further preamble he turned the great wheel and wrenched the door open. “Welcome to Luna, Professor!”

As the lunar air swept in through the door the first thing Nathanial noticed was the smell. His hand immediately went to cover his nose. “Good Lord, what is that?”

“You expected Luna to smell like Dover? Ah, Professor, you are now in an alien world.” The captain took a deep breath, and his nose twitched. “However, I will admit that smell is rather rum,” he said, and stepped out on to the deck.

Chapter Five

Down Among the Insects

1.

MILLER STOOD by the door, his breech-loading carbine in his hands. He had it aimed out towards the aft of the flyer, while at the same time casting glances inside the airlock to see if perhaps Miss Somerset had stirred. Still she barely moved. Occasionally she would move a fraction, the impulse movements of someone in a deep sleep, but she had yet to make any fast approach to wakefulness. Lieutenant Bedford and Stevenson had been gone minutes, and were now clear out of sight.

He hefted the weight of the carbine in his arms. He never expected to go into combat so soon after joining Her Majesty’s Navy, although he had, of course, been trained in the usage of the standard Navy firearms by Lieutenant Bedford, from light revolvers right through to the Lee Metford bolt-action carbines that both Stevenson and Bedford carried. His own breech-loading carbine, although effective, was not a patch on the Lee Metford which had an eight-round magazine attached to it. If he came under direct attack he would have to shoot and reload each time, and every moment of reloading meant the enemy would be that bit closer, especially in an enclosed space like the damaged flyer. Bedford had once remarked, after a training class, “you make sure every shot counts, don’t allow the enemy to close in. One shot, disable or kill, there are no second chances in combat”. Be that as it may, Miller much preferred the enemy up close. Hand-to-hand combat was much more his style, having been brought up on the rough streets of Camden Town, and he did not much care for weapons that killed at a distance. Nonetheless, he suspected the Russians had no such qualms, and he at least stood a fighting chance with the carbine.

Movement alerted him to Miss Somerset’s change of circumstance. He left his post at the door and walked over to her. He attempted to kneel beside her, but the weight of the oxygen tank made that impossible, so he leaned forward as much as he could, and reached out a gloved hand to gently shake her.

“Miss Somerset?” he said, then remembered she could not hear him. Without a conduit by which to carry sound, there was no way he could communicate directly with her.

Her eyes flickered open, dark as night, but they barely registered him. Instead they shifted around in their sockets, as if trying to find something to latch on to. For a brief moment her eyes seemed to focus on Miller; her brows knitted together, but her gaze soon drifted away again. Miller could only guess as to the effects long-term exposure to oxygen from a tank like the large one by her would have on a person. He had only been breathing oxygen from a tank for about forty minutes and he was already feeling a little light-headed. Oxygenated air was no substitute for the real thing.

Miller looked up from Miss Somerset at the slight vibration on the floor grating. He crossed to the inner door, in time to see Stevenson and Bedford dragging an atmosphere-suited man, with Challoner and Clements firing the way they came, up the gangway. Miller couldn’t tell who the wounded man was, but certainly it was clear that one of the rescue team had been left behind. He couldn’t conscience the idea that Bedford would wilfully leave a man behind, unless the circumstances were extreme. Miller’s heart dropped. Clearly the Russian okhrana on Luna was more of a threat than he had believed.

2.

NOW THEY were in the airlock, Stevenson released Platt’s body, allowing Bedford to gently lower the able seaman onto the floor. Miss Somerset, although not fully cognizant, was at least a little aware now. He walked over to her as Bedford issued orders to Clements and Challoner to take up point at the inner door.

“Is it possible to secure that door?” Stevenson asked, glancing over at Miller who was still struggling with releasing the outer airlock door. “Buy us some time.”

“Challoner?” Bedford said.

Ensign Challoner stepped back from his position and regarded the door, leaving Clements to continue firing. Stevenson hadn’t seen the enemy, since they had been out of sight around a corner when he had come across the unconscious form of Able Seaman Platt, but Bedford had already gone ahead and confronted the new enemy face-on.

“No, sir, this door will not be budged,” Challoner reported, returning to assist Clements in keeping the enemy at bay.

Stevenson turned back to Miss Somerset. They had to get her out of here, which meant carrying her. Bedford would have to enlist the help of either Challoner or Clements with Platt; Stevenson would carry Miss Somerset. Although that large oxygen canister would cause a problem.

First of all, he decided, he would need to make her easier to transport. He crouched down by the large canister, and compared the nozzle size to that of the smaller, mobile, cylinders. It was compatible.

“I do beg your pardon, Miss Somerset, but this might be a little uncomfortable.”

She was looking at him, but she did not appear to be totally aware of him, not that she would have been able to hear him, of course. It was a pity, since it would have been a lot better if she was to take a deep breath. With a grimace, he removed the tube from the large canister. Immediately Miss Somerset’s breath caught, her dark eyes widening. Stevenson worked fast to secure the tube to a small cylinder, hoping the one he had chosen still contained enough oxygen in it to last the young lady until they found the caverns. That is, Stevenson considered, glancing up at Miller, if the outer door ever got opened. He looked back to Miss Somerset, who was now breathing regularly again and, he was certain, she was now aware of him.

She started shaking and struggled to move. Stevenson had not considered the temperature drop; the atmosphere suit fed his own body heat back at him. Miss Somerset had no such luxury; she had been lying in a damaged flyer, open to the elements, for a week. Stevenson was far from a Luna expert, but he had heard that on the long nights the temperature drop was phenomenal.

With a hiss and a clunk the outer door finally released. Miller turned around, sweat beading on his forehead, and smiled. Stevenson said nothing. One good thing and the boy was happy with himself.

“Excellent work, Miller,” Bedford said, his tone implying he thought the complete opposite. “Now, come and help me with Platt. Stevenson, you take Miss Somerset. Challoner and Clements, keep point.”

Orders given, they worked quickly to carry them out. With an apology, Stevenson roughly strapped the oxygen cylinder to Miss Somerset, and pulled her off the floor. He would have rather done so gently, but his suit prevented such finesse. Miller and Bedford had no such misgivings about the unconscious Platt, of course, and began dragging him across the floor towards the open airlock. Stevenson stood by, and let them pass. Miss Somerset was a good deal lighter than Platt. Once they were safely out of the flyer, Stevenson turned to look at the two officers at the inner door. Challoner was busy reloading his carbine, while Clements continued firing.

“Let’s go!” Stevenson shouted.

Challoner looked up as he clipped the magazine to the bottom of the gun, and it was that moment of distraction that sealed the fate of both Ensign Lee Challoner and Able Seaman John Clements, affording Stevenson his first glimpse of the enemy.

Ten of them immediately filled the space outside the inner door, grabbing hold of Clement and Challoner with their spindly, but powerful, tarsal claws. In the earthlight their oily skin was a very deep-blue, almost black. At first Stevenson was certain his eyesight was failing him, his imagination working overtime as a result of the oxygenated air. He even shook his head, hoping to clear away the vision, but it persisted and he realised that the natives of Luna were indeed giant ants.

They pulled the two men out of sight, the guns falling to the floor. Stevenson quickly unjacked his helmet before he too was dragged into the gangway, and stepped back slowly, Miss Somerset held uncomfortably in his arms. If only she was more aware, she could possibly support herself a little, but as it was she was like a dead weight in his arms, preventing him from even attempting to reach for his own carbine.

The ant in the lead, a different colour to the rest, a rusty almost coppery lustre, tilted its head to one side, its antennae twitching. It noticed the discarded guns, and reached down and picked up one of the carbines.

Stevenson was transfixed, unable to take his eyes away as the ants all stood back, waiting for a signal from their leader. The copper ant was looking at the carbine, trying to figure it out. Stevenson blinked. Intelligent giant ants! He had travelled to Venus once before, seen the reptiles that lived there, but this was…Well, it was beyond the pale!

A bullet ricocheted off the iron door behind him, and he almost buckled in surprise. The ant had worked out the gun.

Stevenson turned and, hoping that the ant would take a lot longer to work out how to successfully aim the gun, exited the flyer as fast as he was able.

3.

“WILL THAT stench never cease?”

Folkard laughed. “I would suspect not, Professor. Who knows what these moon men excrete?”

“Good grief. Captain, please!”

Folkard raised his lantern so he could see Professor Stone’s face clearly. “Come, Professor, a scientist like you must be aware that all living creatures excrete things every day. Such things naturally smell.”

“Nonetheless, I hardly think this is the kind of conversation one should be having.”

Folkard looked back at Ainsworth, who was studiously ignoring the conversation between his commanding officer and the professor, as a well-trained subordinate ought. Folkard grinned; he would soon do away with that kind of behaviour.

“Perhaps not,” he said, looking back at Professor Stone. “But it does go some way to explain why the stench will, indeed, never cease. You are just going to have to develop a nose for it.”

Professor Stone’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I find that hard to accept, Captain.”

“Nonetheless we are stuck with it.”

Professor Stone and he continued on in silence for a short while, Ainsworth behind them, lamp in one hand and rifle at the ready in the other. So far they had seen little of interest. They had walked a short distance, leaving the Sovereign to stand guard at the entrance to the tunnel while the team in the cutter went to investigate the bottom of the gorge. Stalactites hung from the ceiling of the tunnel, some extending further than others, the longest of which had caused the small team to duck several times on their short journey. Professor Stone reasoned that with the underground moisture evaporation, the subsequent vapours rose until they condensed on the ceiling. It was the talk of vapours that led Professor Stone to once again complain about the rank smell.

The walls themselves seemed to be covered in some kind of slime, nothing too viscous, but enough to warrant careful moderation in their progress.

“I suspect the slime is a composite of the water vapour, rock dust and this organic matter,” Professor Stone said, indicating the brown fungus-like substance on the closest wall. He painfully switched the lantern to his bandaged left hand, and tentatively reached out for the substance with his right. “Hmm, feels a little like a mushroom.”

“Albeit a slimy mushroom, Professor,” Folkard said, and reached past Stone to pull a section of the fungus off the wall. “I wonder what it tastes like.”

Professor Stone grabbed Folkard’s arm, to prevent him from placing the fungus in his mouth. “Captain, please! This could be deadly to humans. We know nothing of the constitution of these moon men.”

“Perhaps not, Professor, but the Russians have spent some time on Luna, and there has to come a moment where they’d need to find a native food source.” With that he pulled his arm away from the professor and deposited the fungus in his mouth. “Besides which,” he said, as he began to chew, “this is not the first alien plant I have tried over the years. You soon build up a strong constitution through these things.”

Professor Stone regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “You are quite right, Captain, and it is time I joined this adventure wholeheartedly.” So saying the professor grabbed a handful of the fungus and placed it in his own mouth.

“Smashing show, Professor!”

The two men ate in silence for a moment, while Ainsworth continued ahead slightly. The fungus was very sweet, almost as sweet as the grapes Folkard had once tasted in the jungles of Venus.

“What do you think, Professor?”

“Quite palatable. Although the aftertaste; it is rather like biting one’s own tongue.”

“Yes. Rich in iron, maybe?”

“A very real possibility.”

Folkard nodded. “Then we at least will not starve as we look for Doctor Grant and his team.”

Once more in silence they continued on. The only sound accompanying them was that of the gravel crunching beneath their boots and constant echo of water dripping in the distance.

Silently, from the shadows behind them, a tarsal claw moved.

4.

“OVER THERE!” Miller said, pointing. Stevenson looked. Sure enough there was a hole in the wall of the basin, a good thirty feet away. They had surely been off the ship for almost an hour now, but fortunately they were making good time with their progress across the lunar surface. The low gravity was working to their favour, which was even more of an advantage considering the extra weight that Stevenson was now carrying. Miss Somerset almost weighed nothing now, and crossing the remaining thirty feet would take no time at all. Due to the unexpected lightness of Miss Somerset, Stevenson was now able to manoeuvre her to his shoulder, allowing him to have his carbine at the ready.

Not that it seemed necessary anymore, as the ants were no longer following them. He had looked back several times, to check on their retreat, only to discover that the ants, including the copper one with the gun, remained at the open airlock, almost as if they were protecting their prize.

Bedford and Miller were still ahead of him, Platt having regained consciousness. The able seaman was a little confused, and probably concussed, but he quickly adapted and was now walking alongside the other men.

Just as they reached the cave mouth, Miss Somerset finally started to stir. Stevenson suspected it was the change in temperature, because even he could feel the heat emanating from the cave through his atmosphere suit. He lowered her down as gently as he could, and helped her steady herself. For a few moments, while Bedford and company scouted the immediate area of the cave, Stevenson remained with Miss Somerset.

She looked around, taking in her surroundings. As the seconds passed by she slowly recovered her composure. For the first time Stevenson noted that she wore a pair of beige trousers, and a checkered blouse. Around her waist was a gun holster, sans gun. Her eyes rested on him, took in his atmosphere suit and the Union Flag stitched onto the breast. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, held up a finger and reached inside her blouse. She pulled out a small wooden box, the front of which was a small grill. Miss Somerset pressed the box against her respirator.

“I see my message reached the Admiralty,” she said, her American tones clipped and precise.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, from the HMAS Sovereign.”

Miss Somerset looked around the cave, at the other Sovereign crew. “I assume Nathanial is still on the ship? That is, of course, if he had the gumption to actually come to my rescue.”

“Professor Stone is, indeed, on the Sovereign, Miss Somerset.”

“Professor? Nathanial never told me he became a professor.” For a second Miss Somerset smiled to herself.

“Captain Folkard insisted he remain to assist in the search for Doctor Grant,” Stevenson continued.

Miss Somerset’s hand went to her respirator-covered mouth. “Oh my God, my uncle! He still thinks me a prisoner of Tereshkov.”

“Would you care to explain why that is so?” Bedford asked, as he returned. Miss Somerset turned to him, and he saluted her. “Lieutenant George Bedford at your service; first officer of the HMAS Sovereign.”

Miss Somerset nodded curtly, but her eyes hid a slight smile. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Also, how are we able to hear you?”

Miss Somerset grinned. “This little box, a marvellous invention of my uncle. It’s a wireless transmitter, carries my voice directly to the speakers in your helmets. One of a kind.”

“How is that possible?” Stevenson asked.

“I have no idea, Mister Stevenson, I’m not a scientist.” She looked back to Bedford. “Before I explain myself, would you care to explain why I am now in a lunar cave?”

Bedford gave a short, but accurate, account of their exploration of the Annabelle and the subsequent attack of the ant creatures. She listened intently, but once Bedford described the ants, and Stevenson added the bit about the gun, Miss Somerset interrupted.

“That is quite ludicrous, Mister Stevenson. The Selenites are not remotely aggressive. They’re peaceable, builders, creators. They’re not warmongers. And to take up arms…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but that makes no sense at all. They rarely venture onto the surface. Certainly they can store oxygen in their lungs, but to attack…”

“Nonetheless that is what happened, Miss Somerset,” Stevenson said.

“Selenites; is that the native name of the moon men?” Bedford asked.

