Space: 1889 & Beyond—The Ghosts of Mercury

By Mark Michalowski

Copyright 2011 by Mark Michalowski

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.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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

Other Titles in the Space: 1889 & Beyond Series

Journey to the Heart of Luna

Vandals on Venus

Abattoir in the Aether

A Prince of Mars

Dark Side of Luna

http://www.untreedreads.com

“THE GHOSTS OF MERCURY”

By Mark Michalowski

I’d like to dedicate this to all the readers of my previous

writerly witterings, for helping me to get this far.

Authors are nothing without their readers, so this one is for you.

Yes, especially you.

Prologue

“Not there!” snapped Professor Fournier, spreading her arms wide in a typically Gallic shrug of frustration. “There!”

Corporal Heath gritted his teeth and managed a weary “Ma’am?” as, for the fourth time, he tried to remain professional and to remember that, despite her lack of military rank, Professor Maria Fournier was currently his superior officer….

He glanced across the cavern, two hundred yards below the surface of Mercury, to where the professor was standing, hands on hips like a pioneering explorer. In the light of the electric lamps around the periphery of the cavern he could see her face and managed a weak smile and a deferential nod. When she was in a good mood, Professor Fournier was funny and irreverent and a pleasure to be around; when she wasn’t, she was dreadful. And today was not a good one.

He followed her imperious gesture to where another of the crystal clusters—that the professor had earlier referred to as “geodes”—bulged from the wall like a glittering, diamond-encrusted boil.

“Yes, ma’am.”

In the stillness of the cavern, Heath felt sure he heard her exhalation as she tipped her head back to gaze around.

“To think,” she said so quietly that Heath almost missed it, “that we may be the first people to ever gaze on this….” There was a sense of awe in her voice—an awe that Heath was most definitely not sharing. For once he was grateful for the weak Mercurial gravity that allowed him to carry the backpack containing the hammers and drills and explosives, with which he’d been charged to carry for the professor by Princess Christiana Station’s commander, Colonel Shawbridge. The heavy, lead-weighted boots that everyone was issued gave a very poor semblance of normal gravity, but at least they helped to prevent every step turning into some sort of music hall performance. In the three months that he’d been stationed here, Heath hadn’t once forgotten that he was on a planet with gravity just one half that of his much-missed home. Despite the numerous other ridiculous features of this tiny lump of rock, it was the gravity that he missed the most—the gentle, ever-present hug that reassured him that everything was normal, everything was okay. In his sleep, even with the heavy, blankets, he still found himself dreaming of floating in the ocean or falling…. But he thanked the Lord that they were the only recurring dreams he had: others at Princess Christiana Station were not so lucky.

“Corporal!” bellowed Fournier, shattering his reverie. He jerked his head up sharply.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

Professor Fournier fixed her gaze on a glittering mound where the uneven floor of the cavern met the arching dome of its roof, like an ugly mess of soap bubbles.

“Come on,” she said. “Dépêche-toi!”

Hurry up! he translated. One of the professor’s favourite phrases, and one of the few he’d learned since she’d arrived two months ago. He wondered what her urgency was—the cavern had been there long before man discovered it and, Heath assumed, would be there for many years to come.

He made his way across the cavern, remembering that even though the backpack had only half the weight that it would have done on Earth, it still had the same inertia—something that he’d struggled to understand when Professor Fournier had explained it to him, but which had become painfully—and embarrassingly—evident when, as a demonstration, the professor had picked up the rucksack and gently thrown it at him—only for him to be thrown backwards by its momentum, ending up in an undignified heap on his rear. Professor Fournier hadn’t even tried not to laugh—but, to her credit, she’d bounded straight over and helped him to his feet.

“Weight and mass,” she’d said as he’d dusted off the fine, grey, Mercurial dust from his uniform. “Everyone thinks that they are the same thing. As you see,” she smiled, “they are not.”

So, things on Mercury might not be as heavy to lift as they would be on Earth. But once they were moving, they were just as hard to stop as they would have been back home. Something like that, anyway.

As he made his way across the damp floor of the cavern, his boots crunching grittily on the uneven rocks, he saw that Fournier had clambered up onto the crystalline mound, her feet slipping and sliding. Despite her apparent age—which Heath guessed at as late forties, perhaps early fifties, but would never ask—she was surprisingly nimble, aided by the feeble gravity. He wondered whether her claims that—in accordance with Colonel Shawbridge’s instructions—she’d never visited the cavern on her own were actually true. He knew she had little regard for the colonel (or, for that matter, for the authority of the British) and it was no secret that Shawbridge had little time for her “scientific nonsense.” But despite that—or perhaps because of it—Shawbridge seemed to have a certain respect for the diminutive French geologist. He let her have her head as much as he could, rarely interfering with her flights of fancy. Shawbridge’s major concerns were for the well-being of Princess Christiana Station’s personnel, both military and civilian; and as long as she didn’t make ridiculous demands on the station staff or act recklessly or foolishly, he tended to let her be.

“Magnifique!”he heard the professor whisper, her hands gripping the crystal “plates”—as she’d named them—that made up the mound upon which she stood. The size of an outstretched palm and half an inch thick, they were hexagonal and rough-surfaced, as though they were made of etched glass. There was a frostiness to the surface of them, like the mist of condensation on a glass of cold beer. Just the thought made him sigh inwardly, and he restrained himself from checking his watch: it was a long time until his duty with Professor Fournier was due to end and he could go back above ground and take advantage of the cold side of the planet’s exports.

Despite its proximity to the sun, Mercury was a world of two drastically different personalities: the raging, blistering, almost inconceivable heat of the Bright Side—six hundred degrees Fahrenheit at the centre of the sunward face; and the frigid cold of the Dark Side—weighing in at an almost equally inconceivable two hundred degrees. Heath was sure that nowhere in the Solar System had mankind discovered such opposing extremes of temperature as here on Mercury. It was these two extremes that made Mercury such a valuable—if hazardous—world for the British Empire to bring under its wing. The Bright Side provided molten tin and zinc, cast into huge wheel-shaped moulds and dragged back to the Twilight Zone—the ring of habitable temperature that encircled the planet at what the scientists called “the terminator”. The Dark Side provided solid dry ice (or carbon dioxide) and ammonia, a noxious gas that, as Heath understood it, was useful in numerous chemical and scientific processes. As far as he and the other army staff were concerned, it was the Dark Side that provided the only apparent advantage to living on Mercury: the ability to provide a chilled beer, on demand, whenever they wanted it. Huge chunks of frozen dry ice and ammonia were dragged back from the darkness towards the Twilight Zone by huge, land-crawling machines, crumbling and steaming as the temperature rose around them, destined—as far as Heath was concerned—to provide ice-cold beer on tap.

“Corporal?” called Fournier, glancing back over her shoulder. The electric lights strung around the walls of the cavern cast bleak, satanic shadows across her face.

“Yes, ma’am. Coming ma’am,” Heath said and clomped his way clumsily over to her, halting at the foot of the mound upon which she stood.

The dome of the cavern stretched a hundred feet into the air, its surface glittering with grey rock and random crystal plates, uneven and misshapen, as though they had only recently formed. The smallest were the size of his palm; some of the larger ones the size of his chest. They huddled up against each other, reflecting back the light redly as though the fires of Hell themselves burned within. Although Heath couldn’t quite put his finger on it, there was something wrong about the way they seemed to transform the electric light falling on them. He put it from his mind as Professor Fourier dropped her hammer and cursed in French. It clattered and skittered down the hummock on which she stood, the sound reverberating around the chamber.

“I’ll get it, Professor,” he said.

“I have another,” she replied, reaching over her shoulder into her backpack and fishing out something more like a sledgehammer than a geologist’s tool. Had it not been for Mercury’s weaker gravity, Heath doubted that she’d have been able to carry it. He watched her manhandle it awkwardly, almost dropping it, and as she hefted it in her hands, Heath thought she might overbalance.

“Professor…” he said hesitantly, still looking around for the smaller hammer. “Are you sure that’s—”

She looked down at him sharply. “Yes, Corporal?”

Her tone made him feel like a schoolboy and he shut up.

Fourier turned away from him and her foot slipped, almost sending her tumbling back down to join her hammer, but she managed to steady herself.

“If you wait a minute, Professor…” Heath couldn’t help himself: she was hefting it in her hands, and although she was only a small woman, he didn’t doubt that she could do some serious damage with it. “I’ll find the other one. It’ll be a lot easier to use.”

He knelt down and peered into the inky shadows at his feet, reaching out to feel for the smaller tool.

“I am fine with this one,” she said, and out of the corner of his eye, a shadow swept across the wall—her arm and the hammer…

As it made contact with the rounded cluster of crystals above her, there was an almighty crunching, splintering sound and fragments pattered down all around in slow motion. Heath raised his hand reflexively to protect himself as he heard another sound: something altogether more terrifying—a deep crack, like the sound of distant thunder.

Heath looked up to see the wall above the professor—and above himself—tear and split, opening like a stormcloud. As the cluster shattered and collapsed, burying the professor and raining down on him, Corporal Heath was almost certain that he heard a voice….

Chapter One

“In Which Nathanial and Annabelle Are Summoned by a Frenchman”

1.

“Nathanial!” exclaimed Annabelle Somerset, the dimples in her cheeks showing. “You really are the most two-faced man I have ever known!”

Nathanial Stone’s mouth literally dropped open in shock at hearing her address him so. “Two-faced?” he replied indignantly.

“Well what would you call it?” retorted Annabelle as she watched Nathanial lift his suitcase from the floor onto the cot of his room, only to misjudge the amount of force needed—and see it fly right across the bed to bounce on the floor at the other side. “When we arrived this morning, you were charm personified to Uncle Ernest. You couldn’t have been more friendly to him. But since he left us here to unpack, you haven’t had a good word to say about him.”

Nathanial glared at the suitcase and then at Annabelle. “I’d have thought,” he replied icily, leaning across the bed to recover his luggage, “that you would have been pleased I was making the effort to be civil to him. After all, he is your second uncle removed, or whatever he is. And,” he gave a grunt as he lifted the case back onto the bed, “even you have to admit, he does seem the most terrible bore.”

“I imagine he’s probably saying exactly the same about you at this very moment,” Annabelle said.

Nathanial paused and raised an eyebrow. “Now you’re just being mean, how could anyone even think such a thing?”

“Perhaps because, in the twenty minutes we were with him, you did nothing but quiz Uncle Ernest on science things. Chemistry and solar radiation and geology—”

“Hermology,” cut in Nathanial, opening his case and beginning to pull out his crumpled clothes, tossing them onto the bed as though they were just dishrags.

“I stand corrected,” Annabelle said. “And before you start to tell me what ‘hermology’ is, let me make an uneducated guess. The study of Mercury, perhaps?”

Nathanial nodded admiringly. “Very good,” he said.

“For a woman,” added Annabelle wryly.

“Not at all,” Nathanial said. “Your knowledge of science and classics is very good.”

“For a woman,” repeated Annabelle.

Nathanial opened his mouth to reply—but caught her expression. “You will play that game once too often, you know. You do your own sex no good by playing up to outdated stereotypes.”

Annabelle almost squealed with laughter. “My own sex? Nathanial—you know what this is, don’t you?” She pulled a tortoiseshell-handled hairbrush from Nathanial’s suitcase. For a moment he was confused—until she flung it at him.

“Ow!” he cried, raising a hand to deflect it awkwardly. It bounced away across the room in awkward, loping arcs. “I take it all back,” he said, rubbing the side of his hand. “Your aggression would do more credit to my sex, never mind your own….”

As Annabelle’s eyes flared and she scanned his open case for some other object to throw at him, he couldn’t help but break into a laugh, which set her off laughing too.

“You know,” she said, lowering her voice, “we really should be careful.”

“I hardly think a small hairbrush—however forcefully thrown—could cause that much damage.”

“I didn’t mean the hairbrush, you idiot.” Annabelle’s eyes flicked towards the wooden door. “I meant that if Uncle’s soldiers hear us laughing like this, behind closed doors, that my reputation might well be tarnished.”

A blush rose in Nathanial’s pale cheeks, accentuated by the shock of ginger hair that sprouted from his head. “Oh my,” he exclaimed, putting his hand to his mouth. “I hadn’t considered that….”

Annabelle tutted, and her dimples returned. “After all,” she added coquettishly. “A young lady travelling with a gentleman such as yourself must be careful.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “People do love to gossip, you know. And we have been travelling together for rather a long time. There are bound to be rumours…”

“Really?” Nathanial was taken aback at the possibility of untoward gossip about himself and Annabelle—not so much for himself, but for her: the value of a young lady’s reputation was priceless and a few careless words circulated in the wrong places could send it plummeting.

“No,” said Annabelle suddenly. “Not really—but it’s always worth keeping you on your toes.”

“Why! You really are incorrigible, aren’t you?”

“But of—” There was a sharp knock at the door. “Um, come in,” said Nathanial, momentarily thrown.

The door opened—somewhat cautiously, thought Annabelle, suppressing a smile—and a young, fresh-faced lieutenant poked his head around the door. “Lieutenant Alexander, your servant, sir, ma’am. Apologies for the interruption,” he said awkwardly, “but…” He looked at Nathanial. “Professor Stone? Doctor Fontaine would be grateful if you could, erm, attend him in his laboratory.”

Nathanial looked at Annabelle and then back at the soldier. “I’m sorry,” he said with a frown. “Doctor who?”

“Doctor Fontaine,” the soldier repeated.

“No, I heard what you said. Who is this Doctor Fontaine? And why on Earth would he want me to ‘attend him’?”

“Why on Mercury, surely,” Annabelle corrected him with a smile, but he was clearly in no mood to be mocked, however gently.

Alexander hovered solicitously and took a step back from the door, as if expecting Nathanial to follow him. “He didn’t say, sir. He just asked me to, um, convey the message.” He remained where he was, almost in silhouette in the perpetual twilight of Princess Christiana Station, just a hint of dusklight catching the side of his head.

“And by ‘convey the message’,” said Nathanial peevishly, “I take it you mean ‘escort me to his laboratory’ wherever that might be…?”

The soldier said nothing, and his embarrassment was almost palpable. The only sound was the gentle whirr of the ceiling fan.

“Tell him,” said Nathanial at length, “that I shall attend him, as you so delicately put it, when Miss Somerset and I have finished our unpacking and have a chance to freshen up.”

“Yes, sir,” Alexander said and nodded respectfully to Annabelle. “Ma’am. Sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll let Doctor Fontaine know. I’m sure he’ll understand. I’ll return shortly and wait for you out here, shall I?”

Before either Annabelle or Nathanial could object, Lieutenant Alexander saluted and pulled the door closed.

“Well, well, well,” said Annabelle.

“Well, well, well be damned!” spat Nathanial, a look of utter astonishment on his face. “The cheek of the Devil—having me attend him. Who does this Doctor Fontaine think he is? I’ve never heard of the fellow. Doesn’t say much for his scientific credentials.”

“Perhaps you should take it as a compliment,” suggested Annabelle, picking up the hairbrush and pressing it into Nathanial’s hand as she headed for the door. “After all, you may not have heard of him, but he’s clearly heard of you… And you’re not even a real professor, Professor Stone. Fifteen minutes,” she said as she stepped outside. “Perhaps you should spend time practicing your bowing!”

2.

Of course, Nathanial wasn’t ready in fifteen minutes.

Annabelle had returned from her own hut to find Lieutenant Alexander standing by the door waiting and looking vaguely ill at ease. “Another five minutes he says, ma’am,” he said.

“How typical of a man, to keep a lady waiting,” said Annabelle with a smile and tipped her head back to look at the sky. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s…very different to back home, ma’am. I’ll give you that,” Alexander agreed.

“You don’t think it’s beautiful—in a strange, unearthly sort of way, then?”

Almost directly above her head, stretching from the roof of one of the huts some twenty feet in front of her to where it vanished into the ghostly almost-silhouettes of trees behind her, was the most beautiful dusk—or dawn—Annabelle had ever seen. Shading remarkably quickly from the blackest of blacks on her left to the creamiest buttery yellow it became a dazzling duck-egg blue just before it faded almost to violet below vanishing beyond the absurdly curved horizon on her right.

“I’ve heard tell,” Alexander broke into her reflections, rather sheepishly, “that the reason it’s so narrow—” he gestured upwards “—the dusklight, as they call it—is that the air’s so thin. The atmosphere that is,” he added, as if wanting to impress her with his learning. “Something about it spreading the light.” He gave a nod as if to let her know that his information was accurate and could be trusted. Annabelle stifled a smile.

“But explaining it doesn’t make it any less beautiful, does it? Dusklight, you say? Dusk and twilight combined into one eternal daybreak. Or eternal nightfall. Both, I suppose. Both at once….”

There was a tiny cough and Annabelle turned to see Nathanial standing there, all washed and groomed and with his smartest black suit and tie on. For a brief moment, she wanted to hug him to her—and then, as the three of them stood there in awkward silence, the moment passed and they were just three people, standing outside a little white hut on an alien world.

3.

“What were you doing?” asked Nathanial as Alexander them through the stuccoed huts of the accommodation quarters, past the larger, red brick houses of the officers and senior staff, and to what Nathanial assumed was this Doctor Fontaine’s laboratory.

“Doing?” replied Annabelle.

“Back there—when I came out. You were looking up at the sky. You had a look on your face.”

“A look?”

Nathanial sighed. “Really, it’s not important if you don’t want to talk about it,” he said, sensing her reticence.

“Oh, nothing really,” Annabelle replied, linking her arm through his, as they walked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I was pointing out that that…” she gestured with her eyes towards the sky “is one of the most beautiful things we’ve seen on our travels. Don’t you think?”

“I can’t say I’d given it much thought. But yes, when you compare it the caverns of Luna and the encampments of Venus, I suppose it is.”

“You really are one of the most unromantic souls, you know,” she laughed, shaking her head.

“It’s just science,” Nathanial retorted, and realised even as the words left his mouth that they made him sound like the most incredible bore. “I mean,” he added, lamely, “not that science cannot be beautiful, obviously. Because it can.” He looked up at the sky. “And yes, I can see how that’s, um, quite enchanting.”

“Oh, Nathanial,” laughed Annabelle as Alexander stepped aside, holding the door to the laboratory open for them. “I’m teasing! Don’t worry so!”

4.

The building, like so many that Nathanial had encountered since he’d left Earth almost two months previously, at the beginning of May, was constructed in an ersatz contemporary style, from red brick (presumably brought at huge expense from Earth) with wooden doors and ornate wooden carvings and mouldings, not to mention glass. He wondered whether the temperatures on the Bright Side of the planet made glass-working here easier or not, or if that, too, was brought from Earth. He had so many questions. As ever, he added to himself ruefully.

The interior of the lab building was coolly simple and the wood-block floor “clucked” reassuringly under their lead-weighted feet.

For a laboratory, thought Nathanial, the room inside was remarkably poorly illuminated. A huge wooden table ran down the centre of the room, piled with rocks and dirt and papers in an unholy jumble that Nathanial felt the immediate urge to begin tidying. Along both long walls lay cabinets and smaller tables, and enormous machines, the purpose of which he could only guess. Some resembled oversized drills, others machines for cutting or polishing. Along the right hand wall there were a couple of desks, huddling in pools of brighter electric light; and it was in one of these that a man sat, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded.

For a moment, Nathanial met his eyes—dark, intense eyes that assessed him and, briefly, Annabelle—before they crinkled up in a smile. Their owner immediately unfolded his arms and propelled himself from his chair like a bullet from a gun.

“Professor Nathanial Stone!” the man exclaimed, rushing forwards and grasping Nathanial’s hand. He pumped it firmly, placing his left hand over the top in a rather excessive manner. The man pulled back, looked Nathanial up and down with a beaming grin, and then, as if he’d only just remembered that Annabelle was also in the room, turned to her, placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her. On both cheeks.

If his name and accent hadn’t given away the man’s nationality, then this display of familiarity towards Annabelle surely had, thought Nathanial, feeling slightly defensive of her. He glanced at Annabelle and saw her eyeing the man with a slight warilness Nathanial could imagine what she was thinking: why was a Frenchman—at war with Britain just three years ago—working here?

“And the enchanting Miss Somerset,” the Frenchman said. He had a casual demeanour that Nathanial didn’t imagine would commend him to her.