“No, Lieutenant. The moon men are, I believe, quite different. Selenite is a term coined by my uncle, from Howell’s Epistolae Hoelianae in which he describes all lunary men as Selenites. Uncle Cyrus has discovered that the Selenites do not have a species name, although they do have different names for each colony.” At the mention of her uncle Miss Somerset’s tanned skin paled. “We must rescue him.”

“Captain Folkard is taking care of it, Miss Somerset. Why would Doctor Grant believe you to be a prisoner of the Russians?”

Before Miss Somerset could offer up an explanation, however, a choking sound came from Miller. All heads turned to look. The young man was staggering back, gloved-hands frantically reaching for his suit helmet. Platt reached him first, trying to calm him down. Stevenson had a feeling he knew the problem.

“Our hour’s up, sir,” he said, indicating the oxygen tank on Bedford’s back.

Bedford took a deep breath and almost choked himself. “Agreed, Mister Stevenson. We’re now running on residual oxygen. We must find one of those atmosphere pockets Doctor Grant mentioned in his…” He stopped abruptly. Miss Somerset was looking from him to Stevenson in bewilderment. “What is it, Miss Somerset?”

“I’m curious as to why you did not avail yourself of the oxygen cylinders on my uncle’s ship. They would have given you extra time.”

“Alas, we were busy escaping from enraged ants, Miss Somerset, while at the same time carrying injured personnel. One of which, you might recall, was you.”

“Nonetheless, the cylinders are quite small. Surely it would not have been so difficult to carry a few?”

Bedford narrowed his eyes, clearly not impressed with his decisions being questioned by a civilian. Especially one they had just rescued.

Stevenson stepped forward. “Lieutenant Bedford, sir, if I may interject?”

Bedford snapped his eyes at Stevenson. “You may,” he said.

“Regardless of the cylinders, we currently have no extra supply of oxygen, so at best we have ten minutes of residual oxygen left in our suits. The more we stand here and talk, the more air we are using up.”

“You are, of course, right,” Bedford agreed. He turned to Platt and Miller. “Have you quite calmed down now, Mister Miller?”

Miller swallowed and nodded meekly.

“Capital! Miss Somerset, are you familiar with these atmosphere pockets?”

“I am. Would you care for me to lead the way?”

Stevenson almost smiled at the sarcastic tone in her voice, but managed to restrain himself before Bedford noticed.

“If you would be so kind, yes.” Bedford turned to the rest of his team. “Until we reach this atmosphere pocket, I suggest we keep unnecessary chatter to a minimum, try to conserve what air we still have. We have lost three crewmembers already; I think I can speak for Captain Folkard when I say it would be appreciated if we could lose no more. Miss Somerset?”

“Of course, Lieutenant, if you men would like to follow me?”

She set off and the team followed, except for Stevenson who joined her at the head. Somerset cast him a sideways glance, noticing him shift the weight of the carbine in his arm. “Chivalry, Mister Stevenson?”

Stevenson smiled. “We may live in tough times, Miss Somerset, but it is not quite dead yet.”

“Well, as much I appreciate the sentiment,” she said and, with speed that surprised Stevenson, relived him of his weapon, which she promptly loaded, “I can look after myself.”

Laughter echoed in Stevenson’s helmet. He glanced back to see Bedford shaking his head, and offering out his Lee Metford carbine. Stevenson gladly accepted it, noting that Bedford removed his trusty Lancaster pistol from its holster. Miss Somerset was now some feet ahead, and Stevenson smiled ruefully at her back.

So you can, he thought.

5.

NATHANIAL WAS certain he was the first to hear it. A strange chittering sound ahead, as if someone was quickly snapping sticks together. It was not, however, a random sound. There was purpose to it. Multi-layered, as if…

“Captain!” Nathanial said, with a start. “I believe there is something ahead of us!”

Folkard and Ainsworth both pulled up short and listened. The sound was getting louder. Folkard turned to Ainsworth. “Stand ready,” he said, and armed his own weapon. Ainsworth did likewise.

The three men stood waiting, listening intently as the strange sound continued to approach. Nathanial had never carried a weapon in his life, but at this point he wished he knew how to use one. Since this was neither the time nor the place to take a crash course in firearm usage, Nathanial settled on holding his lantern aloft so that Folkard and Ainsworth could get a good view of whatever was approaching. They had their own lanterns, of course, but they were sitting on the tunnel floor, abandoned in favour of a more resolutely armed position.

The light from the lanterns cast shadows on the tunnel walls, and their first glimpse of the owners of the unearthly sound was the elongated shadow of some kind of protuberance. It seemed to have soft serrated edges, with a rather vicious looking hook at the end. More of the creature was revealed, and Nathanial was hardly able to credit his own eyes. Even from the shadow, distorted by the multiple lanterns, it was clearly the shadow of some kind of ant.

It was patently absurd. Even an ant standing directly in front of a lantern would not cast such a huge shadow, but this one…It came into view, and Nathanial swallowed in fear.

The ant stopped a few feet from them, tilted its head from side to side, its large compound eyes clearly regarding the armed men with caution. The ant stood at least five foot tall, and although a great deal shorter than Nathanial himself, he did not fancy the idea of coming into direct contact with the insect. Even Earth ants were deceptively powerful, their mandibles capable of cutting through creatures of a similar size. As a child he had once watched, in fascinated horror, as a trio of weaver ants collaborated to dismember a copper ant. It was one of the most singularly vicious things he had ever witnessed. He dreaded to think what an ant the size of a small man could do.

The dark-skinned ant was no longer alone. Five more of its fellows emerged from the shadows, all of them standing before the men, blocking the way.

Nathanial swallowed. “Captain?” he whispered.

“Stand easy, Professor, these creatures have not made a move to attack us. They just seem…curious,” Folkard said in a similarly hushed voice.

“I admire your detachment, Captain. Could these be the moon men we have heard rumour of?”

“Hardly seem anything like men to me,” Folkard pointed out. “And I assure you I am not ‘detached’. One false move and these ants will discover how attached I actually am.”

This comment reassured Nathanial, but the sudden sound behind them did not. Nathanial slowly turned his head. He wished he had not.

Another ant, this time copper in colour, stood there. Holding a rifle, which was aimed directly at them.

“Captain,” Nathanial said softly.

Folkard turned to look and brought his carbine to bear. He frowned at the gun in the ant’s claws. “That is not Navy issue,” he said.

Nathanial was not too sure what relevance that could have, and so he hurriedly asked the captain.

“It means these ants are most certainly allies of the Russians, Professor.” With that being so, Folkard lifted his rifle and aimed it directly at the copper ant’s head. “In the name of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy I order you to stand down.”

Nathanial doubted the wisdom of addressing the ant. Clearly it would not understand the words spoken, but, he supposed, Captain Folkard felt honour bound to issue a warning. He was, therefore, quite surprised when the insect replied in a twisted abomination of English.

“Not hurt we Selenites more!”

Chapter Six

Ambush in the Tunnels

1.

ONLY ANNABELLE talked as she and Stevenson led the way deeper into Luna, after all she was the only one who really could since she did not need to conserve oxygen, and she told them about recent events on Luna.

“After the previous test flight of my uncle’s propeller governor, it was a foregone conclusion that he would return to Luna. His interest was piqued by the mystery surrounding the glow. He wrote me many letters about this new obsession of his. He had heard that a Russian scientist, Vladimir Tereshkov, was also interested in this glow, and being the competitive man he is, Uncle Cyrus just had to get to Luna first. Alas, further development of the governor hit a few snags, and so he was not able to return to Luna before Tereshkov. Nonetheless, this did not deter him. My uncle is not easily put off.

“So, belatedly, he and his little team returned to Luna. Once again it was financed by the Tuscan Weekly Citizen, who wanted the scoop on the discoveries due to be made. He was accompanied by several experts, and a reporter…and, uh, me. My uncle had already triangulated the direction from which the glow came, and we travelled directly there. Traversing the gorge was not easy…”

At this, no doubt against his better judgement, Bedford enquired; “The gorge, Miss Somerset?”

Annabelle looked back at the lieutenant. He, as well as Miller and Platt, were a little distance back. He was strong and big shouldered, with a firm look about his moustached face. He had a very commanding presence, the look of a man who brokered no tomfoolery, and thus, naturally, someone whom Annabelle immediately felt a strong affinity with. Bedford put her in mind of her father.

“A chasm almost dead centre of the basin next to which I, uh, landed my uncle’s flyer,” she explained.

For a moment Bedford was silent, then he nodded abruptly. “That explains why the Sovereign left us. They must have seen this glow of which you speak, and gone to investigate. I assume Professor Stone was aware of the significance of the glow to your uncle?”

“I made him aware of such, yes, Lieutenant.”

“Very well. Please, proceed with your tale.”

“Thank you,” she said curtly, and resumed, but not before she noticed a slight smirk on the countenance of Mister Stevenson. “The gorge narrows the further down you go, but as you saw, the Annabelle is quite a small flyer and we were able to reach the bottom with minimal fuss. There the Russians were awaiting us. Tereshkov is a very resourceful man, but no less insane than the rumours suggest. He has paid handsomely for the loyalty of the okhrana quite well, and they are entrenched on this side of Luna. They also have secreted several lookout posts in the smaller craters.” At this she glanced back at Bedford. “They are most certainly aware of your presence.”

“And no doubt responsible for the attack by those Selenite creatures.”

“Very unlikely, Lieutenant. Even if the Selenites were aggressive, the Russians have treated them in ways that would never secure their co-operation. I really have no idea why they would attack you.”

“Perhaps they…” Stevenson began, then stopped. Literally, he ceased his walking and looked around.

Annabelle stopped next to him. “What is it?” she asked, in a whisper, careful not to alert Bedford and the other two men who were nearing them now.

Stevenson frowned. “I do not know,” he said, his voice as low as Annabelle’s, “I had this…sensation. As if someone were breathing down my neck. I had it before, in your flyer, but this time…”

“There is no one else here but us.” She peered closely at his face, now dripping with sweat. “Perhaps the lack of oxygen…?”

Stevenson forced a smile. “Yes, that must be it.”

“Everything okay, Mister Stevenson?” Bedford asked.

“Yes, sir,” Stevenson replied.

“I just needed to stop for a moment,” Annabelle offered up quickly, and rubbed her legs. “My muscles are a little weak from lack of use.”

“I see. Well, as much as I have sympathy for your condition, Miss Somerset, we do not have the luxury of a respite. If we may continue on?”

“Yes, of course, Lieutenant.”

Annabelle, throwing Stevenson a furtive smile, which he quickly returned, set off back down the tunnel. Stevenson and the team followed once more.

“What were you about to say, Mister Stevenson?” Annabelle asked.

“What? Oh yes, I was going to ask if perhaps the Selenites viewed the Annabelle as some kind of prize?”

“Again, unlikely. My uncle made a study of them on his previous expedition to Luna, and we spent quite some time with them before the Russians…turned on us. They rarely venture onto the lunar surface; they find it too cold.” Annabelle shook her head. “Attacking you and venturing out of their caverns is very much out of character, and I am at a loss to explain the reason behind it.” She stopped walking and reached for the respirator covering her mouth. “I have noticed, however, that none of you appear to be terribly out of breath anymore.” She removed the respirator and took a deep breath, looking at Stevenson with a large smile.

Stevenson was the first to remove his own helmet and he too inhaled deeply. “Ah! Finally, fresh air!”

“We are now exactly a mile beneath the surface of Luna.” Annabelle’s smile faded. “Which is usually where the danger begins.” She cocked the carbine and offered a grim smile to Bedford and the rest of his team, now free of their helmets. “There are other things besides Selenites down here, and not all of them are friendly.”

2.

“AN INSECT that talks! This is fascinating.” Nathanial stepped past Folkard, only now having eyes for the large, rusty-looking ant before him.

“Professor,” Folkard said, reaching out an arm for Nathanial, “stand back! We are surrounded!”

Nathanial pulled against Folkard’s grip. “Captain, this is absolutely fascinating! Don’t you see, in some ways their evolution must have matched ours, how else could they have developed vocal chords? They clearly differ from the ants of our world.”

“Clearly, Professor, for I have never seen an ant the size of a small man on Earth! I have no truck with this theory of evolution, either. This creature is obviously a creation of God. Although,” he added, with a narrowed look at the ant, “perhaps the work of the Devil is closer.”

“Superstitious nonsense, Captain!” With an abrupt tug, Nathanial removed his arm and continued on, lantern held out before him. “You will not harm us, will you?”

The giant insect looked at him, with curiosity, Nathanial thought. “We hurt not. Selenites live peace.”

“Selenites,” Nathanial repeated. The word sounded familiar to him. “Of course!” he said, with a click of the fingers. He looked back at Folkard. The captain still had his carbine aimed at the copper Selenite, while Ainsworth continued to cover the darker ants that blocked their path up the tunnel. “Annabelle mentioned them to me in one of her letters. Doctor Grant met them on his previous expedition.”

The copper Selenite shuffled forward. “You know gooddoctor?”

“Good doctor? You mean Cyrus Grant?” The insect seemed to nod in response. Nathanial thought for a moment. “As opposed to the bad doctor…Yes! Tereshkov!”

“He hurt we Selenites. Gooddoctor and batch relation help us.”

Nathanial noticed that the Selenite had lowered its weapon. He smiled. “Yes, we are friends of gooddoctor. We have come to help him.”

“Friend Annabelle find you?”

“Erm, yes,” Nathanial said, and added to himself, in a manner of speaking.

The Selenite studied Nathanial for a moment. Was it possible that the insect was that adept at reading human facial expressions? Nathanial could not help but be excited by this revelation. Not only intelligent insects, but intuitive ones, too. Nathanial offered his best, and most trusting, smile. The Selenite made a strange buzzing sound, which was repeated by the darker Selenites further up the tunnel.

“We help you.” The Selenite offered up its rifle to Nathanial. “I K’chuk.”

“Excellent! I am Nathanial Stone, and this resolute gentleman is Captain Folkard. The man behind him is Able Seaman Ainsworth. We would be most happy of your help.”

Nathanial watched as K’chuk shuffled its way up the tunnel towards its fellows, brushing past Folkard and Ainsworth with a “sorry”. Polite, too! Was this a natural inclination, or something learned from exposure to humans? Nathanial could not wait to find out. K’chuk was now deep in conversation with the other Selenites. Nathanial walked over to join Folkard, who was looking at the Selenites with some bemusement.

“Professor, what just happened?”

“I believe we have got our first allies on Luna, Captain.”

“Good Lord!” Folkard looked to Nathanial and laughed.

3.

“ARE YOU certain that was a good idea, sir?”

Bedford looked back at the discarded atmosphere suits. “Necessary rather than good, Stevenson. If we are to encounter Russians it is well that we are not encumbered by the atmosphere suits. Fast reactions will be needed. Besides which, what use are they to us now?”

Stevenson nodded. “Perhaps, sir, but if we need to reach the Sovereign by the surface, then…”

“We will fair no less worse either way without oxygen.”

Bedford was not entirely sure he liked this new side of Stevenson. Since leaving the ship the young man had proven himself to be a very reliable and resourceful seaman, without doubt officer material. A fact of which Bedford was to inform Captain Folkard upon returning to the Sovereign, but now that Stevenson was taking to questioning decisions made by his commanding officer…Bad enough that Miller was proving his lack of suitably to be serving on the Sovereign. Perhaps the captain would like this new aspect of Stevenson more than he. It would not be the first time they had disagreed on how to command a ship and its crew, although the captain leaving an away team to fend for itself without even waiting on a report was a new development.

Something to which Bedford would be drawing Folkard’s attention once he returned to his ship.

Miss Somerset was still taking point on their journey, now with Platt by her side. Not that she needed protecting. For such a young lady, she seemed remarkably strong-willed and resourceful. A credit to her uncle. Bedford had to confess, if only to himself, that he was most impressed by her.

“Miss Somerset, if you would continue your story I would be most grateful. Clearly something untoward transpired.”

“Oh, indeed, Lieutenant. At first it seemed the Russians were quite trustworthy. Tereshkov was on the verge of a great discovery, although he was a little reticent to explain the exact nature of this discovery. Even now I am unsure as to what it is. He did take my uncle into his confidence, but Uncle Cyrus and I were parted before he had a chance to fully explain things to me. Regardless, from talking to the Selenites I have learned that there is something they consider holy at the heart of Luna itself, an ancient…uh, relic of some kind. I believe it is for this that Tereshkov is searching.”

“A relic?” Bedford rubbed his chin. “What interest could the Russian okhrana have in a relic? I can understand how such a thing could hold the interest of a scientist like your uncle, but the okhrana?”

“I have pondered this, too, Lieutenant, and I can only infer that it is some force of power hitherto unknown to man.”

“Then we must not allow the Russians to get their hands on it.” There was no question about his mission now, Bedford decided. Before it was simply to rescue Miss Somerset, and then find another way to return to the Sovereign. Now…now it was different.

“Listen up,” he said, addressing his men, “I’m afraid, Mister Miller, you will have to come to terms with your role in this mission a lot quicker. Our primary mission now is to end the Russian presence on Luna. Whatever this relic is, it must not fall into Russian hands. The safety of the British Empire may depend on it.”

“But, sir, we are only a few men.”

Bedford regarded Stevenson. The young man did not appear to be afraid, and yet he seemed to be speaking like a coward all of a sudden. “I am certain that Captain Folkard will be heading into the heart of the Russian presence on Luna, so we will not be alone,” he said, with a tone that spoke of more certainty then he felt. In truth he had little faith in the captain right now, but regardless of his feelings, the away team needed to have that faith intact. “Indeed, we will see to it that the Russians undergo a two-pronged attack. Miss Somerset, I trust you know your way back to the Russian camp?”

Miss Somerset gathered herself together. There was no questioning in her eyes. “I do, Lieutenant. However, I agree with Mister Stevenson. We are but few; we will need some sort of assistance.”

“And just where do you propose we find such assistance?”

“There is a Selenite village nearby, if we…”

Miss Somerset stopped, as a distant sound echoed up the tunnel. It was an eerie, stridulous sound. More of those blasted Selenites!

“Are you leading us into an ambush, Miss Somerset?” Bedford asked, his pistol now pointed directly at Miss Somerset’s heart.

“Captain, I…” Miss Somerset shook her head. “This is absurd! I have already told you the Selenites are not your enemy. They are not warmongers.”

Bedford looked up the tunnel, past Miss Somerset. The sound of the Selenites was still some distance away, more than enough time to expose a traitor. “Then what possible assistance can they offer us?”

4.

STEVENSON HAD been watching Bedford ever since he had decided they should discard their atmosphere suits. He could not place his finger on what, but something was different about the lieutenant.

As best as they could tell, Miss Somerset had been perfectly open and honest with them about what had transpired on Luna before she had cause to send out a distress heliograph, and her view on the Selenites seemed to be informed and truthful. Stevenson saw no deception on her face. She showed no fear about the fast approaching Selenites, even if the team from the Sovereign did have reason to feel otherwise, but to call her a traitor…

Stevenson knew he was playing with fire, not to mention endangering his entire naval career, but he had to step in and defend Miss Somerset. This he did, stepping directly in the line of fire.

“Lieutenant, Miss Somerset has given us absolutely no cause to suspect her of betrayal.”

“Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, you will stand aside, or you will be arrested and tried for treason, too.”

Stevenson’s brow furrowed. “Treason, sir? That is ridiculous. You are aiming your gun at a woman, a civilian. This is not fitting of a lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Navy.”

Bedford’s gun did not waver. “Then perhaps you are in collusion? Is that why you both stopped earlier? Setting up this ambush?”

“Sir, there is no ambush.” Stevenson indicated the tunnel behind Miss Somerset. “We do not know those Selenites pose a threat. Indeed, Miss Somerset insists otherwise.”

“And I am right,” she said. Miss Somerset stepped to the side, so she was once again in full view of Lieutenant Bedford. “I appreciate your support, Mister Stevenson, but I am quite capable of defending myself.”

“Of course you are,” Bedford said with a sneer.

Stevenson could no longer believe it. Bedford always seemed to be a firm man, perhaps more so than was necessary, but he had never given Stevenson reason to doubt him. Truly they had only served together for a matter of weeks, but nonetheless, the man before him was becoming less and less like the commanding officer Stevenson had come to know.

“Been well trained by your Russian paymasters, I’ll wager,” Bedford continued.

Fury, there was no other word for it, washed across Miss Somerset’s face like a tsunami. “Take back those words!” she verily hissed.

A shot was fired from Bedford’s pistol but Miss Somerset had anticipated it. She dived into a roll and came back up on her feet mere inches from Bedford. As she rose, she drove the butt of her carbine into Bedford’s jaw. Stevenson, clearly not as paralysed by the sudden action as the other men, stepped forward to intercede.

He barely moved an inch when he felt the unmistakable pressure of someone’s hand press firmly on his shoulder.

5.

K’CHUK EXPLAINED, in his own inimitable way, that he and his fellow Selenites had once been prisoners of the Russians, but he had escaped with Annabelle.

“Then Doctor Grant is not working with the Russians,” Folkard said.

Nathanial was not surprised to hear this, and said so. “Did I not inform you of such, Captain? Doctor Grant would not place his niece in danger intentionally.”

“Yet still, danger they found, Professor.”

Nathanial could not argue that point, and so he did not. Instead he listened more to K’chuk’s story.

The escape had transpired some time ago, and K’chuk and Annabelle had split up; she to send for assistance from Earth and K’chuk to try and free his people from the clasp of the Russians. The drones, as K’chuk called them, were being used for slave labour.

“Do you know where the gooddoctor is?” Nathanial asked. It seemed he had become the liaison between Folkard and the Selenites. Although he had not said anything, it was quite clear that despite his good humour, Captain Folkard was not entirely comfortable around the Selenites, who themselves were standing to one side, as if keeping guard.

K’chuk nodded his bulbous head. “Always know other Selenites. Gooddoctor with Selenite slaves.”

Nathanial did not bother to ask how K’chuk always knew where other Selenites were; he suspected there was much about them he would never understand. Although he surely wanted to know more. Perhaps he would discover more on the journey to Doctor Grant. He certainly hoped so.

“Can you lead us to Doctor Grant? We must affect a rescue.”

“And put an end to the Russian’s presence on Luna,” Folkard added for good measure.

Nathanial nodded. “Yes, that, too. We will free your fellows, K’chuk.”

“Now steady on, Professor. That’s a tall order. We have a very limited number of men at the moment…”

Nathanial shook his head and looked at K’chuk. “Please excuse us a moment.”

K’chuk bowed and shuffled his way over to his fellows. Once he was gone Nathanial turned to Folkard. “Consider, Captain, if you will. With the few men you have right now, which not counting those on the Sovereign and Bedford’s own small team leaves us three, you will not stand much of a chance against a fully entrenched Russian okhrana. We already know they have been here for some time, and clearly wield enough power to torture the Selenites and hold both Annabelle and Grant against their will. I am no fighter, Captain, so beyond the intellectual what practical use will I be?”

“You have acquitted yourself quite well so far, Professor, do not forget that.”

“Thank you, Captain, most gracious. Not entirely sure it is justified praise, but thank you nonetheless. So, at best that leaves us three. We will need help.”

Folkard looked at the Selenites. “More ants?”

“Certainly. If they are anything like their Earth cousins then they will be a whole lot stronger than they appear.”

“Yet still they have been easily subjugated by the Russians.”

Nathanial let out a sigh. “Yes, but K’chuk has already told us that they are not fighters. That does not negate their potential.”

At this Folkard raised an eyebrow. “And now you wish me to turn these peace-loving creatures into soldiers? An army?”

“I sincerely do not wish it, no, but I think it may be necessary. At the very least, if we can free the drones then we have more numbers. Do you honestly think that if we stand up against the Russians, the Selenites will stand by and do nothing? I believe every sentient being would fight to protect their home if it be needed.”

For a few moments Folkard just watched Nathanial, his eyes never leaving the younger man’s face. Then his lips parted into a beaming smile. “I quite agree, Professor, I just wanted to make sure that you understood the reasons for my future actions.”

Nathanial wished he could smile, too. He was not a pacifist by any means, but the idea of forcing people, even if they were giant ants, into fighting did not sit well with him. He did, however, agree in the necessity of it.

“However,” Folkard continued, “first things first. Mister Ainsworth!”

The able seaman appeared quickly and saluted his captain. “Sir!”

“Return to the Sovereign. I shall arrange with K’chuk to leave a small group of Selenites here. Apparently they are particularly good at locating each other, and I am counting on that ability. Report the current situation to Major Larkins, and have him return with the Royal Marine contingent. Professor Stone, K’chuk and I will proceed to the Russian camp. We will stir things up, but reinforcements will certainly be needed as soon as they can get there.”

“Very good, sir.” Ainsworth saluted once more then left the way they had come.

Nathanial watched him go, then looked to the captain.

“Shall we speak to K’chuk then, Professor? I think it is high time we really got our hands dirty.”

Nathanial looked at his bandaged hand. “Such as they are,” he said ruefully.

6.

A PIERCING sound reverberated throughout the tunnel, causing the humans to fall to their knees. Four Selenites, of the same hue as the drones with K’chuk, turned the corner and stopped. A fifth Selenite, this one a dark red in colour, walked through the middle of them and approached the humans.

Annabelle lifted her head. She had yet to visit the nearby Selenite village, but K’chuk had shown her how to recognise when she was near one. There were telltale signs in the strata of the tunnel walls, signs only the Selenites knew. She had known, immediately, that the village ahead was home to a queen. Not all Selenite colonies were run by queens, most of them were led by the same breed of enhanced Selenite as K’chuk, but throughout the sub-lunar catacombs there were a few queens, all of whom were well protected. The Selenite approaching her was one such queen. The red, almost-translucent nature of her skin was the first indication, and the enlarged postpetiole, standing out like some over-inflated balloon at the rear of her body was the confirmation.

“What the devil happened?”

Annabelle looked to Bedford, who was slowly rising to his feet. The anger she had felt towards him was no longer there, and he looked at her with an almost embarrassed countenance. He reached down to help her to her feet.

“Miss Somerset, I really ought to apologise. I have no idea why I said those things.”

For her own part, Annabelle had no idea why she had responded so violently to his accusations about her role with the Russians. Certainly she had no love for them, and what they put her through to ensure the co-operation of her uncle…But she had been through much worse and had always refrained from such outpourings of hatred.

“It is nothing, Lieutenant. I believe none of us were acting ourselves. Save, perhaps, for Mister Stevenson.”

Annabelle turned to where she believed Stevenson to be, but he was not there. She looked back. The three men, Bedford, Platt and Miller, were now once again on their feet. Looking around, perplexed and perhaps a little fearful of the red Selenite before them, but most definitely present.

“Lieutenant Bedford, where is Mister Stevenson?”

“He is over…” Bedford stopped, glancing around the tunnel. As far as the eye could see there was no sign of Stevenson. “He was here but moments ago.”

Annabelle agreed. From the moment of the fight to now, barely a few seconds had passed. Surely not enough time for Stevenson to run away. She looked to the queen, and bowed her head politely. “Perhaps you can tell us what happened?”

The queen did not immediately respond, instead she just stood there, seemingly looking down on the humans. Then she spoke, her English more fluid than K’chuk’s ever was. “Come, follow me to safety. Drobates inhabit walls.”

“Drobates?” Bedford asked. Annabelle merely shook her head. It was not a name she had heard before.

The queen walked away. Before turning the corner she looked back at them once, then continued on, her retinue of drones following her. Bedford approached Annabelle.

“Miss Somerset, what is going on?”

“I confess that I do not know, Lieutenant. But I suggest we follow her, as ordered.”

“Ordered?”

“Yes. She is a queen, and she’s offering us her protection.”

Bedford was incredulous, but he soon pulled himself together and turned to his remaining men. “We have an audience with royalty, look sharp there,” he said, and led the way after the Selenites. Annabelle took up the rear. She looked around one final time before following.

Stevenson could not have simply vanished. It was impossible.

Chapter Seven

An Audience with Q’theletockus

1.

“I SIMPLY do not have a definitive answer, Miss Somerset,” Lieutenant Bedford said, which were the exact words Annabelle had expected to hear. “I can only assume it was a case of mountain sickness.”

Annabelle frowned. This was a phrase new to her. “Mountain sickness?”

“An analogy, for clearly we have climbed no mountains this day. Mountain sickness refers to the effects of breathing the rarefied air of great heights, although in this case I am referring to the unusual atmosphere content on these sub-lunar caverns. That, coupled with the limited supply of air remaining in my atmosphere suit, well…”

“It all conspired to bring out the wild man in you?” Annabelle offered, unable to keep a smile from her lips.

Bedford’s own smile was returned grimly. There was something of the Chiricahua about him, although he clearly had no Indian ancestry, and Annabelle was not entirely sure if she liked it or not. “I have no other reason that makes any kind of sense,” he said.

“Nor I. However it does not explain my extreme reaction, Lieutenant. I had ample supply of oxygen; I did not need to rely on residual traces within an atmosphere suit. As for the rarefied air of these caverns…I have been on Luna for some time, and I had not reacted in such a way until earlier.” Annabelle shrugged. “It is a mystery. As is the disappearance of Mister Stevenson.”

“Yes, I will confess that is something I cannot explain. I did not take him for a deserter.”

Annabelle shook her head. “He had no time to desert. He simply vanished.”

“That is quite impossible. I have seen many strange things since joining the Navy, but nothing that has given me a belief in magic. Since people do not simply vanish, he must have run away.” Bedford looked sideways with a sigh. Clearly he did not believe this of Stevenson either. “Perhaps your Selenite friends can explain things to us? They are native to this place after all.”

“They are drones, Lieutenant; they have no capacity for speech. However, their queen…”

“Clearly does. But where is she?”