“You’re too kind,” she said glancing at Nathanial. “Doctor Fontaine, I take it?”

“Please, please,” said the man pulling out a dusty chair for her from beneath a desk and giving it a cursory wipe with a cloth he’d plucked from the equally filthy table. “Call me Arnaud. I do not stand so much on the ceremony, as I think you say, yes?”

“Your English puts my French to shame, Arnaud. And please, call me Annabelle.”

“Doctor Fontaine,” cut in Nathanial.

“Arnaud. I insist.” He smiled. “Otherwise I shall insist on calling you Professor Stone.”

Which would have been fine by Nathanial, but then he remembered how dull and plodding he’d sounded to Annabelle outside. And by contrast with the Frenchman, he’d probably sound even more so. “Arnaud,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “And please—Nathanial will be fine.”

“Merveilleux!” beamed Arnaud. “To have another scientist here from Earth is just the gin and tonic I need. Come, please, sit!” He dusted off another chair—a little less assiduously than he’d dusted off Annabelle’s—and gestured for Nathanial to sit before producing a bottle of brandy and two glasses. A little more hunting uncovered a dusty china cup and saucer which, in a clear attempt at gallantry, he offered Annabelle. “I can have tea brought here,” he said, “if the finest cognac isn’t to your tastes, Annabelle. Perhaps, as the Americaine here, you would prefer the bourbon, non?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“That is indeed a great shame—a little cognac, I think, helps make friends of acquaintances.”

Nathanial felt he couldn’t refuse and allowed Arnaud to pour him a small measure.

“To our meeting!” said Arnaud, and he and Nathanial clinked glasses and drank. “Now,” Arnaud announced, after he’d let the brandy go down. “I am assuming, yes, that your arrival here is not a coincidence.”

Nathanial frowned. “I’m sorry—not a coincidence? Not a coincidence with what?”

Arnaud leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands across his stomach. He was clearly no stranger to good food and wine, for his stained shirt failed to conceal a well-fed frame. He was considerably shorter than Nathanial (but since he was almost seven feet tall himself, most people were) with dark, curly hair and a couple of days’ stubble and full—almost cherubic—lips. A smile tugged at the corner as he seemed to be enjoying Nathanial’s discomfort.

“Oh, come Nathanial.” The smile grew and Arnaud flicked a mischievous look at Annabelle. “One of the most notable British scientists and inventors—and an explorer to boot!—decides to pay a visit to this little ball of overheated rock, just a month past the death of Professor Fournier, and—”

“Fournier?” Nathanial turned the name over in his head for a few seconds. There was a vague familiarity to it, but for the life of him he couldn’t place where he’d heard it. There were few lady professors of note, and he felt sure that, had he encountered her before, he would not easily have forgotten her. “Please,” he continued, “enlighten us. You appear to have been following my, ah, career more closely than I have been following events on Mercury, alas.”

Arnaud unclasped his hands. “Oh please, please—I do not have the intention to cause an offence to you. Your work is becoming—” His fingers fluttered as he struggled to find the right word “legendary, I think is how you say, non?” The smile in his brown eyes made Nathanial suddenly feel very uncomfortable, thinking that people might have been discussing him. A blush rose to his cheeks and the Frenchman obviously sensed his discomfort. “I am sorry,” Arnaud said hastily. “I am making my stupidity worse, am I not?”

Nathanial brushed it away, wishing not to dwell on his own embarrassment but simply return to the matter of this Professor Fournier. “You said she died,” he cut in, a little sharply.

“Ah yes.” Arnaud’s face once again became mournful and he sat back in his chair. “A most terrible death, and at the peak of her career, also.”

“Perhaps if you told me who she was and the circumstances surrounding her passing away…?”

“But of course, of course. Professor Fournier—Maria Fournier—was a most respected geologist. She taught the physical sciences at La Sorbonne—is where I met her. She was one of my lecturers. She had a most enviable reputation—particularly in geology but also in chemistry and physics, and had recently begun to turn her attentions to the science of the other planets. Have you heard of Doctor Bentinck? I believe he is a fellow of the Royal Society.”

Ah! At last, thought Nathanial, a name with which he was familiar. “Indeed I have—and a most…interesting gentleman.” Nathanial had met him several years ago whilst dining at The Clevedon Club, introduced to him by none other than Lord Kelvin. He recalled Bentinck as a sour, irascible fellow with a penchant for foul-smelling cigars and a certain brand of off-colour humour which Nathanial had not taken to. They had exchanged a few words on the nature of the aether and the possible implications for space travel.

Arnaud nodded sagely. “It was Doctor Bentinck who suggested to Professor Fournier that a suitable place to start in her researches might be Mercury. It seems that certain elements of the planet’s composition were puzzling some of the people here, and then there were the rumours of an Austrian research team some time back that…” He smiled and waved it away. “I digress. Bentinck suggested that her knowledge of terrestrial geology—and her wide interests in Mars and Venus—would make her suitable.”

Nathanial nodded and Annabelle took this as an opportunity to jump into the conversation. “Sorry to interrupt, but if you men are going to go all sciencey on me, I think I’m going to go and find Uncle Ernest. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Ah,” said Nathanial, awkwardly. “Not at all, Annabelle.”

Arnaud stood up. “My deepest apologies if our conversation has bored you, Miss Annabelle.”

“Oh, not at all. And it would be nice to see my uncle again. I’ve barely exchanged two words with him since we arrived this morning. Nathanial and his science questions somehow seemed to edge me out.”

Arnaud nodded understandingly and went to open the door for her.

“Thank you, Arnaud,” she said. “I’ll see you two later.”

Nathanial nodded and waited until Arnaud had closed the door. “Are we really that boring?” he said.

“Perhaps a little, yes,” said Arnaud with a grin, sitting back down opposite Nathanial. “Where were we?”

“Professor Fournier…”

“Oh yes!”

Mercury had been, for many scientists on Earth, a far less interesting prize thanVenus or Mars. Its proximity to the sun made it paradoxically harder to reach than the other planets, since a huge amount of energy needed to be expended not only to reach it, but to escape it for the return trip. And the planet’s tidally-locked nature—with one face perpetually facing the Sun and one facing back out into the Solar System—had given the impression that life was impossible in its horrifying extremes of temperature, until Sir Basil Throckmorton’s expedition in ’76 proved otherwise.

Throckmorton discovered, to his delight, that Mercury was mysteriously denser than had previously been expected, and that, as a consequence, it had managed to hold on to an atmosphere, despite the ferocity of the solar radiation blasting it. And Throckmorton also discovered that where the Dark Side and the Bright Side met, there was a positively balmy habitable zone. It was around this ring that the World River ran, propelled by natural Coriolis forces; and it was along the banks of this river that a flourishing—if primitive—environment had sprung up: the animals here were mainly simple and amphibious, ranging from the thumb-sized up to the elephant-sized.

Only once this had been reported back to Earth did people start to take a serious interest in the planet—especially once it was discovered that Mercury was a rich (if potentially difficult to exploit) source of tin, zinc and other low melting point metals, as well as the ammonia, methane and solid carbon dioxide from the Dark Side. Consequently, the British Empire suddenly found itself in need of experts willing to visit Mercury to investigate its possible uses. Thousands of tons of tin were collected from pools on the Bright Side and then dragged back to Princess Christiana Station for transport back to Earth. And who knew what other valuable minerals and substances might be found on one side or the other?

“So Professor Fournier came here to help work out the planet’s structure and composition?”

Arnaud nodded sadly. “And it was here that she died.” He gave a little shake of the head.

“May I ask,” enquired Nathanial, “how did she pass away?”

“She was exploring some of the caves that had been discovered—beneath our very feet. She was accompanied by a British soldier who had been assigned to her as her assistant. A Corporal Heath, I understand. They went down to obtain some samples—and she was killed by a fall of rocks. The corporal was fortunate to escape with a few of the broken bones.”

“What a terrible end,” Nathanial said, realising how close to death his own investigations had brought him on numerous occasions. But to be killed by something as impersonal and unthinking as a rockfall….

“Your arrival here was well-timed: they are hoping to reach her body tomorrow. They sent an expedition to recover it earlier, but until they could fit props to the tunnel and remove all the rock, they couldn’t reach her.”

Nathanial took a breath, hoping that his next words would not be misconstrued in any way as callous or disregarding of the professor’s tragic demise. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss—and for Professor Fourier herself, of course. But…you spoke earlier as if you thought my arrival here was not a coincidence. Forgive me if I’ve misunderstood, but, why should the two be connected?”

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

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

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

Chapter Two

“In Which Annabelle Learns About the Ghosts”

1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spooked.

2.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s nothing,” Iris said brusquely.

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

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

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

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

But Iris continued to hover behind her desk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take your time. There’s no rush.”

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

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

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

“You mean transparent?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He saluted Shawbridge and left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at her blankly.

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

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

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

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

“Everything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nonsense!” Uncle Ernest snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, yes—no sugar, thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you seen one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Annabelle’s turn to bridle. She had a strong faith and an equally strong belief in the afterlife. She’d spent too long with Indians and heard too many tales of spirits communicating with their loved ones to be able to dismiss it as nonsense. “Regardless of my personal beliefs,” she said, slightly primly, “the existence of spirits has surely been proven on many occasions. I, myself, have been to several spiritualist meetings where, I can assure you, people have been contacted by their loved ones.”

“Excuse my scepticism, Annabelle, but these people are charlatans and confidence tricksters, using flim-flam and stage magic to extract money from people with more belief than common sense.”

Annabelle’s mouth tightened. “But that’s not what we’re talking about here, is it?” she said. “We’re talking about your men seeing ghosts, not attending séances and witnessing all manner of strange phantasmagoria and table-rattling. There’s one obvious question, though, isn’t there? Could these visitations be from her?”

“Despite the vagueness of the descriptions, Annabelle, none of them tallied with the professor. Would be a darned sight easier if they did, wouldn’t it?” He gave a regretful shake of his head. “She was here doing some research into rocks and crystals and the like. Very smart woman—always managed to bamboozle me with her science talk, but then that’s not all that difficult, is it? A little bit testy, as the French are inclined to be. But her death was a big shock, I can tell you. She was down in the caverns, digging for more samples. A rockfall crushed her completely. Almost did for one of my men—Corporal Paul Heath. I’d assigned him to help her with her work. He got caught in the rockfall but managed to pull through with just a few cracked bones and bruises. The professor, though…”

“And her body’s still down there?”

“Until tomorrow. Took a hell of a lot of excavation to get back into the damned cavern where she died. I don’t imagine that she’ll be a pretty sight, if you don’t mind my saying so, Annabelle. Several tons of rocks don’t pull their punches, if you know what I mean.”

“Awful,” Annabelle whispered. “And now you have this Doctor Fontaine taking over from her?”

“He was one of her best students, apparently, and came very highly recommended by the same source that suggested Professor Fournier. A bit of a radical, if you ask me. One of these new Socialists that they have over there, now. Only been here a week and I’ve hardly spoken two words to the chap. Let him get on with whatever he’s getting on with, I say.”

“He seemed very charming when Nathanial and I met him earlier. Perhaps a little casual, but only in that mildly eccentric way that many scientists have.” She smiled, thinking of both Nathanial and her Uncle Cyrus, who was still on Luna (from where he had failed to send her a single heliograph message in over three months!). It took Annabelle a moment to bring herself back on track. “It does seem a remarkable coincidence, though, you have to admit. Princess Christiana Station’s been here for nine years or so, has it not? And yet, just a week or so after Professor Fournier’s death, you suddenly have twenty-odd people claiming to see ghosts.”

“Some sort of mass hysteria, if you want my opinion. People can get very tense and tired in a strange environment like this. It only needs one death to have them seeing things in every corner, doesn’t it?”

“And yet you don’t really believe that, do you, Uncle?”

“No,” he replied at length. “No I don’t. But I have to take a different official line, as I’m sure you understand. If I let it be known… My father used to say that the British Empire was built on discipline and common-sense. And if I let common-sense fly out of the window now, I might as well throw out discipline with it. And then where would we be? Without us here, the tin-miners would have no support and no means of getting the tin back to the Earth. And without the tin, there could well be a stock market crash, and then where would we all be, hmm?”

He looked back at her, his eyes suddenly very tired, very old and very sad.

And in that moment, Annabelle made a vow to herself that she and Nathanial would get to the bottom of the matter. Whatever it took.

Chapter Three

“In Which Nathanial and Arnaud Get Down to Some Science, and Annabelle Witnesses Something Inexplicable”

1.

Nathanial turned the rock over in his hand. It was the size of his palm, flat and glassy and roughly hexagonal, although a couple of the edges had what he could only think of as “growths” on them—more of the same material but bubbled up into strange, organic shapes as if by great heat. It had a dull, brownish lustre which, as he turned it over, flashed redly in the light.

“What is it?” he asked at length. “Is it glass?”

“If it is,” Arnaud said, taking the rock from him and looking at it himself, as though it were the first time he’d seen it, “then it is a type of glass I have never encountered. Professor Fournier has a considerable collection of them.” He gestured to a tall cupboard, almost ceiling height, full of tiny drawers.

Nathanial began flicking through a brown leather notebook that Arnaud had given him. The ivory-coloured pages were almost completely blank, after a few initial notes about Mercury and meteorological observations.

“Not a great keeper of notes,” Nathanial said sourly. “Not exactly the mark of a true scientist.”

Arnaud shrugged and tapped his head. “The true mark of a scientist is in what they think and what they discover, not in their handwriting.”

Nathanial raised a quizzical eyebrow. “We shall see,” Nathanial said, glancing around the shabby room. His eyes alighted on a workbench with a sturdy, brass-riveted box situated at one end. He wandered over, opened a panel in the side and peered in. “Ah yes,” he said after a moment. “Some sort of electric arc device—see? Two rods—presumably carbon, judging by their colour—brought close together and then an electrical discharge is passed through them.”

“I have heard of an arc lamp, yes,” said Arnaud dryly.

“Of course,” Nathanial apologised. “Please forgive me. I’ve fallen into the habit recently of assuming that other people’s knowledge of such things is…well…not as extensive as mine. And it isn’t as though the late professor wrote any details down anywhere, is it?” he added archly.

He glanced up to see Arnaud smiling. “We appear to have more in common than we had thought,” the Frenchman said. “I, too, have the same problem. Especially here. The military mindset—yes?—is not always comfortable with me. They are good people but I must confess that sometimes I feel they see me more as a hindrance than a help.”

“Then we must prove them wrong, Arnaud!” said Nathanial. “We must prove them wrong! Now—let’s see if we can’t work out the purpose of this darned contraption.”

“I believe it needs the attentions of an engineer,” Arnaud said.

“Then it’s a good job I’m here,” Nathanial replied, opening the door in the box and peering inside. “Ah! Yes! A broken rod. The question is,” he said, standing up and looking around the laboratory, “is there a spare?”

A brief search unearthed a small cardboard containing a dozen of the carbon rods. Nathanial busied himself with the repair before turning around to see Arnaud pouring two more ridiculously generous shots of cognac.

“Do you normally drink as much as this?”

Arnaud looked at the two glasses. “This is much?”

“Well…”

“Ha! You English—you are so…”

“English?”

The Frenchman laughed heartily, almost spilling the brandy. “If you would prefer more tea… That would be much more English, wouldn’t it?”

“And Annabelle will smell it on my breath—and there’ll be the Devil to pay, you know.”

“Then you must tell her that the Frenchman led you astray—we are not to be trusted, non?” Arnaud grinned—and then gestured at the other end of the apparatus Nathanial was poking about in. “Since you have so cleverly worked out what that end is for—do you have the idea of what this end does?”

Arnaud gestured to a different device. Because it was mounted on a stand of its own and not on the bench, he’d assumed that it was unrelated to the lamp. It consisted of another steel box, slightly larger than the one that housed the arc lamp. A six-inch square of lightly-smoked glass with an incredibly fine pattern of concentric circles etched into it, was mounted on the side of the box facing the lamp mechanism, in line with it.

“If that,” said Arnaud thoughtfully, swirling his cognac around his glass and raising it to his nose to savour the smell, “is a lamp, then…” He set down his glass and traced the path of an imaginary line from the front of the smaller box to the centre of the clamp and then through it to the smoked-glass panel. “Perhaps this is for receiving the light after it has passed through whatever sample has been placed in between.”

Nathanial nodded. “That seems plausible—you mean some sort of spectrographic or luminal analysis?”

Arnaud, apparently forgetting about his cognac, started to examine the “receiver”—if that was indeed what it was. “There are a series of dials—”

“There is a series of dials,” Nathanial corrected him before he could stop himself.

“That is what I have just said,” said Arnaud, before realising that Nathanial was correcting his English.

“Sorry,” Nathanial said, trying not to laugh, “force of habit.”

“Ah…a force of nature I have heard of. But a force of habit?”

“It’s a little like a force of nature—but sadly sometimes more unstoppable. Sorry—the fault of the cognac, I’m sure. What about these dials, then?”

“They seem to be marked in Angstrom units—oh, and there is another row…” Arnaud paused, and Nathanial could see him puzzling over them. “Unless they are in some impenetratable code, I believe they are for measuring the passing of time in very small increments.”

“It’s impenetrable,” said Nathanial.

“Is it? What is?”

“No, the word is impenetrable, not impenetratable.” Nathanial sighed and set his glass down firmly, still almost half full. “Enough of this evil spirit!” he laughed. “At this rate, you’ll be carrying me back to my quarters, and imagine the sport that Annabelle would have with such a scenario!”

“Bien sûr,” said Arnaud, raising an eyebrow.

“You and those damn eyebrows,” Nathanial said wryly, shaking his head and finishing off the repairs to the arc-lamp. “Let’s see these dials, then… Yes, yes, I believe you’re correct: the top row are for measuring the wavelength and the bottom ones… Why would she want to measure such small increments of time for the transmitted light?”

“Or perhaps emitted light. Perhaps the plates emit light in some way?”

Nathanial took a firm, deep breath. “There’s only one way to find out. Let’s fire up the device and see, shall we?”

2.

He was there. Again. Standing silently in the corner of the room. There but not quite there.

When Corporal Heath looked directly at him, he seemed to jump, as if instantly whisked to some other part of the room that was now at the edge of his vision. Heath couldn’t help but still try to catch it out, hoping that, just once, the ghost might forget to jump.

Heath ached—not only with the pain in his leg and ankle and chest, but with frustration. He had lost count of the number of times the ghost had vanished completely, and he’d found himself staring down at his white hands, balled up into fists, clutching the hospital sheets. He sensed something not altogether right, not happy about the ghost. There was a darkness there that he didn’t like at all. Realising how tense he was, Heath consciously relaxed and let his chin drop to his chest, triggering a jolt of pain from the torn muscles around his collarbone—before looking up suddenly, another bolt of pain shooting down his left arm from his shoulder. There was something going on in the corridor; he recognised Doctor Schell’s voice. The door to the ward was flung open and in swept the doctor, in his wake a slim, striking woman with black hair and the most hypnotic eyes Heath had seen for a long time. She had a healthy tan which immediately marked her out as a newcomer to Mercury. In her arms, she carried a large, buff folder, holding it close like it was the most important thing in the world. Behind them, hands flapping and a look of intense annoyance on her face was Nurse Lopez. She shot a glance at Heath as if to apologise for letting Schell and this new woman in.

“Heath!” beamed Schell coming to a sudden stop at the side of the bed and folding his arms. “How the devil are you, man?”

“Can’t complain sir,” Heath replied, knowing that an angel must surely have been looking out for him all those weeks ago.

“Good man,” Schell said. “Good man. Been through the wars, haven’t you? Good to see you on the mend, though. Bearing up, hmm?”

Schell turned to Nurse Lopez who stood there, glowering at him. By all accounts, Nurse Lopez’ parents—and in particular her mother—were possessed of fiery Latin temperaments that their daughter had clearly inherited.

“This man is sick, Doctor Schell. I do not think you really need me to tell you that, do you? You are a doctor after all. He needs rest and time to recover, not being interrupted during dinner.” Her English was impeccable with barely a hint of a Spanish accent. Doctor Schell looked up and down the bed and at the side-table. There was no sign of any meal, either fresh or half-eaten.

“Not hungry, Heath?”