They had been led to the Selenite village, a series of connected spherical caverns, and once in the first cavern they had been instructed by the queen to wait. This Bedford and Annabelle did, while Platt and Miller were requested to follow two Selenites to the food stores. Bedford gave them leave, and the two men followed the Selenites, who scaled the wall to a small hole which led to a hive. The Selenites had no trouble climbing the wall, their tarsal claws perfectly suited to the task. Miller and Platt had a bit more trouble, but soon found a way with Miller using his hands to lift Platt and then Platt pulling Miller up to him. The queen had watched this and made a shrill, unearthly sound, before she departed down a small slope which, Annabelle pointed out, led to a further hive and probably a nursery. She also felt pretty sure that the sound the queen had made was laughter.

The two of them had been alone for a good twenty minutes now, guarded by four Selenites; two by the main entrance of the cavern, and one each protecting the small entrances to the upper and lower hives. Clearly they were not that trusted yet, although they had not relieved the humans of their weapons. Perhaps word of Annabelle had spread throughout Luna? Annabelle thought this distinctly possible, since the Selenites were able to communicate with each other over great distances in various, inaudible ways.

“Perhaps she is deliberating?” Annabelle said. “If I am known, then you can be sure the Russians are equally known. The queen has already helped us once; perhaps she is now weighing up the pros and cons of helping us once again. This is, after all, a big decision.”

“That’s as may be, Miss Somerset, but aiding us in rescuing your uncle and putting paid to the Russians can only be good for her. After all, did you not say that her own people are held captive by the Russians, too?”

“Not necessarily, Lieutenant.” Bedford looked at her, confused. Annabelle continued. “There are many Selenite colonies throughout Luna, some have queens, others are led by retainers of knowledge, while others are mutually co-dependent on each other. There is nothing to say that the Selenites enslaved by Tereshkov are a part of this colony.”

“Nonetheless, Miss Somerset, they are Selenites.”

Annabelle was surprised by Lieutenant Bedford’s apparent naivety in this matter. He was a good deal older than her, and clearly had a distinguished career in the British Navy. He surely must have seen plenty in his time. Even Annabelle, with only nineteen years, had seen enough to know that one did not necessarily help another simply because they were of the same species. She thought back to her parents and the Chiricahua Apaches, and shook her head. She opened her mouth to draw Bedford’s attention to this, but sound from the entrance to the upper hive distracted her.

Platt and Miller had returned, carrying in their hands grey fungus. At the sight of it, Annabelle let out a groan. Bedford looked at her enquiringly, and she forced a smile. “Dinner is served, Lieutenant.”

“Capital!” Bedford said and got to his feet and clambered across the cavern to give Platt a hand down.

Annabelle did not wish to contradict him, he seemed so happy at the prospect of trying the lunar fungus. Perhaps he liked the taste of sour milk.

2.

“LUNAR BATS?”

Now Bedford had heard it all. He had tried some strange things that were considered food, but bats had never been on any menu he had sampled.

“According to my uncle, when burned to a crisp they taste like pork,” Miss Annabelle said. “Which, I think it is fair to say, is better than sour milk.”

“She has a point there, sir,” Platt interjected with a laugh.

Bedford ignored Platt’s lack of decorum for the moment. It did not seem to matter a great deal, since the four of them were sitting in a cave, with giant ants nearby, and just for now rank was unimportant. Soon they would be heading into the heart of the Russian camp, and it was good that his men, all two of them, understood that their commanding officer respected them. Even Miller. Discipline was one thing, but respect counted for a lot more when entering behind enemy lines. His methods may have been different to those of Captain Folkard, but they at least agreed on having the respect of the men under their command. Besides which, they had lost several men already and were thus even more dependent on each other for their continued safety.

“She has at that,” Bedford said, chewing once more on the crunchy fungus. “Still, it will do in a pinch and I have tasted much worse.”

Miller, who had tried very little of the fungus, was looking around the small cavern at the Selenites as they went about their business. They were scuttling from one hive to the next, occasionally looking at the humans. None of them moved in for any closer inspection, but that they were curious was obvious. “Sir, are we really going to get help from these ants?”

“Well, that is the rub, Mister Miller. What do you think, Miss Annabelle?”

This was the compromise. She had insisted on being called Annabelle, but as there was absolutely no likelihood of that happening Bedford had decided he could bend as far as “Miss Annabelle”; considering her age he did not think that breeched propriety too much.

“I do not know for certain,” she said, “but like I said before the Selenites are not fighters. However I have discovered that when threatened they are fiercely protective of their colonies.”

“Then, perhaps we can…”

Bedford was interrupted by the arrival of a small group of Selenites. At their head was a copper-coloured one, slightly bigger than the rest. Miss Annabelle scrambled to her feet in the most un-ladylike manner Bedford had ever seen. He covered his mouth with his hand and smiled. If only women were allowed to serve in the Navy.

“K’chuk! It is good to…” Miss Annabelle stopped inches away from the Selenite, a frown creasing her brow. “You are not K’chuk.”

“I K’ovib. I bring you to Q’theletockus. Follow.” K’ovib turned and walked the way he came. The other Selenites remained, waiting for the humans to follow.

“A problem, Miss Annabelle?” Bedford asked once he had joined her.

“Possibly. K’ovib is a retainer of knowledge, an enhanced Selenite, a sort of elder of the colonies. K’chuk led me to believe that a colony is run by either a queen or a retainer, not both.”

Bedford pursed his lips together. “Clearly something has changed, then.”

3.

FOLKARD’S TEAM came to an abrupt halt. They had ventured deeper into the tunnels, led by K’chuk. Nathanial had, through conversing with K’chuk, been able to ascertain that Selenites communicated by the use of pheromones, among other things. The slaves were aware of K’chuk’s approach and had already begun to make plans on revolting against their Russian masters. First though, Folkard, Nathanial and K’chuk would have to cross into the Russian camp. To that end they had followed the rumbling sound of a machine. Folkard felt certain he knew what it was.

Now they stood at the mouth of another cavern, flat against the tunnel wall. Nathanial could feel the vibration of the machine against his back. K’chuk made to move into the cavern but Folkard reached forward and grasped one of the Selenites fore-legs.

“K’chuk, no!” he said with a hiss of breath. “We must do this with stealth. If the Russians are alerted to our arrival, your people will be in danger.”

K’chuk lowered his head and pulled back against the wall. “Selenites in danger now.”

“Yes, but still they live. Let us keep it that way.”

The rumbling ceased presently, and Folkard peered around the corner. “Excellent. Professor, K’chuk, please remain here. I will signal you momentarily.” With that Folkard slung his carbine over his shoulder and snuck around the corner.

Nathanial edged past K’chuk to see what Folkard was doing.

In the next cavern stood a large, fearsome looking vehicle. Nathanial had not seen its like before, although he was put in mind of a locomotive engine, albeit one without a chimney. Black smoke emerged from a small pipe at the rear, situated above the door which was, even now, being lowered. Constructed with panels of steel, the vehicle stood on four large iron wheels, with an elongated drill head attached to the front.

A Russian soldier, dressed in the uniform of the Russian Imperial Army, emerged from the rear of the vehicle, unaware of Folkard who was crouched by the side of the machine. By the time he became aware it was too late. Folkard moved swiftly, bringing the butt of his carbine smashing down on the back of the Russian’s head. Folkard grabbed the Russian under the arms and gently lowered him to the dusty floor.

“Spokoinoi nochi, sladkih snov,” Folkard said quietly.

He glanced over at Nathanial, and was about to say something but before he could a second Russian, this time unseen by Folkard, had emerged from the drilling vehicle and had drawn his own gun. This he aimed directly at Folkard.

“Ne tak tiho kak ty dumal, Britanskaya shval!”

Once again Nathanial wished he had a weapon. The Russian had his back to Nathanial, and so Nathanial quietly stepped into the cavern with the intention of catching the Russian unaware. He was no expert at fisticuffs, but he would give it his all if he could catch Folkard’s would-be killer unawares…

A rusty blur of colour whizzed past him.

It took Nathanial a few moments to realise what it was, and by then K’chuk had already sprung on to the back of the Russian. The man staggered forward, trying to shake off the giant insect. K’chuk held on tight, his six tarsal claws digging in to the skin under the uniform. Blood seeped through, and still the Russian struggled. Folkard stood aside, bracing himself against the drilling vehicle, and watched, as fascinated as Nathanial, as K’chuk opened his powerful triangular mandibles. With a snap, faster than the eyes could follow, the mandibles met and the Russian’s head, in an explosion of blood, was severed.

The body, with K’chuk still on top, dropped, the head landing next to it. For a moment longer Nathanial stood where he was, his eyes locked on the severed head. Then, as the bile began to rise in his mouth, he turned away and deposited the contents of his stomach on the cavern floor. The sight, and the cloying stench of the blood, was just too much for him.

4.

THEY PASSED through a hive, where they were practically ignored by the Selenites there (Annabelle wished she had time to stop and observe, since she had learned much from K’chuk, but second-hand information was no substitute for first-hand experience), and continued on a downward slope into a small, narrow, tunnel. Grey fungus filled almost every inch of the wall. The queen, Q’theletockus, stood at the foot of the tunnel, no doubt guarding the nursery beyond, with two Selenites either side of her. K’ovib indicated where Bedford and Annabelle were to stand, a few feet from the queen, and Miller and Platt stopped behind them.

“Why you come here?” Q’theletockus asked, the human words grating in her mouth. “We Esitonina not war with other species, we live in peace. You bring evil here.”

Bedford opened his mouth to speak, but Annabelle touched his arm gently and he looked to her. “Lieutenant, if I may.”

Bedford did not look convinced, but he stepped back discretely. Annabelle knelt on one knee and looked up at the queen. “Your Majesty, we did not bring war to you. We, my uncle and I, came in peace. My uncle is known to your people as the ‘gooddoctor’, he has helped a Selenite colony before. You must know K’chuk.”

“K’chuk told us of the gooddoctor. You his batch relation?”

“Yes, I am Annabelle Somerset. I helped K’chuk be free of the Russians, the men who brought evil to your world.”

The queen was silent for a moment. “We trust the doctor, but he bring Russians, they come from your world. Bring death sticks like these.” Q’theletockus pointed with one of her fore-legs at the carbines slung over the humans’ shoulders. “Killed many Esitonina with your sticks.”

“Not we, Your Majesty. Unlike Luna our world is divided. We have many different, uh, colonies. I am American, these men are English.”

“Like I Esitonina, K’chuk Compuntos. We are many colonies, but still one.”

Annabelle sighed. “I wish Earth was so, but it is very different to Luna. Our colonies often fight over land. Every colony wishes to be stronger than the others.”

“This not their land to fight over. Heart not know evil like this.”

“We are different to you,” Annabelle said, feeling like she was losing her footing. She had to make them understand that not all humans were the same. “It would be impossible to explain human nature to you, mostly because we do not truly understand ourselves. If you know K’chuk then you must know that my uncle, the gooddoctor, did not bring evil to you. Indeed, even now, he is being forced to work against his will. Just as other Selenites are. K’chuk and I escaped; he freed many Selenites while I asked for help. Help to stop this evil.”

“You asked for more war, more evil. More men with death sticks.”

Annabelle swallowed hard. The queen, once again, spoke true. Annabelle removed the carbine from her shoulder and gently lowered it to the ground between her and the queen. “We did not seek to bring evil to your world, but it is here now, and it will only be removed with more…evil.”

“Miss Somerset,” Bedford whispered in her ear, “the British Empire is not to be considered evil. Explain this to her.”

Annabelle bit her lip, ignoring Bedford, and praying he would not oppose her openly in front of the queen. Things were delicate, and the brash thinking of a military mind would only tip the balance against them.

“Your Majesty, please understand, if we do not use death sticks against the Russians, they will remain. They will continue to dig into the heart of this world. Many more Selenites will be killed.”

The queen became agitated. “No! They must not be with Heart.”

“They have heart, but they seek different things to us. They look for…” Annabelle was stumped. How could she explain the Russians desire for the relic and the power it offered them? Of course! “That which you worship, they look to misuse it.”

“Not Heart!”

Annabelle raised her hands, in an attempt to placate the queen. Ants on Earth were some of the most vicious creatures on the planet. They fought mercilessly to protect their nests. Annabelle recognised the sound in Q’theletockus’ voice; it was hysteria! It was just what they needed.

“We can stop them, Your Majesty, me and my companions here. But only with your help.”

5.

FOLKARD STEPPED out of the Mole Drill and walked over to Professor Stone, who was still standing near the mouth of the tunnel looking a little on the worse side of green. He had been sure the professor was stepping up to the plate quite well, but clearly K’chuk’s unexpected bout of aggression was just that bit too much for his delicate stomach. For his own part, Folkard had seen much worse in his time as a naval officer, he had done a brief tour during the early days of the colonisation of Mars that would make the most resolute men turn green, but that was not to say he enjoyed seeing a man’s head being severed from his body.

“Are you quite all right now, Professor?”

The look Stone gave Folkard left little room for misinterpretation. “Peaceable ants? Something tells me turning the Selenites into soldiers will be a lot easier than either of us thought.”

“Well, I shan’t grumble too loudly, Professor, K’chuk did save my life, and in effect yours. How do you think you would fair on Luna without me, surrounded by Russians?”

“A fair point, Captain. Nonetheless…”

“What if K’chuk turns on us?” Folkard looked back at the Mole Drill. K’chuk was inside the vehicle now, as fascinated by the interior as Professor Stone was about the Selenites as a whole. “We do not know for certain, but something in me tells me to trust him. He has had ample opportunity to strike if he had a mind to.”

Stone nodded his agreement. “Very well, we have come too far to turn back now. And I was warned about the dangers of this mission. Let us make haste then.”

Folkard turned and walked back towards the Mole Drill. “Haste is unlikely, Professor. A Mole Drill is not made for speed, but rather for power. With enough coal it is essentially unstoppable.”

“What puzzles me, though, Captain, is why the Russians would need such a vehicle. Luna is littered with tunnels and caverns. What need is there to create more?”

“A question to which we will soon learn the answer. I speak a little Russian; perhaps it is enough to get some answers from our captive.”

Together they entered the Mole Drill, and Folkard looked at the man in question. The sub-lieutenant was bound with rope, a dirty rag, no doubt used to wipe the coal-dust off the driver’s forehead, served as a gag. His decapitated comrade had been secreted away in a burrow in the cavern; it had been freshly dug by K’chuk, who claimed that often times Selenites created such burrows to store food. The smell would not last long, it would soon join the usual sub-lunar stench which, Folkard began to realise, was probably rotting meat in other burrows. He was no expert on ant culture, but he did know that meat-eating ants existed, and most likely the same applied for the Selenites. He stepped closer to the prisoner.

“You will talk, tovarish, or my little friend over there will make a meal out of you, too.” Folkard nodded towards K’chuk who was standing on the raised platform next to the coal chamber. The Russian’s eyes widened in horror. He may not have spoken English, but he understood the meaning.

“I not kill. Only to save,” K’chuk said.