“Not really, sir, no. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise for not being hungry, you know,” interjected the dark-haired young woman who sounded, from her accent, like an American. She smiled at him and gave him a wink.

“Well that just won’t do,” said Schell with a firm shake of his head. “You need to get something inside your belly. No man ever got better from not eating, now did he? And many have gotten much, much worse.”

“Maybe later, sir.”

Schell raised an eyebrow and glanced back at Nurse Lopez. “Well make sure you do—and if he doesn’t, Lopez, I’ll be wanting to know why.”

“Corporal Heath is doing very well, doctor. He’ll eat when he wants to.”

The doctor nodded as if he’d just won that round and turned to the woman he’d arrived with. “Corporal Heath, this is Miss Annabelle Somerset. She arrived on Mercury today. She’s a close family friend of the colonel, so make sure you show her some respect. She’s here…” He paused and looked at Nurse Lopez. “That’ll be all, thank you, Lopez. I’ll shout for you if I need you.”

Nurse Lopez pulled a sour face, looked Miss Somerset up and down as if appraising her as a potential rival—as women, in Heath’s opinion, were wont to do—and then turned on her heel and left, letting the door bang behind her as a final gesture.

“Sorry about that,” Schell apologised to Miss Somerset. “She gets very protective about poor Heath here. Good thing, I suppose, considering she’s a nurse. But still… Anyway, the colonel says that Miss Somerset here would like to talk to you, if you feel up to it.”

“What about, sir?”

“About your accident,” said Miss Somerset. “And…and what’s been happening to you since then.”

“I, um,” stumbled Heath. “I’m not sure what you mean, miss.”

Miss Somerset turned to the doctor and placed a hand on his arm. “Maybe it would be better if I spoke to Corporal Heath on my own for a while. It may be less stressful for him,” she added gently.

“Well…I suppose so,” Schell said. “You take care of her, young man. And,” turning to Miss Somerset, “if he starts getting cheeky or taking liberties, you let Nurse Lopez know—and believe me, Heath’s next bed-bath will be one for him to remember. And not with fondness, if you take my meaning.”

Heath’s mouth dropped open, expecting Miss Somerset to be at least surprised, if not shocked, by what Schell had said, but instead she laughed—a lovely laugh. Something Heath hadn’t heard on Mercury for a very long time. He felt his cheeks redden and kept his head down as the doctor wagged a departing finger at him and swept back out of the room.

“There’s a chair there, miss,” Heath said, hoping his blushing had died down.

“Thank you, Corporal.” She set down the folder on a clear space at the foot of his bed. “I can’t keep calling you corporal, now can I, not if we’re going to get to know each other?”

“It’s Paul, miss.”

“Paul.” She held out her hand for him to shake. “And please call me Annabelle—miss is just a little stuffy, don’t you think?”

Heath didn’t think so at all, but he nodded. Even Nurse Lopez didn’t let him call her by her first name, and he’d known her for three months. He wondered if all Americans were like this.

“So…now that those two have gone, how are you really?”

He wondered if this were some sort of trap and whether Miss Somerset hadn’t simply been brought in to sign him off to Bedlam. “Doing as well as can be expected, I suppose, miss. Um…Annabelle. It’s this leg, really—under orders to keep off it for another couple of days. They’ve got me all strapped up. I can walk around but Nurse Lopez causes such a hoo-ha when I do. It’s easier just to stay in bed.”

“You must get terribly bored in here,” she said, casting her eyes around. There were three other beds—all of them empty and made up, crisply. “Do you not have any books to read?”

“Not much of a reader, really. But I’m fine, I’ve got my Bible in the drawer there—that’s enough.”

She smiled, understandingly. “It’s given me a lot of comfort over the years, too. But having nothing else to do must give you a lot of time to think about things. And that’s not always good, is it?”

“Not sure I catch your drift, miss.”

“Oh, you know the way your mind goes around and around in circles when there’s nothing to distract you. Let me tell you—” she leaned forward conspiratorially, “—the journey here from Venus was terribly tiresome. Oh, I know I had the run of the ship, but there are only so many conversations you can have with the cook about the meals, and only so many times you can stare out of the portholes into space. Space itself is dreadfully dull, don’t you think?”

Heath grinned. “It does get a bit boring in here, truth be told. But Nurse Lopez sits with me a lot and tells me stories of what everyone else is up to. Not,” he added hastily, afraid of besmirching her reputation, “that she gossips. She’s not that sort of girl. But she keeps me up-to-date on what’s happening.” He glanced towards the window where the wooden shutters were firmly closed. “And it’s not like there’s much to see out there.”

A sudden chill prickled along the length of his body as he realised how he’d emphasised the last word; Annabelle had clearly picked up on it, for she leaned just a little closer.

“Not much to see out there? I wouldn’t have thought there was much more to see in here, to be honest.”

Heath smiled tightly but said nothing.

“So,” said Annabelle, after a thoughtful second or two. “Tell me all about what you’ve been up to here on Mercury. You were working with Professor Fournier, weren’t you, before her accident?”

“I was, miss, yes.”

“She was a geologist, I understand.”

“She called herself a ‘hermologist’ on account of this being Mercury and not Earth, miss. That’s what she said, anyway. Didn’t really get it meself—geology’s the study of rocks, isn’t it? And it was rocks she was looking at here, too.”

“Colonel Shawbridge assigned you to help her, did he? How did you find it, working with her on her hermology?”

“Oh, it was fine. She was a lovely old bird—if you don’t mind my saying, miss. She said the queerest things, you know, sometimes, and could be a complete cow—sorry, miss—at times. Her English was pretty good, though, for a Frenchie. Better than my French. I think she was a bit suspicious of me at the start, if you know what I mean. Thought the colonel had sent me to spy on her. But we got on fine—I got quite attached to…” Heath sniffed away an unexpected tear and lowered his head so that Annabelle wouldn’t see. “Terrible way to go, though…” His voice tailed off and he stared down at the bed.

“Sounded like it was very quick, though.”

He gave a shrug. “I reckon so, miss—but I can’t rightly say. The last thing I remember is her climbing up on a pile of them there plates as she called ’em. Crystals they were—so the Prof said. But she called them plates. About that size of my hand—some were a lot bigger and some smaller. Sort of glassy but frosted and mucky, like raw diamonds or something.”

“And she was climbing on top of them, is that right? Where was this, then? Uncle—Colonel Shawbridge mentioned some caves.”

“That’s right, miss—they’re just along the river. Well, the entrance is. Bloody huge ones. If you’ll pardon my French.” He gave a sheepish grin. “Loads of these plates around—big balls of ’em sticking out the walls. Told her I thought they looked like boils and she didn’t understand what I meant so I had to explain.” He broke off to sniff. “This is going to sound silly, miss—but she was a bit like a mum to me.” He looked up. “Does that sound daft?”

“Not at all. You must miss your mom and your family. How long since you last saw them?”

“Coming up to a year now. Got transferred straight here from duty in Africa. Didn’t have chance to even do an overnighter with them.” He paused and wiped his eyes with the back of his right hand. “I reckon she’d have liked you. No nonsense, that’s what she was. Said as she found. No messing.”

“Thank you, Paul. So then what happened—if you don’t mind talking about it, that is?”

“Well she found this big mound of ’em, like I said. Sticking out of the wall. Odd things they were.”

“In what way?”

“When you shone a torch on them, the light came back sort of redder. Professor Fournier tried to explain it to me. Something about waves and frequencies, but I never really got it. You should chat to that new Frenchie—Doctor Fountain or something. He’s taken over from her. Anyway, the Professor had seen them before but said something had changed about them and she wanted some samples. I offered to get them for her, what with her being a lady, but she was having none of it. Up she went, like a mountain goat, and started to chip away with that hammer of hers. Only she dropped it, so she pulled out this ruddy big lump hammer.” He shook his head at the memory of it. “And before I knew it, she’d taken a great swing at it…and then…”

Heath found himself staring across the room. Staring at the figure that he couldn’t quite see, standing not quite in the corner.

He had no idea how long he’d been out of it, but suddenly Annabelle was there, bending down slightly, her face just a couple of feet from him. She was saying something.

“…all right, Paul? What is it?” She turned to follow his gaze. For a few seconds, all he could see was her hair and her shoulders, and then her face snapped round, her eyes wide. “I saw it,” she said in a whisper. “Paul…. I saw it!”

Chapter Four

“In Which Nathanial and Arnaud Hear of Annabelle’s Experience”

1.

“Mon dieu!” exclaimed Arnaud.

“What?” asked Nathanial anxiously.

Arnaud was standing at the far end of the apparatus, monitoring the dials and gauges on what they decided to call the analyser—the device designed to receive the light transmitted through the sample from the arc-lamp. “This…” He paused and ran his hand over his dark hair only to have it bounce right back. “I don’t understand.”

Nathanial sighed and joined the Frenchman. The needles on the gauges had moved and were, if he was correct, showing that the light received was delayed by several fractions of a second. If that were true, did that mean that the plate somehow concentrated the aether? Was that even possible?

“Try again,” Arnaud said. “Perhaps the equipment is damaged or needs to heat up.”

Nathanial was resetting the lamp when he heard the sound of the door.

“Nathanial!” came a voice from behind him, and he spun round to see Annabelle standing there, looking—if he were honest—a little frightful. She was breathing heavily and her hair looked a bit windswept, but it was the wide-eyed look of alarm on her face that caught his attention. In her arms was a collection of folders, the documents they contained all but spilling out.

“Annabelle? What’s wrong? Come in, come in.”

“Oh dear Lord, Nathanial. You’ll never guess what I’ve just seen. A ghost! A real, live ghost!”

“Where?”

“In the hospital.” She paused to take a few deep breaths. It was clear she’d been running. “Can you believe it?”

“If this had come from anyone else, I’m not sure I would. But if you say you’ve seen one…Arnaud’s been telling me about them.”

“Perhaps a glass of cognac will help steady your nerves,” ventured Arnaud, raising the bottle.

“Is that your answer to everything?” asked Nathanial and then sighed. “Perhaps on this occasion you might be right. A small medicinal brandy might help steady your nerves, Annabelle. Sit here and tell us all about it.” He gestured to a chair and she sank into it and accepted the glass from Arnaud. The two men took seats opposite her. “Now,” said Nathanial. “Start at the beginning and don’t miss anything out.”

Annabelle set down her folders on the table and took a gulp of the cognac. She winced a little as it burned her throat, and handed the glass back to Arnaud, before proceeding to tell them everything that had happened in the hospital with Corporal Heath.

“Remarkable,” whispered Nathanial when she’d finished. “So what did it look like, exactly?”

“That’s the strangest thing—I can barely remember now. I’m fairly sure that it was a man—and wearing some sort of uniform, I think.” She shook her head, clearly irritated at her own inability to remember. “Someone said that remembering them was a little like remembering a dream—I know exactly what they mean now.” Her face pursed up in annoyance. “Oh, Nathanial, you’ve no idea how frustrating this is!”

“Don’t worry about it, Annabelle. It sounds like these ghosts, or whatever they are, have the same effect on everyone. I wonder why it appeared then, whilst you were there. Arnaud and I haven’t seen one yet.” There was a trace of disappointment in his voice.

“Perhaps they only appear to people who believe in such things, and maybe the scientific mind isn’t as approachable as the normal one,” Annabelle suggested, with just a hint of archness in her voice.

“That is possible,” Arnaud agreed. “Religious people are often more gullible, are they not?”

“Are you calling me gullible, Doctor Fontaine?”

“No, no, not at all,” Arnaud said hastily. “Perhaps ‘open-minded’ would be better—that’s correct, yes?”

Annabelle took a breath, mollified. “Perhaps these will help.” She gestured at the pile of documents on the table.

Nathanial began to leaf through them. “Medical documents… Reports of the sightings… Where on Earth did you get hold of these, Annabelle?”

“Uncle Ernest gave them me. I don’t think he was intending to, but I talked him round. I think he’s actually quite relieved that I’m here. It means he can let me do the investigating without having to give the impression of taking it all too seriously. Is there anything interesting in them?”

“Hmm,” Nathanial said. “Not sure—we’d need to sit down and go through them, see if we can find some common factor between all these people.”

“I’ll do that whilst you two do whatever it is you scientists do, shall I?” She peered over Arnaud’s shoulder at the device they’d been fiddling with when she’d come in. “Fascinating,” she said unconvincingly. “I’m sure it’s very complicated work, so I’ll go to my quarters and have a look through these, and you can tell me all about your samples and rocks and things tomorrow.”

She got up to leave.

“You are quite sure that you’re all right?” enquired Nathanial, solicitously, handing back her notes. “You’ve had quite a shock you know. It’s not every day that someone sees a real, live—erm, dead—ghost.”

“I’ll be fine—but thank you for asking. And thank you for the brandy, Arnaud. I rather think it’s doing the trick.”

“Well if you’re sure,” Nathanial said. “But at least let me walk you back. It’s entirely possible that you might have another visitation, or whatever we’re supposed to call them.”

“Oh Nathanial,” smiled Annabelle. “You’re such a fusspot. You can’t be at my side twenty four hours a day, you know.”

There was a slightly awkward pause.

Nathanial gave a little cough. “Well maybe I am a fusspot—but I’d feel much better knowing you were safe. No arguments, young lady.”

Annabelle let her shoulders fall with a melodramatic sigh that made Arnaud chuckle. “Oh, very well—if it will let you sleep sounder, then of course you may escort me. Good night, Arnaud.”

“Goodnight, mademoiselle. Have the beaux reves—the sweet dreams.”

Annabelle looked back at him from the doorway. “Trust me, Arnaud—dreams are the last things I want to experience tonight.”

2.

“He seems a pleasant enough fellow,” said Annabelle as they headed for her quarters.

“Oh, he is. A little…unorthodox might be the world. And he does love his brandy. How is your uncle, by the way? Has he been deliberately keeping out of our way since we arrived? I hope I didn’t scare him off with all those questions.”

“I think he’s more preoccupied with these ghost sightings than he’s letting on. Poor Uncle Ernest… He’s not terribly happy here.” She looked up at the sky. “Earlier on it seemed beautiful and exotic. But to spend every day, all day, in it… I’m not sure I’d like it very much.”

“Yes,” Nathanial agreed as they passed under the purple-green foliage of one of the local trees, spiked leaves glittering in the streetlight. “A shame Mercury has no moon—moonlight would be nice.”

Annabelle glanced sideways at him. “Moonlight? Surely you’re not turning into some old romantic, are you?”

“Ha! Less of the ‘old’, please. And no—I was just thinking that it might introduce a little variation.”

“Uncle Ernest and Doctor Schell thought the conditions here might be responsible for the ghost sightings—well, partly.”

“How did Heath strike you, then—as someone prone to flights of fancy or melancholia? And how was he when you left him?”

“I can’t say he did, no. He seemed to be a perfectly decent, ordinary chap. Nurse Lopez gave him something to help him sleep, and I made sure he took it.” They rounded the corner to the three rows of whitewashed accommodation bungalows, and she indicated the documents in her arms. “Maybe these will give us a clue.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way until they reached her bungalow, whereupon Annabelle stood on tip-toe and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you Nathanial,” she said.

“What was that for?” he asked, slightly surprised.

“For being a gentleman.”

“Oh my,” he laughed, feeling his cheeks colouring. “I shall have to be a gentleman more often, shan’t I?”

“Good night, Nathanial—don’t work too hard with Arnaud.” She smiled and gave a matronly wag of her finger. “And don’t let him lead you astray with that brandy of his.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Nathanial, giving a little mock salute.

He waited until Annabelle was inside and the door closed, and then set off back to the lab, his cheek still burning.

3.

Annabelle’s head was still whirling as she made ready for bed. Only two days ago they had been in space, heading for what she thought was an insignificant little rock. If it hadn’t been for the discovery that Uncle Ernest had been here, she would have been quite happy to return to Earth, but she had enjoyed her adventures on Venus with Miles, Thymon and Nathanial so much that she’d seized on any opportunity to extend her journey. She missed home, but she knew that as soon as she set foot upon the Earth, she’d start missing her travels even more. Especially at the Chatham Dockyard, despite the Whites’ generous hospitality.

Fluffing up the pillows, she positioned herself upright in bed and started to leaf through the documents. It was dry old stuff—even the reports of the sightings—but she picked up a pencil and a wad of paper, and started making notes, condensing down the often rambling statements to the bare facts. It took about an hour and then she put the pile of reports to one side and scanned her notes. It took only a few moments to see that there was no discernible pattern or common thread to the sightings.

Annabelle sighed and rested her head against the wall, catching sight of the clock on the bedside table. It was a little past two in the morning. It was so easy to lose track of the hour on this timeless world. She found herself yawning and decided to leave it until the morning: perhaps with a refreshed brain, something might come to her. Turning off the light, she lay back in bed and stared up at the ceiling. Once her eyes had adjusted to the almost-complete darkness afforded by the shutters, she could just about see the fan slowly rotating, whuffing around and around and around….

4.

Nathanial was woken from the strangest dreams about talking to himself in a mirror by a hefty rap at the door and sat up in bed feeling very sweaty and annoyed.

There was another, louder knock, followed by Arnaud’s unmistakable voice. “Nathanial! Are you awake?”

“Yes, yes—come in.”

Arnaud’s tousled head appear round the door, his brown eyes bright and his eyebrows raised. “Are you decent?” he asked with a grin.

“I’m always decent, Arnaud. I’m British, remember. Come in, you look silly like that. What time is it?”

“Quarter after seven.”

“What? Why are you waking me at such an ungodly hour?”

“Ungodly? Mon ami, we have much to do today. They will be finding the professor’s body—would you not wish to be there?”

Nathanial pulled an expression of horror. “Why would I want that? I’m not a surgeon or a coroner, you know.” He sat up in bed, self-consciously pulling the damp sheets around him.

“But you are a scientist, non? This would be a good opportunity to see the caves, whilst there are many soldiers around to protect us—or extricate us if there is further rockfalling.”

Nathanial scowled. He could think of better things to do than wandering around dank caves in search of a corpse, after all what could the caverns of Mercury offer that Luna’s did not? But he supposed Arnaud had a point. “Oh, very well. Give me ten minutes to get dressed. Where shall I meet you?”

“Do you know where the bathing beach is?”

“This place has a bathing beach?” asked Nathanial incredulously. “Why on Earth would it have one of them? Who’d want to bathe here?”

Arnaud shrugged. “I have no idea, but apparently the water is very warm and full of minerals and salts—as long as you don’t swallow it. I’m also told it is a very romantic place for couples to have their secret meetings.”

“Well I hope we won’t be encountering any of them today—now shoo!” Nathanial waved Arnaud away. “You continentals may be happy with wandering around in front of strangers with barely any clothes on, but—”

“You’re British,” Arnaud finished for him. “Yes, I know. Ten minutes then, on the beach. And don’t forget your bucket and spade.” And with another cheeky grin, Arnaud left Nathanial to get on with it.

5.

Finally washed and brushed, Nathanial followed the sound of voices to find a group of five soldiers assembling in the main square, with ropes and lanterns and all sorts of digging paraphernalia.

“Are you chaps going down to get Professor Fournier?” he asked one of them.

“That’s right, sir. We’ve got the go-ahead—the way’s clear. Are you coming with us, sir?”

“If that’s all right, yes.”

“You’ll need one of these, then, sir,” the soldier said, offering him a solid-looking metal helmet. “Not taking any chances, not after what happened before.”

Nathanial tried it on and found it surprisingly comfortable. On Earth, he suspected, the increased gravity would have made it tiresome, but here, it had as little weight as a bowler. Lieutenant Palfreyman—the young soldier that had been assigned to help them out when they’d arrived—appeared, and the casual, chatty soldiers stubbed out their cigarettes and stood to attention.

“Morning, Professor Stone,” said Palfreyman. “You coming with us then?” He indicated Nathanial’s helmet.

“If you don’t mind, Lieutenant. Doctor Fontaine will be coming too—he’s down on the beach waiting for us.”

Palfreyman nodded and turned to his men. “Right you lot—let’s get to work. And bring along a spare helmet for Fontaine.”

Leading the way, Palfreyman headed off, the others in a neat line behind him, like well-behaved school children. Nathanial brought up the rear, feeling very much like the new boy in class. Within a couple of minutes, they were at the edge of the compound, looking out onto the World River.

He estimated its width at about a tenth of a mile—perhaps two thirds of the width of the Thames. So it was by no means the widest river Nathanial had ever seen; but regardless of width, the fact that it was nine and a half thousand miles long and looped back on itself, like a snake eating its own tail, made it worthy of a few moments’ contemplation. It rushed by, its sound a gentle susurration. In the dim light, its surface was almost featureless—but occasional flashes of pinkish silver showed, reflected from the sky above. Palfreyman was leading them along the edge to where a narrow, rocky path zig-zagged down, about fifty yards, to what was obviously the bathing beach. Nathanial squinted and spotted the tiny figure of Arnaud, sitting on a little wooden jetty to which three small boats were tied. He waved cheerily up at them. It took nearly ten minutes to negotiate the rough path down, and the absence of any handrail made Nathanial a little queasy. He tried to avoid looking down at the precipitous drop, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the soldier in front of him. Not soon enough for Nathanial they were down and Lieutenant Palfreyman went to talk to Arnaud while the soldiers chatted and checked over their equipment.

“No disrespect, sir,” said the soldier who’d given him the helmet, suddenly at his side, “but you do know that this might not be pleasant?”

“Don’t worry, it can be no worse than seeing a giant ant sever the head off a Russian soldier.”

“Ah, right,” said the soldier awkwardly. “Very good, sir, just thought I’d mention it. From what Corporal Heath said, she’s likely to be pretty mangled up.”

Nathanial nodded and threw a glance at the stretcher as Arnaud and Palfreyman returned to the group.

“Remember lads,” said the lieutenant as Nathanial watched Arnaud trying on his own helmet at a variety of jaunty—and, frankly, silly—angles. “We have a couple of VIPs with us this morning. The safety of Professor Stone and Doctor Fontaine comes above all other considerations, right? Any sign of things getting dodgy in there, get these two out pronto.”

Again, he led the way, followed by the soldiers with Nathanial and Arnaud bringing up the rear.

“They’ve been reminding me that Professor Fournier’s body might not be a very pretty sight,” Nathanial whispered. “Have you seen many bodies before?”

“Not in the condition that the professor is likely to be in, no,” Arnaud answered, pulling a face. “My mother died peacefully in her sleep and my father, he still lives. I am hoping this will not be too awful.”

“Don’t worry,” Nathanial assured him as they headed down the beach and into the shelter of the rock wall where another narrow path took them along the bank of the river. “Better men than you have found these things a bit much to take. No one will blame you if…you know….”

“Thank you, mon ami. I am expecting it will not be as bad as that, but it is impossible to say until you are faced with it. You have seen much of this kind of thing?”

Nathanial sighed. “Too much, I’m afraid,” he said, reminded of the show O’Rourke had put on for them on Venus. “I fear that I am becoming somewhat inured to death.”

“Inured?”

“Accustomed—hardened you might even say.”

“But that is a good thing, is it not? Death is a part of life, a natural consequence of living. It comes to us all, I suppose, in the end. It is not hardening, surely—just a realisation that none of us can escape it. Unless,” Arnaud added mock-spookily, “you believe the ghosts are really the souls of the dead. In which case, none of us really dies, do we?”

“I take it from your tone that you don’t believe that, then?”

The Frenchman shrugged. “I am not a believer, no—but as a scientist, I like to keep my mind open. The last few years have shown us that there are things that we would previously have dismissed as fantasy and fiction. Who knows what more wonders lie ahead of us? Perhaps we shall discover that the soul itself has a rational explanation.”

“Careful now!” called Palfreyman suddenly. “This path’s a bit of a tricky bugger, and if you fall in the water, there’s more than a few beasties in there that might come to take a look at you. And even if they don’t, try not to get it in your mouth—it’s full of zinc and tin and lead and won’t do much for your digestion.”

“Never mind all that,” Nathanial whispered to Arnaud. “Are these beasties dangerous?”

“Not so much. If you fall in, just…” He waved his arms around madly, almost unbalancing in the process. Nathanial pulled him back by his collar. “They will leave you alone.”

“Well that’s something.”

“Unless they eat you. of course.”

“Now you’re just trying to scare me.”

“For a Britishman,” laughed Arnaud as they began to negotiate the path, keeping their backs to the cliff wall, “you scare very easily.”

“I didn’t say,” Nathanial said pointedly, “that you were succeeding in scaring me.”

“Touché!” laughed Arnaud, giving him a gentle prod in the side. “Now move—we’re getting left behind.”

6.

Annabelle suddenly realised that she wasn’t alone.

Sitting bolt upright in bed, her heart thumping madly, she looked to the foot of the bed where the silhouette of a figure showed black against the almost-black of the rest of the room. Automatically, she reached out to turn on the light.

“No,” said a woman’s voice. “Please, if you do not mind, not the light.”

There was an accent to the woman’s voice, and it only took Annabelle a few moments to place it: French.

“Why not?” she asked cautiously, withdrawing her hand.

“The sight of me may distress you somewhat, mademoiselle.”

Assuming that the station wasn’t staffed with that many Frenchmen, Annabelle hazarded a guess as to who this woman was. “You’re Professor Fournier, aren’t you?” she said.

The woman gave a little laugh. “You are a very perceptive young woman. Yes, I am Professor Fournier—although sometimes, I’m not completely sure. But please call me Maria.”

“Why…why are you here?” Annabelle paused and then, her mouth dry, she asked: “‘Do you know what happened to you?”

“I died, didn’t I?”

Annabelle thought that honesty was the best policy. “I’m sorry, yes, you did.”

“It comes to us all, does it not? Only I did not expect it to come to me so soon. And yet…here I am.” The ghost suddenly shimmered into near invisibility and then stabilised again. “I am not practised at this,” she said, as if by way of apology.

“At being a ghost?”

“If that is what I am, yes. And what else could I be?” Again she flickered—and vanished, to instantly reappear a few feet to the left of where she had been standing. “I feel…incomplete,” she stated flatly after a few seconds. “Does that make any sense?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t, really, no—none of this makes any sense. What do you know of the other ghosts?”

“The other ghosts?” echoed the professor. “There are others?”

“There have been lots of sightings. I saw one myself, briefly, earlier on.”

“Another?” Fournier whispered, the previous monotone of her voice modulated by an edge of curiosity. “Like me?”

“It was hard to tell,” Annabelle admitted. “I only saw it for a few seconds and it was less clear than you are, less distinct. And it was a man.”

There was a gentle intake of breath from the ghost—and Annabelle wondered, briefly, how a ghost could breathe or why it would even need to.

“These other ghosts,” the Frenchwoman said. “They are like…like me?”

Annabelle realised that the poor woman was confused and desperately trying to make sense of what had happened to her, and wished with all her heart that she could reassure her or tell her something that might help. But she was as much in the dark as Fournier.

“I’m sorry, I honestly couldn’t say. But none of them have spoken like you are speaking to me—which is strange, don’t you think?”

The ghost didn’t answer—instead, she flickered into near invisibility again. “Something is wrong,” she said when at last she’d regained her previous opacity.

There was a pause and Annabelle feared that Professor Fournier was about to disappear, but she suddenly gave a little exclamation—perhaps of alarm, perhaps surprise. “Oh!”

Annabelle sat up in her bed. “What? What’s wrong?”

Professor Fournier pressed her hands to her mouth. “Oh, mon Dieu! It has suddenly come to me!”

“What has?”

“So very strange…” Her voice dropped to a whisper that Annabelle could barely hear. “So very, very strange. It scares me you know. Its thoughts scare me. I remember now. It doesn’t think like we do, you know.” Annabelle wasn’t following this at all: one minute the ghost was talking about the other ghosts, and the next it seemed like she was talking about something completely different. Maria leaned forwards, lowering her voice again like she was afraid of being overheard. “Its thoughts are so deep and dark, my dear. Be careful, please. It has such plans…” She paused and then continued. “And, très étrange…there is a poem—a line in a poem that confuses it. My favourite. It has read it through me and I think it’s scared of it. Can you imagine that? Being scared of a line in a poem?” She shook her head as if in sorrow.

“Which poem?” asked Annabelle in a whisper.

But Professor Fourier just gave a little jolt, as if someone had prodded her. In the darkness, she glanced around. “There’s someone else here,” she said sharply. “I can feel them.”

Annabelle peered into the gloom, unable to make out anything other than the ghost of the professor. “Here? In my room?”

But the professor didn’t answer. Instead, she gasped, threw back her head and shimmered—and let out a little cry before she disappeared completely.

Annabelle sat, shivering, in bed, staring at the chair and almost willing the ghost to come back. For a full two minutes she stayed like that, afraid that if she took her eyes off the chair she might miss her return. But of the ghost herself and the “someone else” that she had mentioned, there was no further sign.

Annabelle glanced at the clock beside the bed, and was horrified to discover that it was almost a quarter after nine. Had it simply been a dream? Was she falling under the spell of Mercury? Or was she actually losing her mind?

Chapter Five

“In Which Nathanial and Arnaud Descend into the Planet”

1.

“Under the river?” said Nathanial with some alarm as they paused again and Palfreyman explained the route ahead to the two scientists. “Is it safe? I mean, after the rockfall, you’re sure it’s not all going to come down on our heads?”

“Perfectly safe, sir, don’t you worry. The lads have been in there and shored up any sections that look dodgy. It’s only when we get to the cavern that we might need to be careful. Getting there, though, is a bit of a trek—don’t worry, we’re not going all the way to the other side of the river. The caverns start about three quarters of the way across and continue until well on the Bright Side. Normally, it’s only a half hour trip. But because you two gentlemen are along, and because we want to be sure it’s not going to fall in on us, I’d reckon an hour or so.”

Palfreyman went to have words with his men—a final pep talk. Nathanial assumed that most of the soldiers would have encountered grisly deaths before, but a couple of them looked too young to have done much military service. He was constantly amazed at how adaptable mankind was—one minute fighting on the fields of Europe and Africa, and then next transported to an alien world and encountering creatures out of its worst nightmares. He felt a little flush of pride—and instantly became a bit emotional.

“You okay?” asked Arnaud, sensing that Nathanial wasn’t quite with him.

“I’m fine—just thinking about how we’ve managed to take all of this—Mars, Luna, Venus, everything—in our stride. You forget what a big thing it is for ordinary men and then you see them here, acting like it’s just another day for them.” He turned to Arnaud as a thought struck him. “Do you think that perhaps we should have invited Annabelle?”

He felt a little shameful for not having considered whether Annabelle would have wanted to accompany them. He answered his own question before Arnaud had chance to: “I’m sure she has much more interesting things to be doing than crawling through tunnels and dragging bodies out. But all the same, I expect she’ll be livid that we didn’t ask her. What time is it, by the way?”

“Almost eight. And if it is not an impertinent question,” Arnaud added awkwardly, “and you know how we French are for the impertinence, are you and she…” He wiggled his fingers vaguely. “Romantically attached?”

“Me and Annabelle?” Nathanial laughed. “Oh no—we’re just very good friends, travelling companions. Her uncle, her real uncle of course, Doctor Cyrus Grant tasked me with keeping her safe, although I’m not entirely sure I am doing a sterling job at that… But no, she’s my ward, that’s all. Not,” he added hastily lest Arnaud misunderstand, “that I consider that inadequate. Not at all. Friendship is the most wonderful thing.”

Arnaud raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“What?” sputtered Nathanial, feeling his face redden.

“Nothing, Nathanial. If that is what you say then that is what must be true.”

“Annabelle is a perfectly respectable woman.”

“And you are a perfectly respectable gentleman. But the heart takes no heed of respectability, does it? It wants what it wants and it goes where it goes. And we are powerless but to follow where it takes us.”

Nathanial shook his head in exasperation. “You may believe that, but some of us have more self-control than to let our hearts be dragged by the scruff of the neck hither and thither.” The soldiers were setting off again. “Come on—they’ll go without us!”

And, happy to have brought that little conversation to a conclusion, Nathanial turned around and headed briskly towards where the last of the soldiers had just vanished into the cliff face.

The ceiling was uncomfortably low, but the floor was relatively flat, although wet and slippery, but Nathanial’s boots seemed to do a good enough job of preventing him from falling on his behind—and for that, he gave silent thanks. After about twenty yards, he noticed a colossal generator, sputtering and puttering to itself, in a niche in the tunnel wall, jetting out clouds of oily blue smoke, powering the electric lights strung up, from then on. The tunnel turned to the left and became steeper. Fortunately, it also became higher. A sombre silence had descended on the party—perhaps, thought Nathanial, the realisation of what they were actually going down there to do was sinking in….

2.

“Look at this!” exclaimed Arnaud suddenly, making Nathanial—and the nearest soldier, a Sikh called Khan—jump. The geologist rushed over to the wall of the tunnel and traced a metallic vein with the tips of his fingers. “If I am not mistaken, it looks like a very high quality vein of cassiterite. Tin oxide.”

“And that’s good, is it? But can’t they get all the pure tin they want from the Bright Side?”

“Mais oui, but I had no idea that there were such rich seams of it right beneath our feet. I wonder if Professor Fournier knew of this…” Arnaud gave a snort and a chuckle. “Of course she did—she was a geologist sans pareil…”

“Is that a great discovery, then?” Nathanial asked, indulging him in his excitement as they continued their passage.

“I have no idea,” Arnaud laughed. “Some small discoveries remain small until the day they are forgotten. And some small discoveries only become huge in hindsight.”

“But surely the effort of digging all the way down here and carting tons of rubble back up for processing wouldn’t be commercially viable, would it?”

“I am not so sure,” Arnaud said. “Getting it from the Bright Side is more difficult than people imagine—the temperatures there are formidable. Lead’s melting point,” Arnaud continued eagerly, clearly pleased to be on the firm ground of metals and melting points, “is a little over six hundred degrees; but tin is, I think, only about four hundred and fifty. I shall mention this to Colonel Shawbridge when we return. It may of no significance, but I will let him be the judge.”

They moved on, picking up pace a little until they reached the bottom of the sloping tunnel where it opened out a little into a small cavern.

“From here on, we’re going to be under the river, so you don’t be alarmed if you get a bit wet. Nothing to worry about but as you might imagine, a bit of water finds its way down here,” called Lieutenant Palfreyman, his voice echoing coldly from the rock walls.

The thought of not only being underneath the river, but being constantly reminded of the fact by the water dripping from the roof made Nathanial wonder why no one had thought of bringing umbrellas.

3.

The journey under the World River itself was, in reality, less unpleasant than Nathanial had feared; but Arnaud’s telling of a story about some potholers that he’d heard about—getting trapped in water-flooded caverns back on Earth—was a sorely misjudged attempt at levity. Nathanial had to tell him to shut up.

Very soon, the tunnel they were traversing opened out into a splendid cavern, approximately sixty feet in diameter. The electric lights strung around one side of it threw long, branch-like shadows up and across the ceiling from irregularities and jutting rocks. For a moment, Nathanial thought they’d reached the cavern where Professor Fournier had been killed, but there was no sign of anything that looked like a rockfall.

“Look up there!” Arnaud said, pointing two thirds of the way up the wall directly ahead.

Nathanial squinted in the general direction that Arnaud had indicated. “What am I looking at?” he asked eventually, and Arnaud tutted and pointed again

“Oh,” Nathanial said after a few seconds, wondering if he was still missing the point. “That reddish seam or vein or whatever you call it? That?”

“Yes. Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

“Red rocks? Mars is, apparently, covered with them. But they are still just rocks, or are your geologist’s eyes seeing something I’m not?”

Arnaud rushed over to Lieutenant Palfreyman who was about to move on into the next section of tunnels. “Lieutenant! I have a request to make, if you would humour me for a moment.”

Palfreyman regarded the animated Frenchman with a little suspicion. Understandably, thought Nathanial—he imagined that, to the soldiers here, the French were not exactly flavour of the month.

Arnaud quickly explained his idea and after Palfreyman had gotten the nod from Nathanial, he strode over to a junction in the lighting.

“What’s this about, then?” Nathanial asked.

“Everyone keep your eyes on the wall,” Arnaud said loudly, pointing. “Just up there.”

A couple of second later they were plunged into the most utter darkness Nathanial could recall experiencing. He forgot that he was supposed to be looking at the wall until Arnaud poked him in the back.

“Look!” he hissed.

For a moment, Nathanial could see nothing—but then, as if someone had turned a light on inside it, the red vein that Arnaud had pointed out glowed. And not evenly: patches of it flared brighter red and then faded, like dying embers, whilst other parts of it—parts further round the cavern wall that Nathanial had not noticed while the lights had been on—took up the glow before fading themselves. Even more peculiar, there were other, isolated patches of the same glow scattered around the walls, disconnected from the main one. And as the lights came back on, Nathanial could see that parts of the seam were still brighter than they had been before. Five seconds later, the rocks had all faded back to nothing.

“C’est incroyable!”whispered Arnaud, his eyes wide in wonder. “Did you see that?”

“I think we all did,” Nathanial replied dryly. “Luminous red rock, yes?”

Arnaud shook his head sadly, but his eyes were smiling. “Oh, mon ami, it is more than simply red luminous rock—did you not see how the light changed? How it grew and then faded?”

Nathanial caught the hint of a chuckle from one or two of Palfreyman’s men, which annoyed him more than he might have anticipated. “Well, yes, but I think I must be missing the significance of it, I’m afraid, Arnaud.”

Palfreyman started to move everyone on, clearly even less impressed with Arnaud’s little light show than Nathanial had been.

“Tch!” Arnaud said with a shake of the head. “The significance you miss is that I have never heard of minerals that absorb light and then hold it for so long before they release it again. And did you see the way in which the light appeared to be moving within the rock?”

Nathanial nodded, conceding Arnaud’s point. “You think that’s significant, then?”

Arnaud shrugged. “Significant, I cannot say. But unusual, yes—and most certainly fascinating.”

“Maybe they’d name it after you, then—‘Fontainite’. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Fame and fortune might yet be yours.”

Arnaud made a dismissive noise behind him as they moved into the next section of tunnel, their feet splashing in the shallow pools of water. “Fame and fortune be damned,” he said. “I do not think I have the passion for them—just for science and for the discovery of new things.” He paused, furrowed his brow, and then winked at Nathanial. “Although you are right: Fontainite does have the good ring to it, does it not?”

4.

They reached their destination sooner than Nathanial had expected—he’d lost track of how long they’d already been underground and unlike Arnaud, who seemed to find something fascinating or noteworthy every few dozen yards, the allure of rock for him had vanished long, long ago.

The cavern was even bigger than the previous one—Nathanial estimated it at over two hundred feet in diameter, making it twice the size of the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. It was, indeed, an impressive natural phenomenon. Although not perfectly hemispherical, it came close, and for a moment, Nathanial felt quite awed. The symmetry of it was only spoiled by what, indeed, looked like “boils”—inward eruptions of sparkling crystalline deposits, blooming from the walls. At a quick estimate, there were about twenty five of them, some larger than others, some poking out into the cavern, others barely intruding into the vast space at all.

Unlike the remarkable uniformity of the cavern itself—the boils notwithstanding—the ground beneath his feet was simply a chaotic mess. Piles of rock and rubble were everywhere, making it hard to distinguish where the floor ended and the walls began. At the far side of the cavern, Palfreyman’s men were assembling around a particularly large pile of debris. Above it in the wall there was a shallow, fractured concavity, glittering fragments protruding from the edges. This was clearly the outcropping that had killed Professor Fournier—or, at least, its remains.

At his side, Arnaud gave a little sigh. “Of all the places that Professor Fournier could have died,” he whispered, as if reading Nathanial’s mind, “I think she would have been pleased that it was here. Although obviously,” he added, “I am sure she would have preferred not to have died at all.”

“It comes to us all,” Nathanial said quietly, watching the soldiers scampering around the rocks under which the professor’s body lay, like insects or rats. “What do we do?” he asked Arnaud. “I feel a little superfluous here, but I’m not sure that we wouldn’t simply be getting in their way. And it would seem a little disrespectful to, well…to do anything.”

They stood in awkward silence for a few moments as Palfreyman directed his men. But it quickly became clear that something unexpected had been discovered. There was much gesticulating and scratching of heads, and eventually the lieutenant beckoned them over.