Folkard walked over to K’chuk and said in a whisper; “I understand that, K’chuk, but we do not wish our captive to be a party to that information. We need to know what the enemy is planning to successfully rescue your brethren.”

K’chuk was silent, his bulbous head tilting from side to side. Then he nodded. “Understand, friend Folkard.”

“Superb. Professor Stone?”

Stone, who was looking around the large interior, turned to Folkard. “A fascinating vehicle,” he said.

“I am glad you think so, since it is time for you to learn how drive it.”

“Me?” Stone was quite incredulous.

“Of course, what other person is there? I will be busily engaged in extracting information from this retrograde. K’chuk will help you.”

Stone swallowed and stepped past Folkard. The professor did not rate their success in this endeavour, and in truth Folkard had his doubts, too, but the basic operations of a Mole Drill were simple enough and the professor was a smart man. As Stone climbed the ladder to the raised level, Folkard pulled the lever that activated the door winch. Soon they would be behind enemy lines, and then they would learn first-hand what they were up against.

Folkard found he was rather looking forward to it.

Chapter Eight

Into the Russian Camp

1.

THE QUEEN agreed, although she would not be leaving the village herself. K’ovib was to head the Selenite army (a term Bedford used rather loosely), which consisted of ten of the ugly blighters and K’ovib. Bedford was glad for the help, not least because they knew a quicker way to the Russian camp than Miss Annabelle.

Along the way, K’ovib instructed a few of his fellows to start digging. This, at first, puzzled Bedford, until they revealed a previously dug hole which contained a crate of light Russian rifles and ammunition. Unfortunately the ammunition was not compatible with the carbines he and his men held, and so eight of the Selenites took up arms. There was something incredibly ludicrous about seeing ants with rifles, but who was Bedford to argue. A ramshackle army was better than none, although only marginally.

“You look perturbed, Lieutenant.”

They continued down a tunnel and Bedford looked over at Miss Annabelle who had drawn forward to come alongside his left. Bedford was taking up point, his Lancaster drawn and ready, with K’ovib, who did not favour the “weapon sticks” walking to his left. They were followed by four armed Selenites, Miller and the two unarmed ants, and then the remaining four armed Selenites walking before Platt who took up the rear. “Not exactly, Miss Annabelle. I am merely running my mind over a few things.”

“Putting together your plan?”

Bedford smiled at this. “It is hard to plan strategy without knowing the layout of the land, and unfortunately Q’thelocutus…”

“Q’theletockus,” Miss Annabelle interjected.

Bedford looked down at her. She had a sly streak in her. Formidable she may have been, very able with a weapon no doubt, but she was still quite young; only nineteen she had told him. In some ways she appeared to be much older, but once in a while her true age showed through. “Yes, her,” Bedford continued, adopting the same sly tone as Miss Annabelle, “she was not able to provide any intel regarding the Russian camp. Very few of her people have ventured too close.”

“Understandable, my dear George. If they had, it is highly unlikely they would have returned. Tereshkov can never have too many slaves.”

“Hmm, a man of affluence in his native Russia, no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

He looked at her once again, not for one moment convinced by her innocent expression. “So, you see my problem, Miss Annabelle. I am, as the most amazing musicians would undoubtedly say, playing it by ear.”

“Well, if it helps, I feel sure that once the enslaved Selenites see our little band here they will soon revolt.”

“That is as may be, and although I will be glad for the extra help, of course, I am rather hoping Captain Folkard comes through.” Miss Annabelle now looked confused, and Bedford smiled again. “You said the Russian camp is near to the bottom of the gorge, and that is certainly where the Sovereign would have…departed.” He paused, to compose his thoughts. He still did not understand why Folkard would leave the away team to certain death. Certainly he would have known Bedford would find a solution, if one was available, but nevertheless…“Even if the gorge proves too narrow for the Sovereign, Captain Folkard will have discovered a way to the camp. His mission will be to rescue your uncle, and you can be assured that he will beat us to the pinch.” At least, Bedford hoped that was true.

“So you anticipate that our own little army is merely to play the role of cavalry?”

“At the very least. Although I am hoping for something a little more. Distracted as they will be by Folkard’s redoubtable army, they will never see us coming.”

2.

FOLKARD’S REDOUBTABLE army was indeed about to enter the Russian camp, and maybe even provide the distraction Bedford was counting on, but first there was the little problem of steering the Mole Drill with which to contend.

Professor Stone was playing the role of fireman, shovelling coal from the bunker into the coal chamber, while K’chuk, with this four fore-legs was operating the instruments and levers than controlled the vehicle. Folkard was glad they were not trying to actually drill anywhere, for the resulting tunnel would be the most haphazard in the entire underground world of Luna. For all his good points, hand to eye co-ordination was not K’chuk’s strongest suit. Nonetheless, he was clearly excited about driving the Mole Drill so Folkard did not intercede. Instead he continued to attempt questioning his prisoner.

The sub-lieutenant now sat with his back inches from the boiler, two pannier tanks either side of him. The more coal the professor shovelled, the hotter the boiler was getting. Yet still the prisoner was being increasingly uncooperative. Folkard really did not wish to resort to violence, but he was running out of both time and patience.

“Skaji mne gde nahodista Doktor Grant.”

The Russian looked Folkard up and down, his lips twisted in disgust. “Idi k chortu, Britanskaya svinya! Slava Rossiykoi Imperii budet bezgranichna.”

Folkard frowned. His Russian was rusty. He had so little need to practice it, and had not dealt directly with Russians for a long while. Now, if it had been a German camp he would have known exactly what his captive had said. Folkard straightened up. Something about hell and glory he felt sure, and the Russian Empire.

“How are we doing, Professor?” he asked, stepping away from his prisoner.

Stone looked up from the heat of the burning coal he had just shovelled into the chamber. Through the black soot on his face, he beamed a smile. “Refreshingly well, Captain,” he said, and stood up straight, resting one arm on the shovel. Folkard noted the bandage on the professor’s left hand was filthy. More grey than white. “I think perhaps I missed my calling. I was never a boy who wanted to drive a locomotive train, but maybe I ought to have been.”

“Something to think on when we return to Earth.”

“Quite so, Captain,” the professor responded with a large grin.

“And how is our erstwhile driver faring?”

Stone looked at K’chuk who was pulling gently on the screw-reverser. “Enjoying himself a little too much. What do you think, K’chuk?”

Without turning his head, the Selenite responded; “We near camp.”

“Splendid.” Folkard looked down at his captive. “You are about my size,” he said, “so a temporary rank reduction is in order.”

3.

NATHANIAL REALLY was not too sure about this. So he said so. Captain Folkard, now dressed in the uniform previously worn by their Russian captive looked up from the lower deck of the Mole Drill.

“Sub-Poruchik now, Professor,” Folkard replied with a grin on his face, and placed his neatly folded uniform on a small shelf along the bulkhead of the vehicle. “Calling me captain out there just might attract a little bit too much attention. Attention we most certainly have no wish of courting.”

“Naturally not. But that is rather my point. K’chuk and I will attract unwanted attention. I for one do not possess even a smattering of Russian and K’chuk…well, he is a little conspicuous just being what he is.”

Folkard considered this, as he walked the length of the interior and stopped at the foot of the ladder. “K’chuk, are there other Selenites like you in the Russian camp?”

K’chuk looked down at Folkard. “Not like K’chuk. Retainers of knowledge dead or soon dead.”

“Soon dead?” Folkard asked.

“I believe I understand,” Nathanial said, and turned to K’chuk. “They are being tortured. But why? To what end?”

For a moment K’chuk did not reply. He looked away, his compound eyes once more focusing on the view through the small slit by which the driver of the Mole Drill navigated. “I not say. Sacred.”

Nathanial continued to stare at the back of K’chuk’s rusty head. This all had something to do with the glow, he felt certain. Tereshkov had discovered something, something that had caught the interest of Doctor Grant, something that was sacred to the Selenites. It just had to be related to the glow in some way. No wonder the drones were so willing to rebel…Just like the ants on Earth, the Selenites would protect that which was important to them.

Folkard was looking thoughtful, but he did not press the issue. In truth they both knew that they had received more help from K’chuk and his Selenites than they deserved. He shook it away and smiled.

“One final thing to complete my disguise. If you would care to make some room for me, Professor?” he asked, as he took to the ladder.

Nathanial stepped back as far as he could without brushing into the controls of the backhead, and allowed room for the captain. Folkard reached for the head of the shovel and rubbed his hands into the coal dust, which he then proceeded to rub across his face. Nathanial glanced down at the restrained prisoner, now only in his under garments, and nodded. Coupled with the sweat already forming due to the vicinity of the burning coal and the boiler, Folkard’s face now looked somewhat similar to that of the prisoner.

“A stupendous disguise,” Nathanial said, “however this still does not negate my previous concern.”

“Yes.” Folkard climbed back down the ladder. “What to do with you and K’chuk? Perhaps a solution will reveal itself when we enter the camp.”

“We can but hope.” Nathanial peered over K’chuk’s head. There was a glimmer of light ahead. “I believe we are just about there.”

4.

EVEN SEEN through the small partition it was quite an impressive sight. After all the tunnels and small caves, Folkard was beginning to think that was all there was to the secret underground world of Luna. Not so.

The Mole Drill emerged from a narrow tunnel, just big enough to fit the vehicle through, onto an upper level overlooking a wide open space, just over a mile in diameter. At the far end of the open area was a reservoir, taking up a good sixty percent of the overall area, running from the furthest wall out to a bank directly before the Mole Drill. To their left was a bore drilling platform, the massive drill grinding its way into the lunar ground. Selenites of various size and shape were scattered around the drilling area, carrying what looked like buckets of coal away from the area, which they deposited into large bunkers some distance away. From those bunkers other Selenites worked, slowly loading small one-man aerial flyers which then transported the collected minerals out of the large cavern to whatever waited beyond. Folkard suspected that to be the aether flyer that he been seen travelling from and to Luna from time to time. The Selenites were guarded by armed Russian okhrana, rifles at the ready and whips in hand. On the right bank of the reservoir stood a fenced-off compound, within which could be seen many Selenites of the same shade as K’chuk. Some were lying lifeless on the rocky ground, while others shuffled about with what Folkard could only describe as limps. The tortured retainers of knowledge. A row of tents sat nearby, some small, others much larger. This was the command centre of the Russian okhrana. It seemed logical that the commander of the okhrana would want to be in the heart of his operation, rather than safe and secure on an ironclad flyer. Logical only because this operation had clearly been taking place for some time, and the governments of the world had no idea. Folkard would ensure that situation soon changed.

“I see no sign of civilian life, Professor. Can you spot Doctor Grant?”

“Perhaps he is in one of those tents?” Stone ruminated. “Or perhaps not. Over there!” The professor pointed back to a space near the bore drill.

Folkard looked closer, and sure enough he saw two civilians, with an armed guard. They were walking from the drill platform to what appeared to be some kind of wooden lift, which itself hovered above an open chasm. The taller of the two civilians, with wild white hair on his head, was talking to a soldier in the okhrana.

“Tereshkov,” Folkard said, referring to the wild haired old man, and continued to watch as the men stopped by the lift platform. Tereshkov and the soldier finished their discussion, Doctor Grant looking to the ground, much less enthused by the conversation than the Russians were. The soldier turned and walked away, leaving Tereshkov, Grant and their guard to climb onto the lift platform. “We need to get to that lift. K’chuk, guide the Mole Drill in that direction.”

As K’chuk obeyed, and Professor Stone resumed shovelling coal into the chamber, Folkard turned to their prisoner. “Just what is your game here?” The man ignored him, merely glaring in response, his jaw firm and determined. Folkard narrowed his eyes. He did not much care for Russians as a rule, but if that man had been one of his own men Folkard knew he would immediately respect such resolve. “Professor,” he said sharply, spinning on his heels, “just how close to the gorge would you say we are?”

“Hard to ascertain. I was keeping a rather good mental map of our journey through the tunnels, but since we commandeered this Mole Drill, well, I am afraid shovelling coal has taken precedence.”

Folkard could not help but smile at that. Although he hardly imagined the professor taking up the calling of a locomotive fireman, he did seem to be fitting into the role quite snugly. Folkard supposed when you spent your entire life trying to impress others, a position with little expectations had to be rather refreshing. “What would be your best guess?”

“I suspect close. Those flyers transporting the coal must be going somewhere…”

“Yes, I suspect to an aether flyer that is berthed nearby. No doubt transporting the coal to Earth, making someone in Russia quite wealthy.”

Stone nodded. “That seems reasonable. Coupled with the presence of Doctors Grant and Tereshkov, we can safely assume we are in close proximity to the source of the glow, and thus the mouth of the gorge.” For a moment Folkard was silent, as he digested this information, until the professor interrupted his thoughts. “What are you thinking, Captain?”

“I was thinking about the small team I sent to investigate the bottom of the gorge.”

“The men in the cutter? Oh, I see. I do not suppose they would have fared well against an ironclad.”

“Succinctly put, Professor. Although that is not to say they were all killed.”

“Taken captive?”

Folkard nodded.

Professor Stone’s expression turned grim. It was a look that did not suit the usually open young man. He indicated their own captive. “Perhaps we can trade?”

It was an option Folkard had not considered. With reason. “Out of the question, Professor. Even if the Russians were willing to trade, I will not barter for a man’s life, be it one of mine or theirs. No, we shall proceed with my plan.”

“And just what is that plan, Captain?”

5.

THE PLAN seemed simple enough, but Nathanial was not so sure he cared for it. K’chuk had been helpful to them, trusted them, not to mention he had saved Captain Folkard’s life. It seemed a rum thing to do, to put K’chuk in the line of fire like this. Folkard had explained to K’chuk exactly what he wanted, and why, and K’chuk had agreed readily. Yet still the plan did not sit well with Nathanial. Nonetheless, the door of the Mole Drill was now open and they were committed to its success.

Nathanial stood back as far as he could, keeping to the shadows, but still not so far from the door that he could not see. Folkard stood on the ramp formed by the lowered door, safe for now in his disguise. They both watched as K’chuk shuffled over to the nearest detail of Selenites. For now none of the Russians seemed to notice, although Nathanial was not entirely sure how, after all K’chuk was taller than most of the Selenites, not to mention a different colour. Maybe the Russians had got so used to seeing them that now it was a case of an ant was an ant.

Slowly a kind of buzzing sound started to spread around; it was the same stridulous sound Nathanial had heard before he saw the first Selenite in the tunnel. It started quietly, barely noticeable, as K’chuk, now picking up coal from the area around the bore drill, began talking to his fellows. Already prepared for his arrival, the response was quick. One by one the drone slaves lowered their coal buckets, and those hefting coal into the buckets merely stopped, stood to their full heights and turned to face their Russian guards.

“Vernutsya k rabote!” yelled one Russian, a phrase that was soon repeated by others. The Selenites did not respond to the command, instead they started advancing on the soldiers, ignoring the whips which lashed against them. “Otkrit ogon!”