“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

“You might say that, sir, yes. Doctor Fontaine—you’re the expert on rocks and all that business, aren’t you?”

“Yes—why?”

“Come and have a look at this.”

Arnaud followed him back to the rest of the men, Nathanial bringing up the rear. The crowd of men parted as they arrived and Palfreyman indicated for Arnaud to take a look.

“I am afraid I do not understand,” he said, kneeling down. It was only when he tried to move a piece of rock that Nathanial realised the problem. “It is stuck,” Arnaud said simply, tugging at the fist-sized stone. He tried another. And another.

“It’s like they’ve been cemented into place,” Palfreyman said to Nathanial. “We managed to shift a lot of the outer stuff, but…” He shook his head.

Arnaud asked for a lamp and held it close to Professor Fournier’s burial mound. He poked and prodded for a few seconds as everyone stood in silent expectation, before asking for a small hammer.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Nathanial asked.

If Arnaud even heard him, he gave no sign of it, and began to delicately chip away at the rock until it came free in his hand. He held it out for them to see. “As the lieutenant says, it is as though they’ve been cemented together. But not with any cement I have ever seen before.” He turned the rock over in his hands, its surface scabbily encrusted with glittering, glassy shards.

“You know,” said Nathanial, “I might be wrong, but doesn’t that remind you of—”

“The crystal plates!” Arnaud finished triumphantly. “Yes, yes! Of course!”

“The what, sir?” asked Palfreyman

“The crystal plates that Professor Fournier had been investigating.” Arnaud gestured up at the domed ceiling of the cavern, pointing out the boils that Nathanial had noticed before. “Those.”

“That’s hardly surprising though, sir, if you don’t mind my saying. The professor was hacking at one of them when it came down on her head.”

“Of course, of course—but in that case, surely this should simply be a pile of loose rocks and crystals.”

Nathanial was ahead of Palfreyman. “You’re saying that the crystals have somehow become glued together?”

Arnaud reached out with the tip of his boot and poked at the mound. “One might expect metamorphic rocks to do such a thing, yes, but only with immense pressures and temperatures, and over periods of time much longer than the few weeks that we are seeing here.”

Palfreyman took a breath. “Well, that’s as maybe, sir. But the professor’s body is still under all of that, and Colonel Shawbridge will have my liver on a plate if we don’t take it back above ground.” He gestured to his men. “Looks like we’re going to need the hammers and picks after all, lads.”

Arnaud and Nathanial stood back as the soldiers set about chipping away at the rocky cocoon in which Professor Fournier’s body lay.

“Sorry about this,” Palfreyman said to the two scientists. “Hope you didn’t have any plans for lunch. Looks like we might be here longer than we expected.”

5.

Despite the apparently gargantuan task, the soldiers worked surprisingly quickly to chip away the matrix of rock and crystal. Nathanial began to feel hungry, and wished he’d had breakfast. “What time is it?” he asked Arnaud as he picked up and dusted off a few samples of rock—no doubt to take back with him.

“A quarter before nine.”

Nathanial’s heart sank a little: he felt sure it was closer to lunchtime than that. Perhaps the light—or lack of it—was somehow confusing his body about what time it actually was. His mind was taken off the grumbling of his stomach by the slightly macabre discovery of the toe of a stout walking boot, protruding from the rubble.

“We’ve found her, sir,” a soldier said to Palfreyman.

“Good man—now remember, no one expects this to be pretty. But if the old girl’s as cemented in as I reckon she’s going to be…be as careful as you can, but we’re taking her back, whatever state she’s in.”

Nathanial and Arnaud watched in silence as the men chipped away at the rock and crystal that encased her, revealing first of all the leg to which the boot belonged.

Not quite sure what he’d been expecting, Nathanial was fascinated to see that not only had the crystals grown around her body, but also, it seemed to him, into it. Fortunately for the men charged with excavating her body, what Nathanial thought of as intrusions were fairly delicate and brittle, and broke away cleanly. He hated to imagine the outcome if they hadn’t done.

“Does she have family?” Nathanial asked Arnaud.

“I believe she has a sister, somewhere in the south of France. She didn’t speak much of her. She was my lecturer for two years,” Arnaud said, turning away from watching her body being chiselled out. “We became friends. She would throw dinner parties…” He smiled somewhat sadly at the memory. “Such dinner parties! She knew a most remarkable range of people—most of them were totally crazy, wild people. What is the word you English have? Bohemian?”

Nathanial nodded.

“She loved poetry and was always finding some new poem to read out to us. We sat around on the floor of her apartment, drinking and smoking and listening.” Arnaud gave a sigh. “We lost touch a little when I left, but she used to send me copies of her research papers and cards at Christmas. I had no idea she was here until I received a telegram asking me to go to the British Consulate in Paris.”

“And that’s when they invited you to come to Mercury?”

Arnaud nodded. “And of course, I could not turn down such an opportunity, could I? To explore the geology of a whole new world!”

“And what about your employers? I can’t imagine they took kindly to you having to break off whatever studies you were engaged in.”

“Oh, they were fine,” Arnaud said dismissively. “Waiters are easy to find.”

“Waiters? You were a waiter?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Nathanial. I loved being a waiter—you meet the most interesting people, you know. And the free drinks, of course.”

“But I thought you were a geologist.”

“And so I am, but after the war, there were not so much in the funds for the research, you know. Oh, things are getting better, yes—and with this under my trousers, as you say, I think I may be more in demand when I return than when I left.”

“I should say!” agreed Nathanial, finding Arnaud’s mistake funny enough to let it go uncorrected. “There aren’t a lot of people that have explored the bowels of alien worlds—and even fewer that had explored this particular one. You’ll be turning down offers left, right and centre when you get back, you know. Perhaps they’ll keep you on here for a while. I’m sure there’s a lot more to be examined and discovered—Fontainite, for starters.”

Arnaud lifted a hefty chunk of rock from the floor in which were embedded several hexagonal crystals, smaller versions of the plates that Professor Fournier had been collecting. “Indeed,” he agreed. “The more we discover about them, the stranger they become. As with everything.”

“Surely you have that the wrong way around,” Nathanial said. “The more we discover about things, the less strange they become.”

“But the more we discover,” said Arnaud with a cryptically raised eyebrow, “the more we learn how little we truly know, non?”

“You really have missed your calling, you know,” laughed Nathanial. “If you don’t make it as a geologist, I’m sure you’d make an excellent philosopher!”

Arnaud shrugged. “I am French. It is in the blood.” He nodded towards where the soldiers were removing the last fragments of rock and crystal from Professor Fournier’s body. “She would have understood.”

There was a tremor in his voice that, unaccountably, made Nathanial want to comfort him; but he didn’t have the words. Annabelle would have known what to say, what to do. He just stood there feeling inadequate and awkward—before reaching out and squeezing Arnaud’s shoulder. The Frenchman placed his hand on the top of Nathanial’s.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

6.

Professor Fournier’s body was in better condition than Nathanial had expected. Most of her right hand side had been crushed almost beyond recognition, and her thorax bore the indentations of the rocks that had killed her. The stretcher was unfurled and the corpse gently placed on it and covered with a blanket.

“Sorry that took so long,” said Lieutenant Palfreyman, wiping his sweaty face with a handkerchief.

“Not at all,” Nathanial insisted. “I just wish we could have been of more practical assistance.”

“Don’t you worry about it, sir. That’s what we’re paid for. We’ll be getting back now, if that’s all right.”

In subdued silence, they began the journey back up to the surface.

Chapter Six

“In Which the Body Is Examined”

1.

When Annabelle finally dragged herself out of bed and went in search of Nathanial to tell him about her visitation, she was somewhat annoyed to discover, from one of the soldiers, that Nathanial and Arnaud had gone underground with the men charged with recovering Professor Fournier’s body. Whilst a trek through tunnels in search of a corpse might not have been quite how she would have chosen to spend her morning, it would have been nice to have been asked. And there was something vaguely disturbing about the fact that she’d just been talking with the professor’s ghost.

Since she and Nathanial had arrived, it felt like they’d barely spent any time together. And it felt much longer than a single day, to boot. She could hardly complain, though—she had been the one who’d wanted to pay Uncle Ernest a visit, and Mercury was hardly the most exciting planet they’d visited. It was understandable, she thought as she went in search of breakfast, that Nathanial would want to find something to entertain himself. But still…there was something more than a little gruesome about where he was now.

Uncle Ernest was nowhere to be found, and Iris was initially less than helpful on the matter, suggesting that he had a lot of important duties to which he must attend, and that she’d pass on a message to him upon his return.

“I wonder if you could tell me where I might find some breakfast, then?” Annabelle asked. “Ridiculous though it sounds, I haven’t eaten since I’ve arrived. And yet, I’m not particularly hungry. How strange, don’t you think?”

Iris seemed to soften at this. “Not at all, Miss Somerset—I’ve said as much to the colonel, but he just dismisses it. There’s something queer about this place, you know. You wouldn’t think it to look at me, but I used to eat like a horse before I came here. And now…” She shook her head. “I pick at my meals like a sparrow. The soldiers are the same.”

Annabelle looked Iris up and down, hoping her face was painted with disbelief. “But you have a gorgeous figure, Iris—I can’t believe you ever ate like a horse, as you put it.”

“That’s very kind of you to say so, but I’ve lost nearly twenty pounds since I came here.”

“A rather drastic way to diet, isn’t it?”

For the first time, Annabelle saw Iris smile, and remembered that behind the forbidding mask, she was human after all.

“You know,” said Annabelle, “when we arrived yesterday, this place seemed almost enchanting: the balmy weather, the sky…” She gave a little sigh. “But now I’m not so sure. There’s something a little oppressive about it. Maybe it’s just me, but I’m beginning to wonder whether it isn’t some sort of malaise…something about the place.”

Iris nodded understandingly. “As you say, the romance of the place wears off fairly quickly, but when there’s work to be done you put it aside and get on with things. But recently…” She tailed off, clearly not wanting to revisit the topic of the ghosts.

“I know.” Annabelle crossed to Iris’s desk and looked around deliberately, as if checking that no one could overhear them. “I haven’t told anyone this at all, but this morning…I saw a ghost.”

Iris’s eyes at first widened in surprise, but then narrowed, as if she suspected this might be a joke or a trick.

“No, really I did—and the strangest thing was, it was the ghost of Professor Fournier.”

Iris’s hand went to her mouth in an almost comic gesture of disbelief. “Oh my Lord,” Iris said. “What…what was it like?”

“It was dark—and she asked me not to put the light on, so I didn’t really get a clear look, but she had a strong French accent. She told me that she didn’t feel quite right—quite ‘complete’ was the word she used. And then she vanished. Just like that.” It suddenly crossed her mind to ask Iris whether the professor had been interested in poetry.

“You know,” said Iris instantly. “She was. I love poetry myself, and we once got talking about it. She loved the metaphysical poets, as she called them. I prefer the romantic ones myself—Keats, particularly.” She gave a little mock shudder. “But it makes you feel quite queer, doesn’t it?”

Annabelle thought for a moment. “You know, the strange thing is that it didn’t—if you’d asked me yesterday how I’d have felt to meet a ghost, I’d have answered quite differently. But there was something very calm about the whole affair. That is peculiar, don’t you think?”

Iris nodded. “Just a little—the idea of seeing a ghost gives me the shivers, it really does.”

“You don’t really believe in them, do you?” Annabelle asked.

“Well…I’m not altogether sure. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Miss Somerset, I’m a good church-goer and a good Christian, and I know there must be an afterlife. But…” She pulled a thoughtful face. “Seeing ghosts here of all places? It just seems so unlikely. And the fact that they’ve only been seen for the last few weeks…I mean, why?”

“Yes, it does seem too much of a coincidence.” There was an awkward silence and Annabelle realised that she had managed to make some inroads into making a friend—rather than an enemy—of Iris, and should probably quit while she was ahead. “So,” she said brightly. “Breakfast!”

“Straight across the square and to the left,” Iris said. “The mess hall is there. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks so much,” Annabelle said as she crossed to the door.

“You’ve been very kind,” Iris said as she reached for the handle. “I’ll let your uncle know you were looking for him.”

“Thank you.” Annabelle paused in the doorway. “I don’t know if you know, Iris, but Uncle Ernest thinks very highly of you. Very highly indeed.”

“Really?” Iris seemed genuinely surprised.

“Really. See you later.” And Annabelle was off with a twinkle in her eye.

2.

They were just finishing serving breakfasts when she arrived in the long wooden hut of the station’s canteen. A couple of groups of soldiers were sitting, smoking, while they drank their coffee and a few of them nodded at her respectfully. The only person she knew there was Doctor Schell, who leaped to his feet and greeted her effusively.

“My dear!” he said, shaking her by the hand. “Please join me!”

Annabelle gratefully accepted the offer.

“What would you like?” he asked.

Annabelle looked down at his half-finished plate of sausages, bacon, kedgeree and toast. “That looks splendid,” she said. “And a cup of tea, please.”

“You get yourself comfy,” said Schell. “Back in a mo.”

She watched him go and again her thoughts returned to Nathanial, possibly beneath her feet at this very moment. She hoped that he was all right—but yet she felt slightly silly for missing him so much. Maybe it was simply the fact that they’d seen and done so much together that made her see a spiritual connection there when, in reality, it was nothing more than shared experiences. That could easily happen, she knew. And she also knew that the moment they were back on Earth, things could change in an instant. Had that been the reason she’d seized on the chance to visit Uncle Ernest? To keep the journey going? But it would have to end sooner or later, wouldn’t it? And then what? Back to normal life –whatever that was. Back to humdrum routine and seeing the new friends she had been allowed to make at Chatham, and, perhaps if she were lucky, even going to the theatre.

The return of Doctor Schell with a tray broke her reverie, but he’d clearly seen that she’d been miles away. “Are you all right?” he asked, sitting down. “You look a little bit sad, you know—if you don’t mind my saying.”

Annabelle put on her best, bright face. “Oh, I’m fine, really I am.”

Schell gave her a disbelieving look. “Remember,” he said, “I’m a doctor. And we’re notoriously hard to fool.”

“It’s nothing,” Annabelle said, pouring herself a cup of tea.

“Hmmm,” Schell said, tucking back into his breakfast. “And where’s that young man of yours?”

“He’s not ‘my young man’, Doctor Schell,” Annabelle said with an odd mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“Richard, please. I have enough people calling me Doctor here that I’ve almost forgotten what my first name is.”

“He’s not my ‘young man’ then, Richard.”

“Oh, my apologies. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him yet. How’s the breakfast, by the way?”

“It’s lovely, thank you. How strange to be eating kedgeree on Mercury. I must admit, my appetite seems to have deserted me a little since yesterday. Iris was saying the same thing.”

Schell nodded as he finished off his bacon and sat back with a satisfied sigh, fishing out his pipe. “Yes, it seems to be quite common here. Can’t say it’s affected me, though.” He gave a deep laugh and patted his stomach. “So how’s your uncle?”

“I’ve barely spent two minutes with him. He seems terribly busy.”

“Oh, he is. Apparently there’s been some trouble with the insulation on one of the tin miners and he’s afraid that quotas will drop whilst it’s out of action.”

“So this base is more of an economic one than a strategic one?”

“I’d say so, yes. Obviously, we don’t want those damn Russians getting their hands on it, do we? So best to keep a foothold here. But yes—it’s all about the money, I’m afraid. Isn’t everything, nowadays?”

A soldier popped his head through the door. “Doctor!” he called. “She’s here—I mean, the professor. They’ve brought her up.”

“Splendid!” beamed Schell—a little inappropriately, thought Annabelle, especially considering she was still eating. “I’ll be along shortly.” He pocketed his pipe, unlit.

The soldier nodded and withdrew.

“Splendid?” Annabelle asked.

“Sorry, my dear—so little happens here that something like this does rather make my day.”

Of course, thought Annabelle, that meant that Nathanial would be back. Something gave the tiniest of skips inside her. She put down her knife and fork, her breakfast barely touched. This planet was really getting to her.

3.

“Just on there will be fine, lads,” said Palfreyman, indicating a long wooden table in the hospital.

The body was still covered with the blanket, and Nathanial wondered whether his response to seeing it in the bright light might be different to down in the caves.

“Doctor Schell’s going to be here in a minute,” said another soldier, poking his head around the door.

Nurse Lopez fussed about, lifting up the blanket to take a look at Professor Fournier. Her face revealed nothing, Nathanial noticed: she’d clearly seen death before, probably even as gruesome a one as this one.

“I should go and find Annabelle,” Nathanial said.

“You could sound a little happier about the thought,” Arnaud replied. “She is a delightful woman, you know.”

“I’m quite aware of how ‘delightful’ she is, thank you,” Nathanial answered a little snippily.

“And I’m sure she is of you, mon ami.”

“Oh, don’t start that again,” Nathanial said. “I’ve told you—”

“I know what you’ve told me. So…if not Annabelle, is there someone special in your life?”

“I don’t have time for all that nonsense. Oh, I’m sure it’ll happen one day—I’m not such a cynic as you probably believe. But for now, there’s too much to do and see without having to divide my attentions between my head and my heart—as I could imagine you’d probably say when you were waxing poetic.”

Arnaud grinned. “You should combine the two,” he suggested. “Do you not know any attractive scientists?”

Nathanial gave him an arch look. “In my experience, the two don’t tend to mix.”

“Really? Then you should come to France! We have some of the most beautiful and handsome scientists there. Perhaps one of them could, ah, entice you.”

“I don’t need romance and I don’t need enticing, Arnaud. I’m more than happy as I am, thank you.”

Arnaud shrugged. “That is your choice to make, but this life can be so lonely without someone special to accompany you, do you not think?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, to be quite honest. For a complete stranger, you know, you are remarkably interested in my love life—or lack thereof.”

At that moment, the door opened, and in strode a stocky man, in his forties with an unruly shock of white hair, which reminded Nathanial somewhat of Annabelle’s uncle, Doctor Cyrus Grant.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, coming over to shake Nathanial’s hand. “You must be Professor Stone! What a pleasure to meet you, sir.” He nodded amicably at Arnaud. “Miss Somerset and I have just been talking about you.”

Nathanial caught a hint of a grin on Arnaud’s face. “Where is Annabelle, by the way?”

“Annabelle is here,” came a voice from the door, and Nathanial turned to see her standing there. “Have you missed me?”

Nathanial felt himself blush as she came over and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Oh he has,” said Arnaud cheekily. Nathanial threw him a sharp look which Annabelle couldn’t have failed to see.

“I was just worried,” Nathanial said to Annabelle, “that you were safe.”

“I’ve been perfectly safe—well, unless you count being visited by a ghost.”

Nathanial’s eyes widened. “A ghost?”

“Just this morning.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the covered corpse. “Professor Fournier’s.”

“Really?” said Arnaud. “You are sure?”

“Well, as sure as I can be without having met her before, yes.”

“Would you like to look at her?” asked Doctor Schell who had lifted up the blanket to check the body, keeping it hidden from the others.

“It is not required of you,” Nathanial reassured her.

“I know, but if I don’t, I may never be sure that it really was her ghost I saw, will I?”

Nathanial couldn’t argue with her logic. “But only if you’re sure.”

“Oh Nathanial—I’ve seen dead bodies before. Honestly, I’ll be fine.” She placed a reassuring arm on his shoulder and then crossed to the table where Professor Fournier’s body awaited her.

4.

It was, Annabelle thought with some relief, a lot less distressing than she had expected. True, she had seen much death before, but considering the way in which the professor had died, the body was surprisingly intact—apart from the damage to the right hand side of her body and a large missing portion of her head. Her nose was broken and her face a purplish, bruised mess. But from the little that Annabelle had seen of the ghost that had visited her in her room just a few hours ago, it was definitely the same person.

“It’s her,” Annabelle said simply.

She returned to Nathanial’s side.

“Are you quite all right?” asked Nathanial and Annabelle turned to say yes when she realised he wasn’t addressing her, but Arnaud.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Arnaud,” Annabelle said, realisation dawning. “I feel terrible—I’d forgotten that you knew her. My condolences.”

“Merci, but I am not the least distressed. But still…a great shame. A great, great shame…”

Annabelle was dying to tell them more about her visitation, but standing over the woman’s body somehow seemed the wrong time and place to do it. It could wait, she decided.