Rifle shots rang out, and Selenites began to fall. For a second the remaining Selenites, which numbered in the upper forties, hesitated, until a shrill noise came from K’chuk. Once more the Selenites advanced, a few more fell before the Russians’ weapons, but this time they did not stop.

“Let us proceed, Professor,” Folkard said, aiming his carbine at Nathanial.

Nathanial blinked. “Captain?” he asked, fearing some kind of betrayal.

Folkard looked at the carbine, then smiled. “All part of the ruse, Professor. The bulk of the Russian forces in the reservoir cavern may be distracted, but I am certain there will be a few more soldiers around. A Russian sub-poruchik escorting a prisoner will attract less attention.”

“I see.” Nathanial swallowed hard, and began down the ramp. “To the wooden lift then?”

“That would seem prudent.” Folkard jabbed the carbine into Nathanial’s back. “Prodoljaite, mollusc!”

Nathanial winced but said nothing. They were in the heart of the Russian camp now, and an argumentative prisoner would surely raise one too many eyebrows. Instead, he lowered his head, and continued forward towards the lift. Before he lowered his head, though, he noticed that the Selenites, who outnumbered the Russian guards, now appeared to have the upper hand. It seemed Folkard had secured his army after all.

6.

THEY REACHED the mouth of the tunnel, and Bedford held his hand up for his team to stop. Out before them was a large open area. Directly in front of them was a fenced off compound, wherein they could see several Selenites who looked almost identical to K’ovib. A few walked around, clearly wounded, while others lay on the ground. Either exhausted or dead.

A shrill sound came from K’ovib, which Bedford took to be anger. He placed a hand on one of K’ovib’s fore-legs. “Steady on there. We will avenge your fallen comrades, of that you can be certain.”

“I believe someone had gotten a head start on us, Lieutenant,” Miss Annabelle said, pointing beyond the compound.

Bedford looked. On the opposite side of the reservoir a battle was taking place. Between Russian soldiers and Selenites. Bedford smiled. “I suspect this is Captain Folkard’s work.”

“Most certainly,” Miss Annabelle agreed, “for I assume that is he with Nathanial.”

Sure enough, as Miss Annabelle had said, the captain was indeed with Professor Stone. There was no mistaking the professor’s ginger hair and height. In his suit he looked somewhat out of place, although the dirt covering him helped him to blend in a little. The other man, equally as dirty and dressed in a Russian uniform, standing some eleven inches shorter than the professor, had the bearing of Folkard. As if to confirm Bedford’s supposition, the captain now held his carbine at the head of a Russian guard, all three of them standing on a wooden platform, which stood beneath of a large scaffold of winches and pulleys. The Russian guard reached for a lever and pulled it. The gears of the pulley shifted and the platform began to lower into a chasm below.

“Where are they going?” Miss Annabelle asked.

“I know not, but I will confess,” Bedford replied, lowering his voice so only Miss Annabelle could hear, “I am relieved to see Captain Folkard here. After he left my team behind…well, I have been forced to question why.”

“Well, he is here now, George,” Miss Annabelle said, equally quiet.

Bedford did not respond to that, instead he looked behind at his team of humans and Selenites. “Look sharp,” he said, “it is time for some liberation!”

Chapter Nine

Insect Insurrection

1.

“MISS SOMERSET, I must protest. I cannot allow you to go off on your own.”

Annabelle bit back her initial response. Lieutenant Bedford meant well, but he seemed to be forgetting, once more, that she was not one of his subordinates. She took a deep breath before answering. “Then assign one of your men to me, Lieutenant. Either way, I am going to follow Nathanial and Captain Folkard.”

“No doubt in the hope that they will lead you to your uncle?”

Annabelle met Bedford’s accusatory stare with one of steel. She would not be swayed in her decision. He was right, of course, there was little doubt that Captain Folkard and Nathanial were following her uncle’s trail. Tereshkov’s hold over Uncle Cyrus had to be severed.

Bedford let out a sigh. “Very well, Miss Somerset, but this is against my better judgement. Sending a woman into that battle is…”

“Are you suggesting I cannot handle myself, Lieutenant?” Annabelle asked, keeping her tone playful. In truth she knew he had only said such a thing to elicit a reaction from her, and so she would give him one, just not the reaction he had hoped for.

Bedford did not immediately reply, instead he attempted to keep his stare steady, and turned slightly before breaking into a smile, once he was sure that neither Miller nor Platt could see him.

“Able Seaman Platt,” he said, and waited for Platt to join them. “Would you accompany Miss Somerset in her foolhardy mission? Make sure no harm comes to her.”

Platt saluted. “Of course, sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Annabelle said with a curt nod. “And perhaps a few Selenites?”

At this Bedford shook his head. “No, just you two alone will have a better chance of drawing near to that lift platform unseen. There’s plenty of Selenites in that skirmish over there, and you can be sure that any other Russians not immediately caught up in the battle will be on the lookout for Selenites. If you wish to succeed, then it would be best to limit the attention you may draw.”

Annabelle had already decided such a thing herself, and did not expect Bedford to agree otherwise, but she felt it was her duty to ask for more than she needed. A man like Bedford needed to know that a woman like Annabelle was not one to accept the first offer given her.

“Sound reasoning. Very well, then. Mister Platt, if you are ready?”

Able Seaman Platt checked his carbine, then nodded. “After you, Miss Somerset.”

Annabelle smiled; glad to see that Platt had already ascertained that she was not one to follow. Nodding to Bedford, she turned away, still smiling, and set off. She failed to notice Bedford smiling after her.

2.

“OKAY THEN, this is what we are going to do,” Bedford said, once Miss Annabelle and Able Seaman Platt were safely on their way. He turned to his small team, all of who were giant ants…and Mister Miller. Bedford sighed inwardly. If they succeeded in securing the compound it would be nothing short of a miracle.

He looked to Miller and K’ovib. “Since only Miller and I are trained in the usage of these weapons, we shall take point. The Russians in the compound, not to mention that commander centre beyond, will soon be alerted to the battle taking place on the other side of the reservoir, so I am relying on your Selenites to shoot without question, K’ovib. You can be sure that the Russians will not be taking any prisoners now.”

“Understand, friend Bedford,” K’ovib said, and he turned to the Selenites to explain.

Bedford wished he had an opportunity to train the Selenites, but he would just have to hope they had seen the rifles in use before. Otherwise they would be doomed. The Russian Imperial Army was a highly trained unit, its soldiers experts with firearms. He did not rate Miller up against a fully trained Russian soldier, let alone the giant ants.

As soon as K’ovib finished, the Selenites all cocked their weapons as if expertly trained. Bedford frowned and looked to K’ovib.

“I retainer of knowledge. I see and learn, and teach Selenites,” he explained.

Bedford was curious to learn more of this method of teaching, since he did not recall any such lessons during their short journey from the village to the current position on the edge of the reservoir cavern, but now was not the time. If this teaching worked, then that was good enough for him. For now.

“Very well. Let us proceed with caution; we want to retain the element of surprise for as long as we…”

Bedford’s words were cut off by a shrill cry from the Selenites. As one they stormed out of the tunnel and towards the compound. Bedford blinked, quite certain he had seen K’ovib shrug.

“They protect queen. Very motivated,” K’ovib said, at the same time sounding proud and sad.

“Well, the deed is done.” Bedford looked to Miller. “Time to join the fray!”

Securing the compound was an easier task than Bedford had expected. As soon as the Selenites inside the fence noticed their fellows, armed and firing away, they too made their move. The guards inside the compound did not know what hit them. They began to fire their rifles, taking down a couple of Selenites, but the drones outside also fired. It was true that a lot of bullets went wild, the power behind the guns a little bit too much for the spindly arms of the drones, but a few bullets did strike home.

At the far end of the compound, a lone Selenite was being cornered by three Russian guards, their rifles aimed. Bedford stopped in his tracks, ignoring the gun fire around him, and lifted his Lancaster pistol. He may not have been able to take out all three Russians before they fired at the lone Selenite, but he would surely remove two of them, thus evening the odds a little. Perhaps the sight of two of his fellows would be enough to distract the third soldier long enough to enable the rusty coloured Selenite to strike back.

Then something most remarkable, and unexpected, happened. The Selenite seemed to draw its lower and upper body together, as if flexing its muscles. Abruptly it exploded, and viscous liquid flew everywhere, covering the Russians soldiers from head to foot. The screams that followed curdled Bedford’s blood, but he could not remove his eyes from the sight of the three soldiers falling to the dusty ground, writhing in pain as the venom ate its way through their uniforms and skin.

Bedford looked over at K’ovib, who was, alongside Miller, rushing over to the gate of the compound to free the Selenites who were there waiting. He wondered if all the rusty Selenites, the retainers of knowledge, had the same defence. A final option, certainly, but a devastating one. Suddenly Bedford was very glad the Selenites were on his side. What other surprises did these giant ants have in store?

A siren blared, and Bedford was instantly on the alert again. The Russians in the compound were no longer a threat, but those in the command centre were now aware of the attack. What they really needed were some more trained personnel from the Sovereign. Surely Captain Folkard did not attack this camp without any reserves?

3.

MAKING THEIR way through the chaos of the battle was less of a problem than Annabelle had anticipated. Platt was a capable gunman, taking down Russians with but one shot at a time. Where he could he would wound them so that they would not be picking up their weapons again, but when that was not an option he did not hesitate to go for the head shot. For her own part Annabelle did not much care about wounding the soldiers around her. As far as it concerned her they were all equally to blame for her mistreatment and using her against her uncle. Each shot from the carbine in her hand killed.

She had failed her parents, and she had promised to never fail her uncle.

The elevator scaffold was not far away now. There appeared to be an unconscious Russian soldier on the platform, a fact Annabelle turned to point out to Platt, only to find him gone. She looked around. He was some distance away, engaging a Russian with his fists. Annabelle lifted her carbine, but she could not get a clear shot of the Russian. She lowered her gun again. Could she afford to go back and help Platt? He was a trained Navy man, she decided, he could look after himself. Thus decided, she turned back and continued on her way to the elevator.

She barely got ten feet when she espied a Russian soldier, rifle raised, all set to take a clean shot of a rusty looking Selenite’s head. Without pausing, Annabelle raised her own gun and fired. The Russian dropped. The Selenite turned.

“Friend Annabelle!”

Water almost filled her eyes as her old friend shuffled over to her. Not even considering the strangeness of it, she hugged K’chuk. “It is good to see you.” She looked around at the battle, which, she noted, was turning very much in the favour of the Selenites. It was as she thought. Much like the ants of Earth, when threatened the Selenites could become quite a formidable force. All they really needed was someone to show them how. Someone like…“Is this your doing?”

For a moment it seemed as if K’chuk did not understand, then he nodded slowly. “Friend Folkard plan. K’chuk make Selenite army.”

Annabelle smiled. “A good job you have done of it, too.” She looked over at the elevator scaffold. “Can you work that thing?”

“Yes, I see men work machine.”

“Brilliant. Would you care to join me? I have to find Nathanial, and free my uncle.”

At first K’chuk did not move, but when he did it appeared to be with great reluctance. “They go to Heart. This bad.”

Annabelle was still unsure what this Heart was, this holy relic of the Selenites, but as she suspected her uncle was up to his neck in it. Sometimes, she reflected, as she and K’chuk advanced on the elevator, Uncle Cyrus needed saving from his own curiosity.

4.

MILLER AND K’ovib drew closer to one of the tents, while Bedford and the rest of the Selenite army proceeded to storm the largest of the tents, gunning down Russians as they did so. A guard stood at the entrance of the tent, his rifle at the ready. He seemed to be itchy, as if unsure whether to join the battle or remain at his post. This, to Miller, indicated that he was guarding something important.

Lieutenant Bedford had not said so, but it was clear his opinion of Miller was incredibly low. Not that Miller could blame his commanding officer. So far he had performed miserably. He had done his best, but he was beginning to realise that he was simply not cut out to be in the Navy. He had wanted to be, to make his parents proud, but he had no stomach for this kind of life.

He could still hear his father, as they visited Camden Market, looking for cheap paints, that a career in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy was something to be proud of. Father would have loved to serve the British Empire, but his gammy leg prevented this. Young Joseph Miller could do all the things his father never could. It was such an imploring speech that Miller had enlisted the next day.

He was determined to prove his worth, at least until this mission was over, then he would seek to be discharged from active duty.

Whatever the guard was protecting, Miller felt sure Bedford would want to know about it.

He and K’ovib now stood at the edge of the tent, hidden from the guard’s line of sight. Beside him the Selenite was making some strange noises. He turned to look, his eyes widening in horror. K’ovib was tensing himself, just like Miller had seen that Selenite in the compound do.

“No!” he hissed quietly. “K’ovib, no. Self sacrifice will not be necessary. I can handle this one man quite efficiently.” At least, he hoped he could.

He peered around the corner. The guard was looking away. Careful not to make any sound on the gravelly ground, Miller edged along the tent, his rifle ready. Just then the guard turned. His mouth dropped open in surprise at the site of the barrel aimed directly at him. The surprise lasted but seconds. The guard quickly brought his own rifle up, but Miller pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Cursing his own stupidity, Miller realised he had forgot to reload his rifle. The Russian started laughing, keeping his own gun trained on Miller’s heart.

Miller just saw red, remembering all those who had laughed at him on the streets of Camden, mocking him because of what he did. As soon as the guard threw back his head in laughter once again, Miller cast his weapon aside, grabbed the barrel of the Russian’s rifle with one hand and struck out with his other. The guard, clearly not expecting a fist in his face, staggered backwards. It was the momentary distraction Miller needed. A second later both men were on the floor, rolling about in the dust and trading blows, the discarded rifles momentarily forgotten.

Unseen by either man the flap of the tent opened and a man in full Navy uniform stepped out. He stood there for a second, three other men emerging behind him, all wearing similar smiles. He glanced back. “Time to repay a few bruises, chaps.”

Two of the men picked up the discarded rifles, reloading Miller’s, while the other two parted the scrapping men on the dusty ground. Miller looked up in surprise, the guard in anger, the barrel of his own rifle, now in the hands of a Navy officer, pressed roughly against his temple. “I advise you to be quiet.”

Miller was helped to his feet.

“Good rescue, Mister Miller,” said the lead officer.

“Uh, thanks, Brooker” Miller said, all sense of formality washed away by the surprise he felt.

“I am assuming you are not leading this rescue?”

“No, Lieutenant Bedford is.”

“Splendid.” Brooker turned to his men. “Tie this one up,” he said, “then we’ll join Lieutenant Bedford in the liberation of this little moon.”

It was at that point that K’ovib emerged from his hiding place. All heads turned to him, the two rifles being raised in unison. Miller stepped in front of them, his hands out.

“No, wait! He’s a friend.”

“A…friend?”

“Well,” Miller clarified, enjoying the look of puzzlement on the faces of his superiors, “a member of Lieutenant Bedford’s army actually.”

5.

BEDFORD LOOKED around. All the men from the command tent, those not dead, were kneeling in a line before him, guns trained on them by the Selenites. On the other side of the reservoir the Selenites also had the upper hand, and the remaining Russian soldiers were being herded together by Platt and the Selenites there.