“This is strange,” commented Doctor Schell, drawing back the blanket now that he obviously felt no one would be too distressed by the sight of the body. He reached out to touch the undamaged side of her face and then held his finger up to the light to examine it. “Some sort of dust. Looks like very fine crystals.”

“When we found her,” Nathanial said, “she was buried under a pile of rubble that seemed to have been glued together—with a crystalline substance. It seems to have infiltrated her body.”

A look of alarm passed over Schell’s face, and he quickly wiped the finger on his jacket. “Is it dangerous?” he asked.

“We honestly have no idea,” Nathanial replied. “She was clearly already dead before the crystals formed around—and in her—so there’s no way to tell. Obviously, if you’re going to perform an autopsy, you should take all the precautions you can.”

Schell nodded thoughtfully, wiping his finger again. “I shall do—would any of you care to stay whilst I get to work? You’re more than welcome to, you know.”

“Thanks, but I’m sure that whatever you find will be in your report,” Nathanial said. “Besides, I need something to eat—I think we all do, don’t we? And Annabelle needs to tell us all about her visitation this morning.” He turned to Annabelle and then to Arnaud.

“I’ve just eaten,” Annabelle said, somewhat apologetically. “Barely. But I’ll come with you—it’d be nice to spend some time together.”

“Fine,” Schell said, taking off his jacket and putting on a white coat. “Call back later, and hopefully I can tell you more.”

5.

The three of them returned to the mess hall in a slightly sombre mood.

“Everywhere we go,” Annabelle said. “Death and disaster. You don’t think we’re cursed, do you, Nathanial?”

“You know I don’t believe in curses or any of that superstitious nonsense,” he said with a wry smile. “It’s coincidence, plain and simple. Anyway, how did you get on with those records last night? And you simply must tell us about this ghost you saw.”

“Get yourself some food and I’ll tell you all about it,” she said.

So once the two men were equipped with platefuls of food and all three of them with mugs of tea, Annabelle told them all about her spectral visitation that morning. The two men listened in amazement.

“You actually saw her, then?” Arnaud whispered at the end of the tale. “That’s incredible. I wonder what she was talking about—the part about something being afraid of a poem.”

Annabelle could only shrug. “I have no idea—she seemed so confused about everything. She didn’t even realise that she was a ghost. But maybe that’s the nature of ghosts: if they’re not aware of their own deaths, why should they not believe they’re still alive?”

“And she mentioned others, didn’t she?” Nathanial interjected. “Do you think she meant the other ghosts?”

“That’s the queer part,” Annabelle replied. “At first she clearly wanted me to tell her about them—but then, at the end, I got the distinct impression that these ‘others’ that she said were coming weren’t ghosts at all. Don’t ask me why. That’s just how it felt.”

“Annabelle,” said Arnaud thoughtfully. “Do you remember what time she came to you?”

“It was about nine, or nine fifteen—why?”

“Because that was around the time that we began to excavate her body.”

Annabelle frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Think about it.” Arnaud leaned across the table. “She visits you, and then suddenly says that ‘others are coming’—and then she does the vanishing act. Right at the point where we begin to free her body.”

“You mean that you were ‘the others’?”

“It would fit the evidence, non? And she vanished as we broke her out of the crystals. So perhaps there is a connection between the crystals and the ghosts?”

Nathanial shook his head in puzzlement. “But…are you suggesting that she was still alive down there, right up until the moment we brought her out? You saw her body—she’d been dead for weeks.”

Arnaud leaned back with a sigh, and folded his arms. “That’s true. Then, my friends, we have one hell of a puzzle….”

Chapter Seven

“In Which Hermes Is Revealed”

1.

“Right,” said Nathanial, pushing aside his tray. “Let’s look at this logically. How do we explain the other ghosts? There haven’t been any deaths here apart from the professor’s.”

“Perhaps,” Annabelle said, “all of the ghosts are Professor Fournier.” She pursed her mouth up thoughtfully and shook her head. “No, that doesn’t make much sense, either—no one’s claimed that the ghosts they’ve seen have looked anything like her. And remember I caught a brief glimpse of Corporal Heath’s ghost, and that was nothing like her either.”

They sat in silence for a while—and Arnaud fetched them some more tea. Nathanial took the chance to ask Annabelle if she truly was all right.

“Of course I am, silly,” she laughed. “A little bit tired, but I’m finding all of this more fascinating than frightening.”

“Have you seen much of your uncle?”

“Hardly anything. If I’d have known that he’d be so busy, I’m not even sure I’d have suggested coming here, you know. Sorry.”

“You silly thing,” Nathanial said with a grin. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world: ghosts! Well, whatever passes for them in this place. You’ve got nothing to reproach yourself about.”

“And how are you getting on with Arnaud? You weren’t sure about him at the start, were you, and now you seem quite the pair.”

“Oh, he’s not so bad—a bit crazy, but you know what the French are like. He seems to know his onions when it comes to geology, though. He saw some glowing rocks down there and got terribly excited about them.”

“Hmmm,” Annabelle said. “I can see why the two of you get along so well.”

Her attention was caught by Corporal Heath entering the mess. He nodded at them, and she beckoned him over. He walked with an undisguised limp, but he looked a lot better than he had been the day before.

“You’re looking in fine health today,” she said, motioning for him to sit down. “This is my friend, Nathanial Stone—and you’ll already have met Doctor Fontaine.”

Arnaud arrived at that moment.

“Yes, ma’am, we’ve met. A pleasure to meet you, Professor Stone.”

“So, how are you today?” Annabelle asked him as Arnaud volunteered to fetch tea for him.

“I’m getting there. Told ’em I wouldn’t be needing my crutches today—never get better if I keep hobbling about on them things. Need to learn to stand on my own two feet again, don’t I?” He paused awkwardly. “I’ve just heard that they’ve brought the professor’s body up.”

“Yes. Nathanial and Arnaud here helped them.”

“Very good of you, thank you,” Heath said, turning his enamelled metal mug around and around on the table. “I was spark out. A shame, ’cos I’d like to have helped, you know?”

Annabelle nodded.

“Is she…?” Heath fumbled around. “How is she, then? I mean, dead, obviously, but…”

“Considering what befell her,” Nathanial said, hoping he was reassuring Heath, “she wasn’t in as bad a condition as I’d expected.”

“That’s good,” Heath said quietly. “She didn’t deserve to go like that.”

“I think that ‘going like that’ is just the way she would have wanted,” Arnaud chimed in. “Working.”

“Maybe, sir,” Heath said, clearly not convinced but too polite to argue. There was a long pause. “You’ll probably think I’m a bit daft—a bit addled in the head—but there’s something I’d like to do.” They all looked at him. “I’d like to go down there—down to where she died. And say a prayer or two for her. Does that sound silly?”

“Not at all,” Annabelle reassured him. “That’s a lovely thought. I think she’d appreciate that. And there’s something else I should tell you, Corporal. You know your ghost? The one I saw? Well I saw another one this morning.”

Heath’s eyes went wide.

“But it wasn’t yours—it was Professor Fournier.”

The corporal stared at her for a few moments, and then looked at the other two. “You’re not joshing me, are you, miss?”

“Of course not! It was only brief, but she appeared in my room.”

“Bloody hell!” he said eventually. “Sorry, miss.”

“Oh trust me, Corporal, I’ve heard far worse.”

Heath gave a sheepish smile. “I reckon I’ll go down there now,” he said eventually. “Best not say anything to the colonel, though. You know what he’s like. He’ll probably just order me back to bed.”

“Would you mind if I came along?” Arnaud asked. “There are things we saw this morning that I would like to take another look at.”

“To be honest,” Heath said, “I’d be quite glad of the company. This’ll be the first time I’ve been down there since it happened, and if the professor’s ghost is wandering about… Well, you know…”

They nodded understandingly, and Annabelle said: “Is there room for another? These two seem to have done all the adventuring so far. Nathanial, how does that sound to you?”

Nathanial gave a small sigh: he’d only been back an hour or two, and the thought of making the trip again didn’t exactly fill him with joy. But it was a chance to be with Annabelle, and he already felt a little guilty that he hadn’t spent much time with her. He nodded, trying to look as enthusiastic as he could. “Why not? Are you all right with that, Corporal?”

“Suits me fine, sir. In fact, I’d be honoured.”

Arnaud jumped to his feet. “Give me ten minutes to get my sample bag and a couple of tools. I’ll meet you at the top of the path, yes?”

And off he raced, whilst the rest of them finished their tea.

2.

This time, Nathanial was relieved to discover, the trip seemed to take almost no time at all—particularly considering that Heath was still recovering from his accident. But, like a true soldier, he didn’t complain once. They reached the generator that, earlier in the day, had been chuntering away to itself, providing the power for the lamps strung up along the route, and Nathanial got it started again with little trouble. They were all equipped with safety helmets and lamps, and made sure—at Heath’s insistence—that they stayed within sight of each other.

“No running off,” Annabelle warned the two scientists. “I know what you’re like, Nathanial, when something grabs your interest.”

Like naughty schoolboys, he and Arnaud pulled faces at each other.

Soon they reached the metallic seams in the tunnel wall, and paused so that Arnaud could chip away some samples and stow them in the leather bag that hung from his shoulder. It gave Heath the chance to rest his leg and for all of them to take a few mouthfuls of tea that they’d brought in flasks from the mess.

It took no time to reach the cavern where Professor Fournier had died, but Nathanial paused before they went in.

“You’re sure about this, Heath?” he asked the soldier.

“I am, sir, thanks for asking.”

“Good man.”

He patted the corporal awkwardly on the shoulder, and, in silence, they entered the cavern.

Heath went ahead to the far side and kneeled down by the rubble from which the professor’s body had been removed, whilst Arnaud wandered off in search of more rocks.

“Seems a decent enough chap, Heath,” Nathanial whispered to Annabelle. “He’s taken quite a shine to you, you know.”

“I think he feels a bit intimidated by you, though.”

“Me?” Nathanial was surprised. “What’s intimidating about me?”

“Apart from your height, you mean?” She laughed. “I get the feeling that he’s a little bit suspicious of scientists—especially,” she nodded in Arnaud’s direction, “atheist scientists.”

“French atheist scientists to boot.”

“There is that, yes.”

They stood quietly for a moment, watching Heath making the sign of the cross as he knelt there, his head bowed.

“What?” said Annabelle suddenly.

“What?”

“What did you say?”

Nathanial frowned at her. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You did,” Annabelle insisted.

“I did not.”

Annabelle looked around. “How very strange. I was sure you’d said something.”

“Perhaps the acoustics in here are playing tricks on your—” Nathanial stopped, and like Annabelle before him, looked around, puzzled. “That is strange—just for a moment, it sounded like someone was repeating my words back. Did you hear that?”

Annabelle shook her head. “Maybe it’s another ghost?”

“Well if it is, it’s staying hidden.”

Nathanial peered into the inky patches of shadow cast by the rocks in case a ghost was lurking, when he suddenly felt Annabelle tap him on the arm.

“Nathanial,” she said, a note of alarm in her voice.

He turned to see what looked like a vague, smoky patch in the centre of the chamber, slowly growing denser and denser as he looked at it. And the more he looked, the more he realised that it wasn’t smoke at all—it was, rather, like a swarm of bees or wasps, each individual shimmering and glowing, like fireflies.

Heath, too, had seen the cloud and rose to his feet. In the centre of the cavern, the swarm of sparkling particles began to coalesce, drawing together in a somewhat random, haphazard way, as though undecided about what they should be doing.

“What are they?” whispered Annabelle. “Insects?”

Nathanial could only shake his head as, with a decisive surge, the swarm seemed to make its mind up and snapped into a clearly recognisable form—a man. Well, thought Nathanial, a human-shaped form. A human-shaped form about twenty feet in height. It had no recognisable features or, indeed, gender. Although it was fluid and unfixed, as the particles danced around each other, Nathanial imagined he saw a vague hint of the female form about it—but the next second, a wave of change rippled through it and it became decidedly male. There were no facial features: one second he saw a proud, jutting chin, the next it became almost elfin in its physiognomy. It was as though it couldn’t decide quite what it wanted to be. Perhaps, thought Nathanial, it was attempting to imitate aspects of their own forms and couldn’t reconcile the differences. Even its height changed.

Nathanial only wished he could get a closer look—to examine the constituent particles, to work out what they were, organic or inorganic. They glittered with a cold crystal light as they danced and fluttered about each other, and from this distance, Nathanial could make out no legs or wings.

“What is it, sir?” he heard Heath whisper as the soldier tentatively took a few steps forward to stand at Annabelle’s side.

“You know, Corporal—I have absolutely no idea. But it is rather magnificent, isn’t it?” Nathanial smiled.

“Do you think they are capable of intelligent thought?” asked Annabelle. “Or are they just flocking together like that out of some sort of instinct—like birds?”

“It’s possible, but I’ve never seen birds flock together to form the shape of a human being before. It—they—may just be very capable mimics, of course, copying what they see.”

“Us, you mean?”

“See how its shape changes—one minute it looks a little feminine, and the next masculine.”

“And all the shades in between,” added Arnaud from the other side of the chamber. He made as if to cross over to them, but as he did, the swarm blew apart as though a gust of wind had disturbed it.

“No!” called Nathanial. “Stay where you are, Arnaud. Your movement seems to have disturbed them.”

Arnaud paused, and after a few seconds, the swarm pulled back in on itself, resuming its humanoid form. Even as it continued to shift, the “head” rotated until it seemed to be facing Arnaud.

“It’s…it’s looking at me,” he whispered.

“It would appear that way, yes,” agreed Nathanial. “Which suggests that it is capable of seeing, despite appearing to have no eyes with which to see.”

“Could the individual parts of it be capable of acting like eyes, do you think?” asked Annabelle.

Nathanial experimentally raised his right hand, palm forwards. The swarm’s head slowly turned away from Arnaud, back to him. And then it raised its left hand in a mirroring gesture.

“Mon Dieu!” said Arnaud.

“Don’t get too excited,” cautioned Nathanial. “It clearly perceives us—although by what manner of senses I couldn’t begin to hazard a guess. But it may not be thinking or reasoning.”

Annabelle cleared her throat. “Hello there!” she said clearly and loudly.

“Annabelle!”

“What, Nathanial? If we’re to determine whether this thing is more than some bizarre mirror, we have to see if it can understand as well as copy us.”

Suddenly, with a clarity Nathanial had never experienced before, he heard a voice. “Hello!” it said, and it seemed as if the voice were emanating from within his own skull. The strange, church-like acoustics which had accompanied their own voices in the cavern were gone; the voice was flat and free of all reverberation and echo. Next to him, Heath clapped his hands over his ears reflexively.

“Did you all hear that?” Nathanial asked his companions. They nodded. “I am Nathanial Stone,” he said clearly, this time watching the face of the figure to see whether any sort of mouth formed.

“Yes,” came the reply—and yet there was no change from the figure other than the endless, incessant forming and reforming. There was no sign of a mouth. Without lungs or vocal chords or mouth or lips, Nathanial could not conceive of how the thing could be making real sounds, anyway.

“I believe it is speaking into our heads directly,” Arnaud ventured cautiously. “And in French.”

“That were no French,” said Heath. “That were the best Queen’s English.”

“Annabelle?” Nathanial turned to her.

“English for me, too, albeit with an Arizonian drawl.”

“Then it must be some sort of mental projection. Telepathy.” Arnaud said. “I did not hear English, you did not hear French. It is speaking simultaneously in our mother tongues.” He turned back to the figure. “Do you have a name?”

“Professor Maria Fournier calls me Hermes.”

The professor? Nathanial was astounded.

“Hermes?” asked Annabelle. “Do you not have a name of your own?”

There was barely a pause before the thing spoke to them again. “I have had no need of a name before now.”

“Why not? Surely everyone—and everything—has a name. How else would others know how to identify you?”

“There have been no others on Mercury until the arrival of humanity.”

“You mean you are alone here?” Nathanial interjected. “You’re the only one?”

“I am the only one. I have always been the only one.”

“But what are you?” Annabelle said, gesturing vaguely in its direction. “Sorry if that sounds blunt or rude, but we have never encountered anything like you before.”

“Professor Maria Fournier thinks of me as a ‘cooperative organism’.”

“A…what?”

“It means, I think, that I am a single consciousness made up of numerous individual parts, each capable of independent existence.”

“The particles that make up your form, you mean?”

“The fragments, yes.”

Another wave of metamorphosis swept through Hermes: its height reduced whilst it grew noticeably more feminine around the torso.

“Please excuse our questions,” Nathanial said, fearing that the change may have been due to the nature of the interrogation. “We mean no offence by it. We’re simply curious about you.”

“How could I be offended by curiosity?” replied Hermes—and this time its voice had taken on a distinctly more feminine tone. “Curiosity is an integral part of life. Without curiosity there is no discovery, no progress, no development, no improvement.”

“I can’t argue with that philosophy. So these fragments,” ventured Nathanial, “of what are they composed? Are they intelligent?”

“The fragments are composed of nothing—I have generated them in your minds as a visual representation of myself and my constituents. Their real-world analogues are not intelligent in the way you think of intelligence. They are…” Hermes paused. “They are functional elements. Units of activity, of processing. From one moment to the next, they are different, depending on what activities are needed to be performed. They are semi-autonomous but their behaviour is subject to the requirements of the whole.”

“Semi what?” asked Heath. Nathanial had almost forgotten he was there, and the man’s voice gave him a start.

“They act individually within narrow parameters but their…their duty, if you will—is to the whole.”

“Like soldiers in an army, you mean?” ventured Heath.

“That is a good way of thinking of them, yes,” agreed Hermes. “They are like soldiers, each capable of almost any task, although many have specialised in particular functions over the centuries.”

“Centuries?” whispered Annabelle. “How long have you been here?”

“It is difficult to say with any accuracy, since it is only recently that the concept of the measurement of time has had any significance for me. But certainly thousands of years, by your reckoning, has passed since I became aware of such things.”

“You’ve been here, all alone, for thousands of years?”

“Yes.” Hermes paused. “You find the concept strange.”

“The idea of anyone being alone—especially somewhere like this—for thousands of years is strange. And a little bit sad, I suppose.”

“Why?” Hermes’ voice had shifted again, becoming a strong tenor with just the merest hint of a foreign accent for some reason.

“Because it is—I can’t imagine what it would be like to be trapped here on my own, never mind for thousands of years.” Annabelle paused, and swallowed. Nathanial frowned, wondering why this bothered her so. “Were you not lonely?”

“The concept of loneliness only has meaning when you are aware of the existence of others, surely. Until humanity’s arrival, I was the only thinking being on this planet. I had no other experiences with which to compare it.”

“What about the other creatures here?” asked Arnaud, gesturing upwards. “The beasts that live along the World River?”

“They are not like me.”

“But they’re alive,” Annabelle insisted.

“They are alive, but they are not thinking beings. I had assumed that I was the only thinking being in existence.”

“So,” Arnaud asked cautiously. “Has our arrival changed the way you think?”

“It has. There are vast realms of thoughts and ideas that I must now consider. You are used to being surrounded, from birth, by other sentient, thinking creatures. You live and swim in an ocean of difference and otherness. I am just standing on the shore of that ocean.”

“That’s very poetic,” said Annabelle admiringly.

“I have learned much from humanity already. You have modes of thought and behaviour that I had never previously considered and which I am still trying to understand. Professor Maria Fournier is teaching me.”

Nathanial looked around awkwardly. “You know that Professor Fournier is dead, don’t you?” He had no idea whether Hermes was capable of sorrow or misery—or, indeed, of any human emotions.

“No,” replied Hermes—with yet another shift of voice and form, this time to a taller, slender shape with a higher-pitched, but yet still male, voice.

Nathanial cleared his throat. “She died a few weeks ago—a terrible accident here in these very caves.”

“Yes,” said Hermes. “She did die. But she is still alive.”

Nathanial blinked, his mind trying to catch up. “I’m sorry—I don’t understand you. You mean she didn’t die here?”

“Yes, she did die, but she is still alive.”

Nathanial looked at Annabelle, Heath and Arnaud—who had gingerly jumped down from the ledge and joined the rest of them: all three were frowning.

“Hermes—you’re not making any sense,” said Annabelle gently, clearly cautious of contradicting or antagonising the creature. “Did she die, or didn’t she?”