Bedford could not help but feel a little pride at the way the Selenites had performed. It was little to do with him, of course, but they had proved to be quite an effective army indeed.

A sound alerted him to movement. He turned sharply. There was something in the nearby tunnel. There were no other men to call on, even Miller was off somewhere else, so he had no choice but to check himself. He looked at the Selenites one more time. They did not waver; clearly their Russians captives were going nowhere.

Pulling his Lancaster out of its holster, Bedford advanced on the tunnel carefully. He entered the darkened area, slowly putting one foot in front of the other while his eyes readjusted to the low light. If there was an enemy in there he had no intention of making things easy for…

The cold barrel of a pistol pressed against the back of his head.

“Bros orujie,” said a husky voice.

Bedford considered his options. Drop the weapon or attempt something clever and no doubt end up with a bullet in his brain. He released the grip on his pistol and allowed it to fall to the dusty ground. A booted foot came out of the shadow and kicked the gun away.

“Vas Britantsev slishkom legko otvelch. Nemnogo shuma i vas vimanili.” A man walked around him, laughing, the pistol held out steadily. He was about the same height as Bedford, although a slimmer build. There was a scar down the side of his left cheek, emerging from under a black eye patch. “Ti ne vstanesh na puti moyey slavnoy imperii! Mats Rossiya snovo budet velikoy, i ya sdelayu eto vozmojnim!”

Bedford shook his head. “Forgive me, but I simply have no idea what it is you are saying. Russian was not at the top of my list of things to learn,” he pointed out, although he did recognise the insignia on the soldier’s uniform meant he was a poruchik, a lieutenant.

The poruchik lifted the gun so it was pointing directly at Bedford’s head. “Vse Britantsi pogibnut ot ruki Doktor Vladimir Tereshkov!”

Again Bedford shook his head, and this time he smiled with it. “Perhaps not,” he said, and nodded behind the soldier, who just laughed.

“Akh! Ti dumayesh ya tupaya Britanskaya svinya?”

The laughter ceased at the sound of multiple weapons locking into place. This time the poruchik did glance back. It was enough of a mistake for Bedford to take advantage of. He slapped the pistol away from his head, and with his right hand he slammed his fist directly into the man’s face. He fell backwards, dropping the pistol as he did so.

Fifteen carbines were directed at the Russian poruchik.

“Lieutenant Bedford,” Major Larkins of the Royal Marines said with a smile, “we were coming to give Captain Folkard a hand.”

Bedford nodded, noticing with some confusion that Able Seaman Ainsworth stood with the marine compliment. “Well, now you are here, your team can help me clean up the mess in the Russian camp,” Bedford said, and looked down at the Russian. “You lost, old chap, accept it.”

6.

MISTER BROOKER had explained that his men had been captured by the Russians who had outgunned the cutter with their ironclad. He further explained Miller’s marvellous rescue attempt. Bedford was suitably impressed; perhaps the young man would make a good naval officer one day after all.

“Very well, Petty Officer Brooker,” Bedford said, once the report was finished. He turned to Major Larkins. “Major, take your marines, and these men here,” Bedford indicated the cutter crew, “and secure the bottom of that gorge. I believe between myself, Mister Platt and K’ovib we can keep things under control here. We have our Selenite army.”

Larkins smiled at that, saluted, and turned to his men. Orders were given, and the twenty-strong, fully armed garrison from the Sovereign set off in the direction of the gorge.

A shot echoed.

Bedford set off at a run, knowing exactly where the shot had originated. It seemed clear that as the highest ranking soldier, Poruchik Kondrashov was in charge of the Russian okhrana, no doubt ordered to report directly to Tereshkov, and as such it seemed prudent to keep him separated from the rest of the Russians.

Bedford stopped within a foot of the wounded man.

It was as he feared. Bedford truly wanted to believe that young Mister Miller was up to the task of standing guard of a tent. Alas no.

Miller now lay on the dusty ground, the flap of the tent behind him now splattered with his blood. Bedford crouched down, inspecting the gaping wound in Miller’s chest.

Miller coughed, spaying blood in Bedford’s face. “Sorry, sir. Took me by surprise…he…”

“Do not be sorry, Mister Miller, I am certain you did your best.”

Miller shook his head. “No…never wanted this. Wanted to be…” He gasped, more bloody spittle dripping out of his mouth. “Painter,” he finally said, and breathed his last.

7.

BEDFORD SEARCHED for Poruchik Kondrashov, but the lieutenant knew the camp better than he. He eventually stopped by the bore drill, which was no longer active, and watched the Selenites herd more Russians away.

Bedford looked up at the whirring sound. One of the small, one-man aerial flyers was powering up. Bedford smiled and removed his Lancaster, walking forward slowly. He aimed the gun at the man in the flyer cockpit.

Just where did Kondrashov think he was going to go? By now the marines would have secured the gorge. Even the Russian ironclad was trapped, the Sovereign would make sure of that.

“Poruchik!” Bedford shouted above the noise.

As expected Kondrashov looked back, all ready to gloat. The smile never left his face, not even when the bullet smashed through his forehead, dead centre. His body slumped over the controls and the flyer took off, heading straight for the black rocky wall.

“That was for you, Mister Miller. Every shot counts,” Bedford said, as he holstered his gun.

Chapter Ten

The Heart of Luna

1.

NATHANIAL WONDERED just how deep the lift shaft went. He had left his pocket watch in his cabin on the Sovereign, so could not readily tell how long they had been descending, but if he had to make a guess he would have said they had been on the lift platform for a good fifteen minutes. His ears had popped a little time back, a sure indication of the depth they were travelling. The shaft itself was clearly not a naturally occurring thing, evidenced by the wooden slats along the four walls of the shaft, held in place by support beams. This confirmed his previous theory that once Tereshkov had discovered the glow he had brought in the Russian okhrana, not only for protection against possible incursions and to bring the natives under control, but also to help him excavate the inner world of the moon. Nathanial could only imagine Grant’s surprise when he too had explored the gorge to ascertain the source of the glow, only to find a fully realised Russian camp at the bottom.

“Not long now, I hope,” Nathanial said.

Folkard raised an eyebrow. “One can always hope, Professor. I would ask, but I think I have reached the end of my understanding of the Russian language.”

“It would help if the man was conscious,” Nathanial pointed out.

“This is true.”

They looked down at the crumpled form of the Russian guard. Once the lift had descended out of sight, he had thought to take advantage of their distraction. Of course, what the Russian had not counted on was the fact that Folkard was well trained and could quite easily take in his surroundings and be mindful of the Russian. Nathanial had been forced out of the way, while the two men grappled for Folkard’s carbine. The Russian’s own rifle had been thrown aside before they had descended into the shaft. Nathanial admired the bravery of the Russians, but such bravery stood for naught when brought against someone like Captain Folkard.

The captain made short work of rendering him unconscious.

Nathanial peered down the small gap between the shaft and the platform. “Ah, I see light. We must almost be at the bottom.”

“Excellent, and hopefully some answers.”

“What of our captive? We cannot leave him here. If he comes to while we are away he will surely alert others.”

Folkard glanced up. “What others, Professor? I believe K’chuk has things well in hand above, and add to that the imminent arrival of the Major Larkins’ Royal Marine compliment from the Sovereign. Then, of course, we also have Lieutenant Bedford. I daresay he will soon be throwing himself into the fray up there.”

“Assuming they live,” Nathanial pointed out. “After all, we did leave the lieutenant and their team with a limited supply of oxygen.”

Folkard frowned. “We did,” he said slowly. “I…” He shook his head. “Lieutenant Bedford is a resourceful chap, I am certain he would find a solution.”

Once again Nathanial was not so certain, and once again it was not his place to question the orders of Folkard. Although it did trouble him the apparent disregard Folkard had shown for the away team’s wellbeing. In Nathanial’s mind it was clear that both Annabelle and Erasmus had met a similar grisly fate on the lunar surface. “I must say, Captain,” Nathanial decided upon, “you have remarkable faith in a crew you barely know.”

Folkard chuckled. “Barely know? I suppose that is, in part, true. I have familiarised myself with the files of every crew member on the Sovereign, Professor. I am aware of their capabilities, and their weaknesses. If I did not think they were up to the task, I would not have approved their appointment on my ship.”

“Including Mister Stevenson?” Nathanial said, in what he hoped was a neutral tone.

“Quite so. Ordinary Seaman Erasmus Stevenson, eighteen years of age, born in Dulwich, raised in Perivale village. He has served on three frigates in the last eighteen months, before I requested his posting on the Sovereign.”

“You requested him?”

“Indeed, Professor. My boatswain, Mister Dinnick, served with him on their previous assignment and swears by young Mister Stevenson. Officer material, he claims.”

“You believe this to be so?”

“I believe that he deserves a chance to prove himself. That is why I sent him with Lieutenant Bedford. George will be able to tell me if Mister Stevenson is as good as the bosun says.”

Nathanial smiled at this. The captain truly believed Bedford’s team had survived. If it were so, then Nathanial was pleased for Erasmus, and hoped he proved his worth. It would be good to see him again after all this mess had been sorted out. It was a pity, however, that once the mission to Luna was over that they would have to part company. For him it would be a case of returning to the dockyard at Chatham, while Erasmus would continue on the Sovereign. They could, of course, continue to communicate via heliograph messages. Nathanial was sure that would be permissible.

“I am quite glad I have made your acquaintance, Captain. Initially I had feared I would be out of place on this mission, but you have made me feel like one of the crew, whom you clearly hold in high regard.”

Folkard nodded abruptly. “You are quite correct, Professor. I think, during the course of this mission, you have undoubtedly learned much about yourself, which is surely the whole point behind everything we do in this life. The more we experience, the more we learn of ourselves.”

“I never took you for a philosopher.”

Folkard winked. “There is much you do not know about me, Professor.”

“So I am learning.”

The pleasant conversation was thus ended when, with a soft bump, the lift reached the bottom of the shaft. Nathanial stepped off the platform, while Folkard remained to pull the lever. The lift started to rise again and Folkard quickly jumped off it. Together they watched it climb, the unconscious guard still lying where Folkard had left him.

“If he awakes he will find himself in a very unattainable position,” Folkard said.

“Quite. But how do we return up there?”

Folkard indicated the small bell on the wall next to them. String was attached to it, which ran up the lift shaft. “I noticed a similar bell at the top. All we need do is pull the string to alert those on top. Now then!” He turned from the wall, and looked to the small tunnel before them. A soft green-white glow pulsated in the distance. “Shall we seek some answers, Professor?”

Nathanial nodded, and the two men set off.

2.

THEY EMERGED into a cavern of some forty feet in height. The glow was stronger now, casting everything with a soft luminescence. Before them stood a wall of metal. It seemed perfect, not a single imperfection, despite obvious attempts to cut through it. Such efforts were witnessed by the tools and equipment discarded on the ground. Various cutting tools and drills, all damaged beyond repair. Several tunnels, these looking as natural as those previously seen, branched off in all directions. Two people stood by the wall; one was Vladimir Tereshkov. His gangly form, in its ill-fitting clothes, was unmistakable, as was the shock of white hair. He seemed to be shaking, either from fear or rage, Folkard could not be sure. Before him stood a much shorter, rather plump man. He was dressed in a more casual suit, but at least it fitted him better than that of Tereshkov. Tufts of grey hair emerged from the sides of the man’s head, which was otherwise bald. Folkard recognised him as Doctor Cyrus Grant.

Something very untoward was happening to Doctor Grant. The man stood, his palms pressed against the wall, and the glow which infused the cavern emanated from him. It pulsed gently, rhythmically, as if with some kind of purpose.

Folkard looked up to Stone, who was standing behind him slightly. “Professor?” he asked in a whisper, careful not to disturb Tereshkov who was now muttering to himself in Russian.

“I have no idea,” Stone responded, equally as quiet. “We could, perhaps, ask? There appears to be no one else here.”

“Hmm.” Folkard looked around the cavern. The professor was quite right. “Very well, but keep alert. There are almost certainly others down here.”

Professor Stone nodded grimly, his eyes casting around the cavern. Folkard stepped forward, raising his carbine until he had Tereshkov directly in his line of sight.

“Doctor Tereshkov,” Folkard began, “would you care to explain your illegal presence on Luna?”

Tereshkov froze. He turned slowly, his eyes continuing to dart between Folkard and Grant. “What is this?” he said, his English almost fluent despite his thick accent. “British Navy?”

“I am Captain Folkard of Her Majesty’s ship the HMAS Sovereign. Your illegal operation here is over; the Russian camp is now under my control.”

“That is impossible.” Tereshkov, wild eyed, turned back to Grant. “I am so close. This was to be mine. Mine!” He made to move towards Doctor Grant.

“Stand easy, Doctor!” Folkard ordered, and once again Tereshkov froze. “Or I will not hesitate to shoot you. Your operation here contravenes The Agreement Governing State Activities on Luna, and on behalf of Her Majesty’s government and other signees, I am placing your under arrest. Resist and I am authorised to execute you here and now.”

“You?” Tereshkov looked back at him. “You and your government have no control here. Only the Heart does, and it will be mine! All of it!”

He moved quickly, grabbing hold of Grant. Folkard pressed his finger on the trigger, his clear shot now compromised by the two struggling men. The glow enveloped them both, and for a moment they stopped, frozen to the spot. They stared into each other’s eyes. Folkard stepped forward, hoping to get a better shot, but the glow was increasing, its brilliance blinding Folkard.

He staggered back, arm covering his eyes.

Finally the full effect of the glow dissipated. Folkard lowered his arm only to find Doctor Grant now laying on the ground unconscious, with Tereshkov standing above him, the soft glow still about his person. If it was possible the Russian doktor looked even more insane.

“Now it will be mine,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.

“I am afraid I must disagree,” Folkard said, aiming his gun once more. He did not know what the Heart was, but he had a deep seated fear that somehow to allow the Russians to possess it would mean suicide for the British Empire. He could not allow that. “This ends today.”

“Drop your weapon,” said a thick Russian voice behind him, “or this man dies.”

Weapon not wavering, Folkard glanced back. The Russian soldier, a sub-praporschik, barely a full ensign, now stood there, the barrel of his own gun pressed violently against Professor Stone’s head.

3.

IT ALL happened so fast. Nathanial had shielded his eyes to protect them from the glow, and listened to the sound of the two scientists struggling and then, barely a moment after normal vision returned, an arm wrapped itself around his neck, wrenching him backwards until the barrel of a gun was forced against his head.

He looked at Folkard, but the captain showed no sign of disappointment. Perhaps he understood that the light had served to both disorientate and distract Nathanial. He certainly hoped so. Although he would never say that he and Folkard were becoming fast friends, there was certainly a level of respect developing between them. Nathanial would hate for that to be washed away by circumstances beyond his control.

“Drop your weapon, or this man dies.”