Hermes turned its head slightly to face her. “How would you define ‘death’?” it asked.

“Well that’s obvious,” Annabelle said. “She…ceased living.” She turned to Nathanial as she stumbled around looking for some other way of defining what she clearly thought of as a fairly unambiguous state.

“You are using circular definitions,” Hermes said. “Defining ‘death’ as ‘the absence of life’.”

“But isn’t that what it is? Death is the absence of life.”

“But what is life?”

“What’s it on about, sir?” said Heath under his breath, looking at Nathanial. “The professor was dead, no doubt about it. No one could have survived that rockfall. You saw her yourself, earlier.”

“But that’s not what you’re saying, is it Hermes?” Nathanial asked the shimmering figure. “You’re not saying that she survived. You’re saying that she died and yet is still alive—have I understood you correctly? But surely the two are mutually contradictory, are they not?”

“Humanity has a very binary way of thinking about the universe—and itself. I have found this with Professor Maria Fournier.”

“Binary?” said Annabelle.

“You define and describe things in terms of polar opposites, of extremes. Am I incorrect in this observation?”

“You mean like life and death?” asked Arnaud, clearly fascinated by the direction the conversation was taking.

“Life and death,” agreed Hermes, as another shudder fluttered through him and his voice became distinctly female—almost girlish. “Black and white, right and left, male and female…. Your worldview seems to be filtered like this, I have observed.”

“But that is the way things are,” protested Annabelle. “How else could it be?”

“I have a theory,” Hermes said, almost thoughtfully. “About why you think this way when I do not. But I need to reflect upon it a little more.”

“But what about the professor?” insisted Heath. “Is she alive or dead?” He looked at the others. “How difficult can it be?”

“Perhaps,” suggested Arnaud, “for a being like Hermes who has never known death, only perpetual life, the concept of death is confusing?”

“I am not confused. I understand the difference between the two states. Your idea of death is the destruction or terminal failure of the body, is it not?”

“What else could it be?” Arnaud said.

“But the cells of which your body is composed die and are replaced and renewed on a regular basis, is that not the case?”

“That seems to be the case, yes,” agreed Nathanial with caution. His own mind was working frantically to understand the logic which defined Hermes’ perceptions.

“Let us assume that over a period of years, every cell in your body is replaced by a new one. If there is no continuity of physical existence, then can you genuinely claim to be the same person throughout your life?”

“Even if that were the case,” argued Nathanial, enjoying the discussion greatly, “and I’m not for one moment conceding that it is, then surely the replacement of one cell by another does not constitute any form of death at all. Look at us!” He gestured to his companions. “We are the same people—older and, hopefully, wiser—that we were ten, fifteen years ago.”

“Then what is the ‘you’ that maintains its continuity if not the cells from which you are constructed?”

Nathanial was stumped.

But Annabelle wasn’t. “Are you talking about the soul?” she asked with a quiet reverence.

“The soul does not exist,” stated Hermes simply—as one might deny the existence of purple cats. “My conversations with Professor Maria Fournier suggest that it is a construct designed to reassure humans that, as they approach the ends of their lives, they will not completely cease to exist.”

Nathanial was reminded of the conversations he used to have with his father; they, too, were never able to find a middle-ground. Now they were having such philosophical—verging on theological—discussions with a form of life so unlike any of them.

“Nonsense!” said Annabelle. “What sort of rubbish is that? That we have no souls?” She turned to Nathanial, outrage written across her face.

Nathanial wasn’t sure what to say: although brought up in a very religious household, the things he had seen since leaving Earth had made him reconsider many of the basic tenets of his faith. It was hard to reconcile the word of the Bible with some of the strange beings he had met. If they were not mentioned in the Good Book, then did that mean that God had created them soulless? Or were they simply a part of God’s design that, so far, had been hidden from humanity?

“And how do you come to that conclusion, Hermes, if you don’t mind my asking?” Nathanial said. “At the very least, it’s a contentious theory.”

“There is no evidence for it,” Hermes said blithely.

“No evidence?” cried Annabelle—who was clearly getting angry, Nathanial could tell. And he wasn’t yet sure that a full-blown argument with this bizarre creature was a good idea. “Of course there’s evidence. Even if you haven’t read the Bible, has Professor Fournier not told you about spiritualism? Séances? Ghosts?” Her eyes widened. “Ghosts! How do you explain the ghosts that the men upstairs have been seeing?” She clenched her fist and placed it against her chest. “That I have seen?”

“There are many possible explanations that are more plausible than the existence of a soul.”

“Well maybe in your world, there are. But humanity has been around a lot longer than you. We’ve known life…” Annabelle paused and Nathanial felt sure he saw a tremor in her lower lip. “And we’ve known death. You haven’t. You can’t know there’s no such thing as a soul. You can only postulate it, or whatever the wretched phrase is.”

“It is possible that I am wrong, yes,” Hermes replied. “But there is no evidence for that either. And it was not the soul to which I was referring. It was the mind.”

“The mind?” repeated Arnaud. “But that is surely the same thing, non?”

“No,” Hermes said. “The soul is a concept with no evidence. The mind is what operates and animates your body, is it not, and which ceases to exist upon your bodily death? Whereas, if I understand correctly, the soul is some ineffable, untouchable, immutable thing. Have I misunderstood?” It seemed almost worried.

“Of course you have!” snapped Annabelle

“Hold on, Annabelle,” Nathanial said cautiously, aware that Annabelle was already spoiling for a fight. “There is some sense in what Hermes has said. Our souls live on after our bodies, with no body to support them. And yet the mind can be twisted and damaged by all manner of things physical, things acting upon our persons. Perhaps Hermes has a point—I confess, I am no great philosopher.”

“But, Nathanial,” argued Annabelle. “Our souls are what make us us. How can they not have an effect on us?”

“It is your minds that make you what you are,” Hermes corrected her. “Make us who we are. I am no different to you in that respect. We are creatures of mind, not of soul.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Heath suddenly. “Miss Somerset is right.”

Annabelle raised her hands towards the glowing figure, in what Nathanial took as a placatory gesture. “I’m sorry, Hermes,” she said. “I don’t wish to cause offence, but you are most certainly not like us.”

“My physical form differs, that is true. But what does that matter? It is the mind that animates the body; it is the mind that communicates; it is the mind that is us.”

“Well maybe that’s true. Maybe. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have souls, too.”

“Indeed it does not—the two are not mutually contradictory. But there is empirical evidence for mind, and none for soul. I would imagine that you consider me to have a mind, but probably not a soul. Is that true?”

“I couldn’t comment on whether you have a soul or not. There is only one judge of that. But…well, yes, you seem to have a mind. That much is clear.”

“And yet despite the fact that my ‘body’—the physical matter of which I am composed—is different to yours, our minds are not so different. Less different, indeed, than you and a horse, for example. It is our minds, our ability to think and communicate, that we have in common. And yet, in terms of our physical natures, you are much, much closer to a horse than I am.”

“Cheeky beggar!” snapped Heath. “We are not!”

“Sorry, Corporal,” said Nathanial. “But I suspect he’s right. Hermes, if what we see before us is just some mental conjuring trick, what exactly is your body—your physical form?”

“You have heard of the things that Professor Maria Fournier refers to as ‘plates’?”

“The crystals?” Nathanial looked around the chamber. “The ones that are everywhere.”

“They are not everywhere. But yes. The plates are the medium within which my mind resides, as your brains house your minds. The difference is simply the material from which our bodies are constructed. The important part is the interconnections between those parts: they are what create mind. In you, your minds are simply a series of chemical processes. In me, they are a series of electrical and optical ones.”

Nathanial was still trying to absorb what Hermes had just said: its body was threaded through the rock of Mercury, not entirely dissimilar to the Heart of Luna. Although the Heart was the centre of that world, Hermes was… He gazed round the chamber, noting the threads of dark rock woven into the walls, the boil-like crystal spheres protruding from them. Hermes was…the planet?

“So you’re, like, just rock then?” asked Heath in disbelief.

“Essentially, yes. But then the particles which constitute your bodies have come from the Earth where you were born. You are simply a different arrangement of rock.”

“Sir,” said Heath quietly, turning his face away from Hermes. “This thing, whatever it is… Don’t mean to speak out of turn, sir, and I know you know all about science and that. But, well, it’s not all there, is it?” Heath tapped the side of his head.

“I don’t understand,” said Hermes, the voice becoming that of a young boy. “What does that mean?”

Heath turned sharply, clearly not expecting Hermes to have been able to hear him. “You’ve got bloody good hearing for a rock man, I’ll give you that.”

“I am not hearing with anything you might consider as ears. I am speaking directly into your minds and hearing you the same way. Professor Maria Fournier thinks that this might alarm you. Is that true?”

“It’s…unusual,” said Arnaud. “But then this whole situation is unusual, is it not?” He threw a twinkly grin at Nathanial.

“You keep talking about Professor Fournier in the present tense,” Nathanial said, feeling that the conversation had strayed somewhat. “Why?”

“Because she is not dead.”

“Not that again!” spat Heath. “I’m sorry, sir, but we should go. We need to tell the colonel about this thing.”

“By your definition of life, she is dead,” Hermes continued, “her body was crushed, her heart stopped beating and her lungs ceased to supply her body with oxygen. But by my definition, she is still alive.”

“I still don’t understand—,” began Nathanial, but Arnaud suddenly made a noise and threw his arms wide.

“Ah! You mean that her mind is still alive, n’est ce pas? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? We see people as things made of flesh and blood, but you see them simply as minds. Am I correct, Hermes?”

“Yes,” the figure said. “Professor Maria Fournier continues to exist. I have attempted to copy the patterns of the cells in her brain.”

“Copy?” said Nathanial, a little disturbed by the idea.

“Yes. It is inadequate and incomplete because part of her brain was damaged in the accident and much of it had degraded beyond the point of accurate transcription by the time I was able to copy her.”

“This is horrible!” said Annabelle, clearly aghast. “You’ve made a copy of a woman?”

“I have made an incomplete copy of her mind. Do you consider that wrong?”

“Of course it’s wrong! It’s unnatural—it’s against God.”

“There is no God,” Hermes said calmly—and at this even Nathanial narrowed his eyes, “therefore it cannot be against it or him or her. And since I am a part of Nature, it—and hence everything I do—cannot be unnatural.”

“Sir,” hissed Heath, tapping Nathanial on the arm. “This thing…it’s…I think we should go, sir. I really think we should go.”

There was a barely-restrained anger in Heath’s voice, and his eyes were dark. Perhaps he was right. There was so much more that Nathanial wanted to ask Hermes, but he caught sight of Annabelle, nodding in agreement with Heath.

“Hermes, we have to go,” Nathanial said.

“Where?”

“Back up to the surface.”

“Yes,” Heath agreed, vigorously. “And Colonel Shawbridge knows we’re down here and is expecting us.”

There was a very long pause before Hermes said: “That is not true.”

Heath and Nathanial glanced at each other.

“What is the purpose of making an incorrect statement when you know it to be incorrect?” continued Hermes.

“Are you reading our minds?” Annabelle asked cautiously.

“Beyond the activity of your speech centres, no—I have not yet perfected that ability. But I can understand some peripheral thoughts. And Corporal Paul Heath’s statement was not true.” There was puzzlement in Hermes’ voice. “Why would you knowingly state an incorrect fact?”

Heath didn’t have an answer.

“I think what the corporal meant is that Colonel Shawbridge will be missing us if we are gone too long,” Nathanial suggested.

“But that is not what he said—and not what you believe.”

Hermes was determined not to let this go, but Nathanial felt it was time for them to depart.

“And the corporal isn’t well, either—after the accident. He needs to rest.”

“Very well,” Hermes said simply.

“But we will come back and talk more, yes, Hermes?”

“I hope so.”

And, like the death of a swarm of fireflies, the glittering particles which made up Hermes’ body went out. Just like that.

“Well,” said Annabelle. “Not a word of goodbye. How terribly rude.” She looked at Nathanial, but instead of the humour he expected to see in her face, there was only annoyance. And anger.

Chapter Eight

“In Which Colonel Shawbridge Faces an Impossibility”

1.

Corporal Heath caught up with Annabelle as she stepped out onto the beach. She caught the look on his face, and whether he shared her anger or was simply in pain from his injuries she couldn’t tell.

“And that thing back there says there’s no God,” he said, shaking his head. “Who does he think made him, then?”

“If Hermes has been here, under the surface of Mercury, for all those thousands of years without seeing beyond it, blind and deaf to the universe, perhaps it’s no wonder that he can’t conceive of a god.”

“Nah, miss,” said Heath with a shake of his head. “I don’t think it’s that. I reckon it’s more than that—I reckon he’s evil, plain and simple”

“Is that what you really think?”

“Think what?” asked Nathanial, catching up with them, his feet slipping on the gritty sand.

“The corporal here thinks…thinks that that thing might be evil. And I’m half inclined to agree with him. Those things that he was saying—about the soul and God.” She glared at him. “And you just stood there and didn’t challenge him, did you? Either of you!” She rounded on Arnaud who had almost caught them up. He skidded to a halt at the ferocity of her words, little puffs of sand jetting up in front of him.

Annabelle looked down at her own grubby blouse and trousers.

“But Annabelle,” protested Nathanial, “that was just…” He gave a shrug. “That was just talk. Hypothesising.”

“That is not how it appeared to me. That thing is convinced that God doesn’t exist, that we have no souls and that when we pass away…well, that we just stop existing. Like someone turned out a light. That’s a little more than hypothesising, isn’t it? How dare he be so dismiss—”

“Annabelle, Annabelle,” said Nathanial gently, placing his hands on her folded forearms. “Don’t let it distress you so. It was just words. And you have to admit, it did have some very interesting ideas.”

“I don’t have to admit anything of the sort, Nathanial Stone,” snapped Annabelle, pulling away from him. “I might expect that sort of poppycock from simple-minded savages or even children, but that thing has had thousands of years to sit and think in his clammy little cave—and that’s what he’s come up with. And you were encouraging him,” she added. “What’s happened to you, Nathanial? You used to be as strong of faith as I am.”

“My faith is as strong as it ever was, Annabelle.” She could see the steely look in his pale grey eyes. “But you have to admit we have seen some queer things since we left Earth, things that we’ve made sense of through science. You have a brilliant mind, Annabelle. Don’t close it down like this. At least think about what Hermes said. We can talk about it later, if you—”

“Talk about it later? So that you can convince me that Hermes is right and that I’m wrong?”

“Of course not.” Nathanial looked aghast, but Annabelle was not to be fobbed off.

“That’s exactly what you’ll try to do. Well, excuse me if I don’t very much like being patronised and spoken down to as if I’m an idiot!” She felt the heat of her own flushed cheeks as she pulled further away from Nathanial and took up a position next to Corporal Heath. “Maybe you two ‘rational scientists’ should talk about it later instead? Or maybe even right now. I’ll see you later, Nathanial.” She turned to the soldier who stood awkwardly with his lamp a few yards away.“Corporal, would you mind escorting me back to the station?”

“Not at all, miss.”

And with that, the two of them set off. And not once did Annabelle look back.

2.

“That did not go well, did it, mon ami?” asked Arnaud in a whisper as they watched the retreating backs of Annabelle and Corporal Heath.

“That’s an understatement.” Nathanial rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t think what’s got into her.”

“When science and belief collide,” said Arnaud, “there are few survivors.”

“More philosophy and poetry?”

“Why would I not be poetic? Because I am a scientist? Cannot I not be, peut-être, a poetic scientist? Or perhaps a scientific poet?” Arnaud considered for a moment and then pulled an expression of disapproval. “No, not that one—that does not sound so good.”

Nathanial let out a weary little chuckle. “And what, pray tell, would I be then? A scientific religionist or a religious—”

“Scientist,” Arnaud finished his sentence for him. “Yes, that is the one. A religious scientist. Clearly we still have much work to do with you then.”

“With me?”

“Mais oui,” replied Arnaud as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We must endeavour—yes?—to cure you of your religiousness. Simple!” And with a hearty pat on Nathanial’s shoulder, the Frenchman went striding off along the beach towards the path, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he did so.

3.

The further Annabelle got from Nathanial and Arnaud, the more feelings of foolishness began to overtake those of anger. It wasn’t often that the two of them had such basic disagreements, and even rarer that they led to one or the other of them storming off. She felt quite hot and out of breath by the time they reached Uncle Ernest’s office to tell him about Hermes, but he was nowhere to be found. Of Iris, too, there was no sign.

“It’s late,” she said to Heath. “Maybe he’s gone to bed?”

He clenched his fists and shook his head. “We need to tell him, don’t we, miss? About that thing.”

“Of course we do, but it can probably wait until the morning. I mean, what can he do at this time of night?”

“He could give me a barker and send me back down there is what he could do.”

While Annabelle sympathised and agreed—broadly—with his supposition that Hermes was a worrisome, godless thing, she wasn’t quite sure that his degree of ire matched the situation, or that returning with a gun would improve the situation.

“And then what? You know that thing we saw wasn’t actually real, don’t you? It was a mental projection of some sort—it said so itself.”

“And you believe it?” Heath glowered. “I wouldn’t believe a word that devil said.” He shook his head and wiped his face with grubby hands, leaving smears of dirt across his cheeks. “Sorry miss, getting a bit worked up. So you believe all that gammy stuff, do you?”

“Gammy?”

“Yeah, miss—lies.”

“Well,” she prevaricated, feeling a little like she was being manoeuvred into expressing a point of view that she wasn’t quite sure she held. “Nathanial generally knows what he’s talking about, and it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve encountered telepathy—mental projection.”

“Maybe,” Heath conceded. “But that doesn’t mean that thing isn’t a devil, does it? I mean, the bare-faced cheek of the thing, insisting that there’s no such thing as souls or God. That’s just blasphemy, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is, of a sort. Look, maybe we should get some sleep, give ourselves a chance to think, to cool off. We can find Uncle Ernest in the morning and fill him in on it all.”

Heath pulled an unsure face—and then suddenly his eyebrows shot up. “The chaplain!” he said. “He’ll still be up—we should talk to him. He’d know, wouldn’t he?”

“Would he?” Annabelle was a little doubtful.

“Course. Stands to reason—he’s a man of the cloth. If anyone can tell us, he can.” Heath turned to go and then realised that Annabelle wasn’t following him. He turned back to her. “You coming, miss? I know it’s late and all, but maybe, you know, it’d help. I saw how upset you were with the professor back there. Talking to Reverend Lyden might help.”

Annabelle realised, suddenly, how quite out of his depth Heath was. He’d already been through the death of Professor Fournier, laid up in hospital for weeks, and now this. Abandoning him now seemed a little heartless, especially in his current distress.

“Okay,” she said. “But just half an hour.”

Heath’s face broke out into a smile of gratitude that almost broke Annabelle’s heart. “You don’t know how much this means to me, miss, really you don’t. Come on—it’s just over there.”

And maybe, Annabelle thought as they set off, this Reverend Lyden might be able to help me, too.

4.

Although he didn’t know it, Shawbridge missed the two of them by mere minutes.

He’d been down to spend some time with his beloved Esmeralda—polishing a few rivets, checking over the aether propeller. Of course, it had been finished and actually flight worthy for a while, but in the absence of anywhere to go, and any leave in which to go there, he still liked to spend time there.

He’d barely entered the building when he stopped, convinced he could hear something outside. Shawbridge turned back to the door and pulled the shutter wide, peering this way and that: outside, barely visible, was a stationery figure. Wondering why the chap was simply standing there, he opened the door and saw that he seemed to have moved and was now standing directly under one of the station’s electric lights, his face daubed with pools of inky shadow, eyes hidden.

“Who’s that?” called Shawbridge, not recognising the man—and that was something that never happened on Mercury.

The figure said nothing and made no movement, and for a moment Shawbridge wondered if it were a dummy, made up for a joke.

“I said who’s that?” he called again, this time more imperiously.

When the figure still refused to respond, Shawbridge started towards it—halting sharply when the figure seemed to flutter, as though painted onto a waving flag. After a few moments, it settled down.

“What the Devil is going on, man? What is all this?”

And then it spoke to him in a tenor that seemed familiar and yet not familiar at all. “I’m sorry,” it said, as clearly as if speaking into Shawbridge’s ear, despite remaining a good ten yards away. Shawbridge spun around, expecting to find someone else behind him. But there was no one there.