Nathanial blinked. If this had happened yesterday he knew he would have been afraid, out of his depth, but instead he felt an odd sense of calm overcome him. Folkard looked towards him and the Russian, but his carbine did not waver from Tereshkov.

“And so will your doktor,” Folkard said, his voice calm.

In the distance Nathanial heard a familiar sound. It was the lift beginning its descent. He swallowed hard. “You hear that, reinforcements are on the way. You will soon be outnumbered.”

The Russian tightened his grip. “Nyet! The Tsar will triumph. You British pigs cannot win.”

“It will be mine,” Tereshkov said softly, and all heads turned to him. He pointed at the metal wall. “The secrets of the Heart, I will uncover them. Not this American fool!” He violently kicked the unconscious Grant. “Those are my reinforcements. You think I chose Kondrashov at a whim? He is, as you British say, tenacious. The British Empire will fall before mother Russia.”

“Not so,” said another voice, this time female and American. “Not when it has allies like the Selenites.”

Nathanial was spun around and before him, standing at the mouth of the tunnel with K’chuk next to her, was Annabelle! A wave of relief overcame him, and his body sagged, as if all the fear of her death was flowing out of him like hydrogen from a dirigible. By sagging he unintentionally gave Annabelle the perfect shot. She raised the carbine in her hands and squeezed the trigger. Nathanial felt the whoosh of the bullet as it sped past his head. Once more he was jerked back, only this time the Russian guard did not support his weight. Both men fell backwards, as the guard’s rifle clattered to the dusty ground.

For a moment he laid there, uncomfortably on top of the guard’s dead body, until a spindly insect arm reached down to help him to his feet. He smiled up at K’chuk. “It is most agreeable to see you,” he said.

“Agreeable too, friend Stone,” K’chuk replied. “Friend Annabelle said…”

Whatever she had told K’chuk was cut off by the sound of Annabelle calling Folkard’s name. Nathanial spun. A shot fired from Folkard’s carbine, but not in time to catch Tereshkov who had fled into the nearest tunnel. Without even thinking, Nathanial grabbed hold of the discarded Russian rifle and gave chase.

4.

ANNABELLE WATCHED as Nathanial hared off, a feeling close to incredulity building in her. This was a side of Nathanial she had never seen before. Perhaps being around a naval captain had affected him in a positive way. She smiled at this.

“Miss Somerset,” Captain Folkard said, stepping forward, “introductions must be saved for later, I fear. If you will excuse me, I…”

Annabelle shook her head. “No, Captain, allow K’chuk. He is much faster than you, and this,” she indicated the metal wall, “is the Selenites’ Holy of Holies.”

Folkard looked confused, but he did not get a chance to argue the toss, since K’chuk dropped onto his six legs and scuttled off down the tunnel with speed a human could only dream of. Folkard shook his head, and smiled grimly.

“Very well, then.” He looked to the wall. “Holy of Holies?”

Annabelle did not answer. Lying there before the wall was her uncle. She slung the carbine over her shoulder and scrambled over to him. “Uncle!”

Folkard came up behind her. “He breathes, Miss Somerset.”

She looked at her uncle’s portly belly, which was rising and falling gently. “Oh, uncle!” she said, and lowered her head onto his body so that Captain Folkard would not see her tears.

5.

TERESHKOV HAD vanished. Nathanial did not know how that was possible, but it was that simple. He had followed the tunnel, the rifle held in his shaking hands, until he reached a dead end. Tereshkov had no way to slip past him.

He turned and leaned against the end wall. There was simply no way he could have missed Tereshkov. Maybe there was some kind of secret passage? If so, in this light it would be almost impossible to find. Tereshkov had been on Luna for many months; he surely knew his way around better than any other bar the Selenites.

Nathanial looked up at the sound of someone approaching. He lifted the rifle. Now the chase was over and the adrenalin rush had subsided he began to feel fearful. He had never shot a weapon in his life. How did one prepare oneself for the buck of the shot?

He need not have worried. The figure that appeared around the corner of the tunnel was the unmistakable form of K’chuk.

“Friend Stone.”

“K’chuk, I am afraid Tereshkov has vanished.”

K’chuk nodded. “Not vanish. Drobates. They take from tunnels, do things.”

Nathanial frowned. “Things? What are Drobates?”

It seemed, for a moment, that K’chuk was going to respond, but instead he turned and walked. “We return to friend Annabelle and see gooddoctor.”

Nathanial shook his head. He did so hate it when K’chuk became evasive. Hopefully, in time, the Selenites would learn to be more trusting of outsiders. Certainly the Russians had given them no reason to be so, but perhaps they had now learned that not all humans were the same.

“K’chuk,” he said, as he started following, “why is there metal in these walls?” He had not noticed before, too intent on following Tereshkov, but now he could see that the same metal from the chamber continued on behind the rock of the tunnel wall.

“Heart lives in world.”

“Right,” Nathanial said, feeling that explained nothing at all.

6.

“ALIVE, YOU say? That is absurd.”

“Can you not conceive of intelligence unless it is clothed in flesh and bone, Captain Folkard?” Doctor Grant asked in an Arizonian drawl.

They were standing in a tent which had been set up as a triage unit. Doctor Beverly was attending to the wounded crew of the Sovereign, as well as the Russians who had sustained major injuries during the battle. The bottom of the gorge had been secured, the Russian ironclad yielding to the superior might of the Sovereign. Now the camp was entirely under Navy control. It bothered Folkard that Tereshkov had escaped, but K’chuk felt quite certain that if the mysterious Drobates had indeed taken him from the tunnel then he would not live to tell the tale. Although Folkard would have preferred to deal with Tereshkov personally, he knew he had to settle for what was. In the meantime he was having trouble getting his mind around what Doctor Grant had just told them.

According to Doctor Grant that metal wall was a thing called the Heart, an intelligence that lived in the centre of Luna. Although Grant did not know the particulars yet, he did know that it was the Heart that had created the Selenites in some way, given them their intelligence, which was why the Selenites worshipped the Heart as some kind of god.

“How do you know this?” Professor Stone asked.

When Grant had first come to, he seemed rather put off by Stone’s presence, until both Folkard and Miss Somerset had informed him that the professor was partly responsible for Grant’s rescue. Now the old doctor looked at his former colleague with begrudging respect.

“The Heart told me. It was communing with me when you arrived.”

“The glow?”

Doctor Grant nodded. “I see your deductive brain is still as sharp as ever, Professor Stone.” He had been quite intrigued when he had heard Folkard call Stone professor, and ever since Grant had put a peculiar emphasis on the word whenever addressing Stone as such.

“Thank you,” the professor said, looking almost abashed at the compliment. “I had previously theorised that the glow was some form of communication, similar to the smoke signals of the Indians.”

“Remarkably accurate,” Grant allowed with condescending frankness.

Stone ignored that. “The question remains, then, with what is the Heart communicating? The glow can be seen from beyond Luna, in the right conditions. Ergo, it must be communicating with something beyond this world.”

“That would follow. However I have yet to discover what that is, but with further communion between the Heart and I…” At this Grant chuckled. There was something about the chuckle Folkard did not like, almost as if it were verging on insanity. “The Heart did not wish to commune with Tereshkov, it could feel the pain and fear provoked in the Selenites by the Russians. But when it, uh, scanned my mind it saw I held no such desire for power.” Doctor Grant suddenly got up from his seat and headed towards the opening of the tent. “I must return to the Heart, it has so much to teach me. Things even I have never dreamed of.”

“I cannot allow that, Doctor, not until I have filed my report with the Admiralty.”

Grant spun on Folkard. “Captain, you cannot stop me. The Heart wishes to learn more, to commune with me. If you stand in my way, we shall turn the Selenites on you.”

At this Miss Somerset stepped forward. “Uncle, you cannot do that! That will undermine everything the captain and his men have achieved. The Selenites are beginning to trust humans now.”

Grant face was firm. Folkard would almost go so far as to say furious. “Then do not stand in my way.” He looked from his niece to Folkard. “By all means send your report. Indeed, tell them I require a full research team at my disposal. The discoveries to be made here are…” He shook his head. “There are no words!”

Folkard was not overly impressed, but he knew his hands were tied. He had to make a full report and there was no doubt in his mind that the British government would wish to set up a base on Luna, in effect doing the same thing the Russians were accused of. Contravening the Luna Treaty. “Very well, I will leave a contingent behind, to ensure your safety. Expect more Navy troops soon. The Russians will not take this lying down.” He turned to Stone. “Professor, you’re with me.”

Stone stood and said his goodbyes to Doctor Grant. He turned to Miss Somerset. “Annabelle, I am gratified to see you well once more.”

“Nathanial,” she said and stepped towards him. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. I always knew I could count on you.”

Folkard noticed Grant watching them closely. Not with the suspicion he had expected, but with the dawning realisation of someone experiencing an epiphany. He stepped forward.

“Professor, take my niece with you.”

“Uncle,” Miss Somerset said, her expression one of outrage, “I will not be…”

Grant nodded, and took her hands in his. “Yes, you will. Luna is about to become even more dangerous. The Russians in those outposts will get word back home, and soon others will learn of what transpired here. Not just the Russians, but in France, Germany, all over the world. I have put you in enough danger as it is.”

“You did not put me in danger. I stowed away, it was my choice.”

Grant smiled kindly. “Yes, you are as wilful as my dear sister was. Nevertheless, my mind is made up.” He turned to Professor Stone. “Keep her safe,” he said, his voice a mixture of threat and fear.

“I promise, Doctor Grant. I will guard Annabelle with my life.”

Epilogue

EXCERPT 11.

“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press.)

Sunday April 14th, 1889.

Annabelle is most upset at leaving her uncle, but if there is one thing I have learned it is that once Doctor Grant has made up his mind there is no turning back. I have asked Captain Folkard to forward a heliograph message on to Director White on my behalf, telling him of our new guest. Civilians at the dockyard are a very rare occurrence, indeed I am a special case in that regards. I hope William will indulge me, and help me honour my promise to Doctor Grant. How Annabelle will fair on a Navy base I have no idea; she is not a woman to be kept in one place for long. I fear I will have my work cut out for me. However, I have been through a lot this last day, and following the example of Folkard I shall remain determined.

For her own part it appears Annabelle is holding me responsible for her uncle’s decision, and barely a word has passed between us since we boarded the Sovereign. Lieutenant Bedford has the unenviable task of writing missives to the next of kin to those lost on this mission, and Annabelle is giving him support in this. They have spent some considerable time in the galley together. I, for one, do not like the look that passes between them when they talk. For reasons I cannot quite fathom it makes me uncomfortable.

Mentioning the casualties reminds me of Erasmus; he has been classed by Captain Folkard as “missing in action”. K’chuk makes it clear that if Erasmus was taken from the tunnels by these mysterious Drobates, like K’chuk believes to be the case with Doctor Tereshkov, then the odds of survival are very low. K’chuk will not tell us what these Drobates are, despite the best efforts of the captain and his first officer, but they are clearly something feared by the Selenites. That we know of the Heart, and at that barely anything, appears to be a bone of some contention between the Selenites and us Earth men as it is.

We have received many answers on this mission, succeeded in our goal of finding and rescuing Doctor Grant, but many mysteries remain. I hope that one day I may return to Luna, for there is much I would still personally like answered.

It is hard to credit that only a day has passed by since I first met Captain Folkard at the Dover Embarkation Platform; it seems that so much has happened. I have learned so much about myself. I do not know what effect this will have on my life when I return to Earth; will I be craving adventure while working at the Chatham docks? Will the presence of Annabelle lead me astray? I think both are very real possibilities. I may have been an unwilling adventurer, but this journey to the Heart of Luna has revealed to me elements of my personality I did not know existed. Will I be content to simply help out at the dockyards, to discover new and creative ways to improve the efficiency of aether travel, or will I want to be out there? I suppose that old maxim applies here; time will tell.

We are still four hours from Earth and I find myself tired. So I bid you a pleasant sleep, wherever and whenever you are reading this…

The End

Acknowledgements

Once again this book would not have been completed if not for the many people who helped along the way. Both personally and professionally.

First of all, thanks must be given to Jelena Kondrashova for almost instant Russian translations. Also to Perri Collins at the Arizona Newspaper Association, Rob Keetch for allowing me to use ‘Dr Robert Beverly’, Cardiff Central Library for wifi and research materials, Will Elliott for the hours of wifi usage at the King’s (what will I do when it’s turned into a gastro-pub?), Frank Chadwick for answering questions and allowing me to take liberties with his creations, to my bosses at Untreed, Jay Hartman and KD Sullivan, who leapt on the chance to do a Space: 1889 series once I told them of the potential in such a project, and to all of Team 1889 (Gail, Mark, Louis, Frank, Joe, Steve, David and Betty). You guys have been amazing so far, and I suspect you will continue to be so. It has been, and continues to be, an honour to work with some of the best creative and professional authors, designers and editors in the business; I am a very lucky editor/author.

A special thank you must go to all those involved in the Noise Monster Productions’ audio series of Space: 1889 six years ago, for bringing me into the property so wonderfully. If it wasn’t for that unexpected opportunity then I would never have realised the potential of a prose series based on Frank’s wonderful RPG. In particular I must thank Helen Goldwyn for bringing Annabelle Somerset to vivid life in my 2005 Space: 1889 play, The Lunar Inheritance; her performance will always be recalled when I read of Annabelle in this eBook series.

And now a few personal thank you’s, to those friends who’ve listened to me rabbit on about this story so much over the last six months, and indulged my blathering about ant research. Especially Lisa Challoner (hey, house mate!), Traci-Anne (The Sister!), Ben Theobald (for hours and hours of intense conversation), Gary Russell (for the usual irreverence), Ross Anderson (we just don’t talk enough), Sharon Bidwell (just for the pure cheek that is she), Melinda Snodgrass (always supportive of my works, for she is the Mighty Mo), Andy Fenn (thanks, Dear, for the endless support and encouragement, big love to you always), Jarryd Little and Lisa Davies (you two have made me laugh so much lately—always be amazing!), Damian Larkins (a better man than he likes to believe), and so many others. Finally, to all those who’ve been pestering me for the second part of The Garden saga; a little more patience is all I ask of you, once this series is truly up and running I shall be returning to that dark world of mine.

Andy, 15th June 2011.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: The Scientist Travels

Chapter Two: Journey to the Moon

Chapter Three: Arrival on the Moon

Chapter Four: Short of Breath

Chapter Five: Down Among the Insects

Chapter Six: Ambush in the Tunnels

Chapter Seven: An Audience with Q’theletockus

Chapter Eight: Into the Russian Camp

Chapter Nine: Insect Insurrection

Chapter Ten: The Heart of Luna

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: The Scientist Travels

Chapter Two: Journey to the Moon

Chapter Three: Arrival on the Moon

Chapter Four: Short of Breath

Chapter Five: Down Among the Insects

Chapter Six: Ambush in the Tunnels

Chapter Seven: An Audience with Q’theletockus

Chapter Eight: Into the Russian Camp

Chapter Nine: Insect Insurrection

Chapter Ten: The Heart of Luna

Epilogue

Acknowledgements