When he turned back, the man had gone—and then he was suddenly there again, just a couple of yards away.

“I know you’re not scared,” the man said. “But you are confused, aren’t you, old chap?”

Despite being backlit by the street lamp, there was enough light spilling from the now-unshuttered window for Shawbridge to make out the man’s face.

It was he.

Shawbridge just stared, unable to understanding what was happening. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice now little more than a whisper.

“I don’t quite know,” his doppelgänger said, a little hesitantly. “I think I’m you. Or you are me…” The man tailed off. “No, that can’t be right. I’m you, yes.” Then he raised a hand and rubbed his forehead—and Shawbridge instantly recognised the gesture as one of his own.

“What the Hell is going on, man? How can you be me?” blustered Shawbridge. “Who’s put you up to this? It’s not that niece of mine, is it, or her friend, Stone?”

“No, they have nothing to do with this. I don’t…I don’t really understand what’s happened. I keep trying to remember, but everything’s so damn foggy. That can’t be right, can it?” Shawbridge’s double tipped his head back slightly and the haze covered his features seemed to shift and vanish. “Help me,” he said, his face now a picture of confusion. “Please, help me.”

“Help you? What are you on about man? Help you what? How?”

“Help me remember what happened.”

Shawbridge spread his hands wide in a shrug. “How can I help? I’m as much in the dark as you.” He paused as he realised what the man must be. “You’re a ghost, aren’t you? Like the others.”

“A ghost?” the man seemed alarmed at the suggestion—which, now that Shawbridge thought about it, didn’t seem unreasonable at all. As good as telling someone they were dead. “What others?”

“The other ghosts, man. Here. Everyone’s seeing them now.” He rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands, almost hoping that, when he looked again, the ghost would be gone, and he could turn around and go back inside and pretend that none of this had happened. “That’s what everyone’s saying. Ghosts everywhere. Like you.”

“Am I dead?” The man’s voice was full of horror. “Am I your ghost? Do I look like you?”

Shawbridge could only stare—he had few enough explanations for all of this, and the poor fellow before him seemed to have even fewer.

“And how can I be your ghost when you’re still alive?” the man asked. “You are alive, aren’t you? You’re not like me, whatever I am.”

“I don’t think so, no. I’m sorry but I don’t know—I don’t have any answers.” And then a thought struck Shawbridge. “But I know a fellow who might….”

5.

Nathanial and Arnaud were back in Professor Fournier’s lab—Arnaud nursing the remains of the bottle of cognac, Nathanial pacing the length of the cluttered room.

“This is incredible!” he exclaimed for about the fifth time.

“You have said so, Nathanial. Once or twice.”

“There is so much that we never discussed properly. What is this ‘copy’ of Professor Fournier that Hermes mentioned? How does this—” he brandished one of the crystal plates “—work, exactly?” He held it up to the light but it remained stubbornly, deep-reddishly silent. “Professor Fournier must have known about some of this, surely.”

Arnaud gave a heavy shrug and leaned back in his chair. “I think, perhaps, that you should be more concerned about Annabelle.”

Nathanial stopped in his tracks. “Annabelle? What about Annabelle?”

“You saw how she was on the beach, mon ami. She was most distressed.”

“Oh, she will be fine. Give her a good night’s sleep and she’ll be back to her jolly self, trust me.” Nathanial was only half listening whilst fitting the plate back into the holder on the analysis machine.

“I am not so sure. When ones faith is challenged, it can strike very deeply, you know.” Arnaud yawned again. “What are you doing now?”

“You remember the delay we noticed before? Between the light going into this and coming out again?”

“What of it?”

“For a start, it was orders of magnitude higher than it should be. Do you know of any other material that transmits light like it did, but with such a delay?”

Nathanial’s talk had piqued Arnaud’s interest, and he put down his bottle and glass and came over to Nathanial. “I have never seen such a material, no. But I do not understand the significance.”

Nathanial’s head snapped up. “What if this glass, this material, isn’t simply a passive transmitter of light? What if it’s doing something with it! Something that causes the delay. I don’t know—working with it, somehow.”

Arnaud nodded thoughtfully. “That would explain the delay, yes. And it might explain how it functions as part of Hermes’ physical form. The plates might be the équivalente of the brain cells.”

“So what we have here is possibly a piece of Hermes’ brain. Just think how vast the rest of it must be, spread out throughout the planet.” Nathanial shook his head in frustration. “There’s so much we never asked, isn’t there? Maybe we should go back and—”

“Not tonight,” said Arnaud, giving a huge stretch. “We are both tired.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Nathanial, and then nodded in the direction of the cognac bottle. “Perhaps if you’d managed to put away a little bit less of that, you might not be so sleepy.”

Arnaud grinned and reached up and squeezed Nathanial’s shoulder affectionately. “You should learn to let go a little more, Nathanial. You British are always so….”

“Sober?” ventured Nathanial archly.

“That’s one way of saying it, yes. Right, mon ami, I am off to the land of nods—yes?”

Nathanial smiled and nodded as Arnaud headed for the door—but not before collecting his bottle and glass.

“The land of nods. Yes. Good night, Arnaud.”

For a few seconds after the Frenchman had left, Nathanial stared at the door, wondering if, perhaps, there might not be another bottle of cognac concealed somewhere in the lab. Drunkenness was not a state he felt particularly comfortable with—or at least the anticipation of drunkenness. Once he had arrived at that particular state, he usually found it very pleasant, even if he did suffer dreadfully from hangovers. But no, there was work to be done.

He hunted round for a few more samples of the crystal plates—and found that Professor Fournier really had accumulated quite a collection of them: all sizes, from tiny ones the size of a fingernail right up to ones that you could eat your dinner off. And they varied in thickness from a quarter of an inch right up to a stunning behemoth, two inches thick, and a full twenty inches across. It weighed an absolute ton, and after struggling to heave it up onto the workbench, Nathanial began to wonder how Professor Fournier had managed….

Of course—she had had Corporal Heath.

“What an idiot!” Nathanial exclaimed out loud. “The person that was closest to her and her work—and I’ve been all but ignoring him!”

Perhaps Heath knew something about the ghosts and the plates and her discoveries.

Nathanial sighed when he realised that it must have been getting on for midnight and that Heath would probably be in bed. Tomorrow, then.

There was a knock at the door, and before Nathanial could say anything, Colonel Shawbridge let himself in, looking pale and more than a little unsettled. “Ah, Stone. Still up, I see? Good.” Shawbridge glanced back, through the open door. He seemed edgy and not the confident man that Nathanial had met upon their arrival: there must be something terribly wrong. “Professor Stone, I’d like you to meet someone. But before you do… I know that you are a scientist. And that’s the main reason for coming here: if someone can work out what the Devil’s going on, I’d put my money on you. Don’t be alarmed at this chap, now. I’ll warn you, it can be a bit unnerving, what you’re about to see. But it’s—he’s—nothing to be frightened of, I can assure you.”

Shawbridge looked over his shoulder again and nodded, and Nathanial could just make out the figure of a man.

“Dear Lord!” he exclaimed loudly as, abruptly, the figure outside simply vanished—and reappeared just inside the room. Nathanial’s shock at the man’s materialisation paled in comparison to his shock at seeing a perfect—if somewhat hazy—copy of Colonel Shawbridge himself, right down to the uniform.

“Yes,” anticipated Shawbridge. “It’s me—or rather, it’s—if you’ll pardon the terminology—it’s my ghost. Or a ghost of me.” He waved his hand in the air. “I don’t understand it at all, and neither does he, which is why I thought you might be able to shed some light on this whole damned queer affair.”

Shawbridge closed the door as Nathanial stared at the ghost. After his encounter with Hermes earlier, nothing should have surprised him; but there was something more real and more disturbing about seeing a man and his own ghost in the same room.

“Can he hear me?” Nathanial asked the colonel. “And see me? Can he talk?”

“Yes,” replied the ghost, making Nathanial jump. Although slightly detached, the voice was sharp and clear inside his head—like Hermes’ had been.

“Well!” Nathanial exclaimed. “I thought I’d seen everything. So…you’re a ghost, are you? An actual, real ghost. Sorry—but aren’t ghosts meant to be the spirits of the dead? I’m fairly sure that the colonel here is very much alive.”

“That’s what I always thought, Stone,” said the voice in his head. “But what am I, if not a ghost?”

Although visually they were worlds apart, the manners of speaking of Hermes and Shawbridge’s ghost—straight into his mind—were identical. Surely that could not be coincidence.

“What do you know of Hermes?” Nathanial asked, eyes narrowed.

“Hermes? The god chap—he was the Greek version of the Romans’ Mercury, wasn’t he?”

“No, another one—a person, a thing, I don’t really know what to call it. But living here on Mercury, right beneath our feet.”

The ghost frowned and, in an all-too familiar gesture, rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. “No, I don’t…I don’t think I have.”

The vocal inflections and mannerisms of the real colonel were being more and more accurately recreated, as if the ghost were becoming surer of itself.

“That’s interesting,” Nathanial mused to the real Shawbridge.

“Is it? Why? And what’s this Hermes chap you’re on about?”

“Not so much a ‘chap’, Colonel—more of a, I don’t know, a living thing. It doesn’t seem to have a particular sex, as it were.”

“What? Sounds damn rum to me. Why was I not told about this thing, then? I am still in charge of this station, if I recall correctly.”

“My deepest apologies, Colonel,” said Nathanial. He’d assumed that Heath would have raced off to tell him, but clearly he hadn’t. “We only discovered it this evening.”

Nathanial turned back to the ghost who still wore a thoughtful, almost puzzled, look on his face.

“Very odd,” Shawbridge’s doppelgänger said. “I feel like I ought to know this fella, this Hermes, and yet I don’t. And yet…I do.” He shook his head. “Anyway, if he were that important I would have remembered him, wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe,” Nathanial said. “But let’s talk about you—you’re much more interesting.”

“Am I?” The ghost colonel looked dubious at the suggestion.

“Oh my, yes! For one thing, you’re here. Right here. And for another, if we can work out quite what you are—no offence meant—then maybe we’ll be a step forward in understanding Hermes. Do you don’t have any memories from ‘before’?”

“Lots of them. I was about to say ‘all of them’, because it would be ridiculous for a man to not have all his memories, wouldn’t it? How would he know otherwise. But that’s not what it’s like… It’s like they’re…” He broke off and waved his hands about vaguely. “Like they’re still being sketched in. Yes, that’s it, damn it!” He squeezed his fist up into a ball. “It’s like they’re being sketched in and I’m not allowed to look until they’re finished. Does that make any sense, Professor Stone?”

“As much sense as anything we’ve seen or heard today, to be honest. So…if you are, indeed, a ghost of the real colonel, how can you exist when the real colonel is still very much alive?” Nathanial drummed his fingers on his bottom lip as he looked from one to the other. Even as they’d been talking, the ghost colonel had solidified. It was now almost impossible to tell one from the other. “Perhaps, by some inexplicable process, you’ve become detached in time. A sort of reverse echo if you like.”

The ghost looked at its living counterpart. “You mean that the colonel there will die sometime soon and that I’m what will become of him, only from the future? I can’t begin to imagine how that works, Stone. Do you really think that such a thing is possible, then…?”

“There’s another explanation, though,” Nathanial said, avoiding a direct answer to the question. “We never had the time to investigate it further, but Hermes talked about having made a ‘copy’ of Professor Fournier…”

“A what?” exclaimed the real colonel. “A copy? Ghosts I can get to grips with, but…a copy?”

“I know, I know—sounds like utter madness, doesn’t it? But nevertheless, Hermes talked about the professor in the present tense, saying that she talks to him. And then we had some bizarre discussion about the soul and the existence of God and we got somewhat side-tracked. But I’m wondering whether the colonel here isn’t something similar.”

“I’m a copy? But if that’s the case, why am I like this? Why am I different to,” the ghost gestured at the real colonel, “to him?”

Nathanial could only shrug. “Hermes said that Professor Fournier died in that rockfall, but also that she didn’t. We’ve all seen her body. But she appeared to Annabelle herself this morning.”

“Did she?” exclaimed the colonel. “And no one thought fit to tell me about this, either?”

Nathanial wasn’t about to be side-tracked. “Hermes said that it made a copy of her mind, her intelligence. Don’t ask me how, but let’s imagine that it was speaking the truth. Perhaps Hermes did the same to you, copying the colonel’s memories and personality. And you are the result.”

The real colonel shrugged. “The more you say, Stone, the more insane you sound.”

“Sorry, Colonel—but you think the idea of ghosts appearing before their bodies have died is less insane? It just strikes me as a little strange that your doppelganger, there, has no knowledge of Hermes. If it’s been speaking to the copy of the professor, why has it not been doing the same to you?”

There was a sudden, sharp knock at the door. Nathanial looked from one colonel to the other. There was a moment of awkwardness before the ghost colonel suddenly caught on.

“Oh, you think I should go?”

“Probably wise,” said the Shawbridge with a curt nod. “Whoever it is, seeing two of us in here might be a bit much—for now at least.”

The ghost nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll, um, see you chaps later then?”

“I do hope so, Colonel,” said Nathanial.

And then, without a sound, the ghost simply winked out of existence. There was another, firmer, knock.

“Come in,” said Nathanial, and the door was opened by Iris McConnon, looking very pale and shaken.

“Colonel,” she said. “Professor Stone. Sorry for the interruption, but something very strange is happening and I thought you ought to know.”

“What is it, Iris?”

“These ghosts, sir…”

“What about them?”

“You need to come and see. They’re everywhere.” Her eyes were wide and her face pale. “It’s like we’re being invaded.”

Chapter Nine

“In Which Nathanial Makes a Bad Situation Worse”

1.

For some reason, Annabelle had pictured Reverend Lyden, the station’s chaplain, as a small, unremarkable Englishman. The reality was, in fact, that he was a tall, rather angular Welshman, with a beautiful, sonorous voice. She could quite imagine him conducting services and commanding the attention of his flock.

Despite the late hour, he was still awake, tending a display of Mercurian flowers in the chapel. They stood in the vestibule, fanning out from a simple, white china pot, all blues and greens, some of the leaves edged in red and bronze. Annabelle wasn’t quite sure that she liked them, but they certainly were dramatic.

“Ah,” said Lyden warmly as she and Heath let themselves in. “You must be the colonel’s niece, mustn’t you? Lovely.”

He shook her hand vigorously—and, to her surprise, did the same to Heath, who seemed a little taken aback by the chaplain’s familiarity.

“Sorry about calling in so late,” Annabelle said.

“Ah, don’t you be worrying about that.” Lyden beamed, showing them through to the kitchen of his own quarters, adjacent to the chapel. Whereas the rest of the station’s buildings seemed to have been furnished—and kept tidy—with military efficiency, it was clear that Lyden was neither a woman nor a soldier: unwashed teacups stood by the sink, drying clothes hung haphazardly from a rack on the ceiling, and piles of papers and prayer books stood in precarious piles. He hastily cleared space for them on his sofa. “Perhaps some tea, then?”

“Actually, yes,” said Annabelle. “Tea would be lovely—as long as we’re not keeping you from your bed.”

“Oh, Heavens no,” Lyden said. “Back home I was always a night owl, I was, and here—well, here it’s anyone’s guess what time it is, isn’t it?”

“It does feel a little that way, yes,” Annabelle agreed. “I’m not sure I could cope with an extended stay. There’s something a bit…disorienting about it, isn’t there?”

“There is indeed, Miss Somerset,” Lyden replied, fussing with teacups and filling the kettle. “It seems that we underestimate the value of having a proper night and day. I wonder what it would be like to be somewhere in permanent daylight.”

“At least you could have curtains and blinds to shut it out at night,” Annabelle said.

“Darkness is easier to create than light, isn’t it?” Lyden smiled. “And no, that’s not a religious statement.”

“It would make a very apposite one,” said Annabelle, remembering why they were here. “The reason we’ve come to see you, Reverend, is…” She glanced at Heath who was sitting very tensely, hands clasped in his lap. “Well, we’ve just had a very strange, and somewhat disturbing, encounter.”

“Really? Oh splendid!” As the kettle started whistling, he brought over the tea tray and returned to fill the teapot. “Please, do tell me all about it.”

“Where do I start? Well, this is probably going to sound like madness, but—”

“We’ve seen the Devil,” Heath interjected.

“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Annabelle said, somewhat taken aback by Heath’s declaration. “It’s a long story…”

As the chaplain returned with the teapot, she told him the whole tale, keeping an eye on Heath, who remained quiet. At the end, Lyden sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. “Well now, that is a story. But then little surprises me nowadays, not with all this space travel and alien worlds. Seems like almost anything is possible, doesn’t it?”

Heath lifted his head suddenly. “So you think it is the Devil then?”

Lyden thought for a few moments. “I think, Paul, that the Devil comes in many forms—some of them recognisable, others not at all so.”

“But the things he said about there not being any such thing as the soul, or God.”

“Perhaps this creature, this Hermes, is simply one of the innocents that hasn’t been introduced to God’s love? Even back on Earth there are many people who are ignorant of Him—that’s what missionaries are for, after all. Perhaps, rather than condemn him, we should pity him, and seek to enlighten him.”

That seemed quite reasonable to Annabelle—she hadn’t considered that before.

“With all respect,” Heath said, “you didn’t hear him. He was arrogant, wasn’t he, miss? Full of himself and science and how God didn’t exist. And the stuff about making a copy of the professor…” He looked up at Lyden. “That’s God’s work, isn’t it? Making people.”

“Yes,” Lyden said thoughtfully. “I have to admit, that part of the story worried me the most. You didn’t see this ‘copy’ then, did you?”

“I think I may have done,” said Annabelle—and went on to tell him of her encounter with Professor Fournier’s ghost.

“Ah,” said Lyden. “Yes. The ghosts.”

“What’s your take on them, then?” asked Heath eagerly. “The ghosts. Are they real? You know I’ve seen one, don’t you? I’d have come to tell you about it if I hadn’t been laid up in the hospital.”

Heath, Annabelle was increasingly realising, was searching for answers. From what he’d told her about his upbringing, the Church, Bible and God had always been there for him, providing him with a framework for his life. Perhaps that was why he’d joined the army—to be part of something bigger than himself, something that would give him direction?

“To be quite honest, Paul, the ghosts are a mystery to me,” Lyden said. “It’s hard to say quite what they are. But Miss Somerset’s visitation by Professor Fournier’s does rather lend credence to the idea that, yes, they are ghosts.”

“But what about the others?” Heath insisted, leaning forward even further. Annabelle saw Lyden flinch a little and started pouring the tea, hoping that it might calm Heath down a little. “What about mine? Even Miss Somerset here saw it, didn’t you?”

“I have to confess I did, yes. Only briefly, but there was certainly something there.”

“And everyone else as well,” Heath continued. “We can’t all be mad, can we?”

“No one’s suggesting you’re mad,” Annabelle insisted. “I’m certainly not, and I’ve seen two of them.”

Heath sat back and chewed at his lip, his eyes lowered again, as Annabelle handed him a cup. He declined it with a brief raise of his hand. “What if,” he said, suddenly animated again, “what if they’re devils as well, sent by Hermes to torment us, or trick us or something? That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s a possibility,” Lyden admitted, throwing a look at Annabelle. She could see that he too was finding Heath’s attitude a little intense. Disturbing, even. “But remember where we are, Paul—we’re on a strange world, millions of miles from home. This is a whole new era for humanity, and I’m sure that many of the things we’ve encountered since we left Earth could have been seen as, oh, miracles or angels—or, yes, devils. I don’t think we should be too quick to judge. Miss Somerset—what’s your opinion?”

Annabelle was a little thrown. “Really, I don’t know. Yes, I’ve seen some strange sights, but ghosts?” She shook her head gently. “One thing I do know, though, is that the feeling I got from Hermes was not a good one. There was something arrogant and lofty about it. Something….”

“Inhuman?” suggested Heath. “It was Hermes that the professor’s ghost was talking about, no doubt about that. And she warned you, didn’t she?”

Annabelle took deep breath and nodded. “She did, yes. Inhuman.”

2.

Shawbridge and Nathanial followed Iris out into the gloom; in the distance, they could hear much muttering and a few astonished cries.

“They’re everywhere,” Iris said as they reached the main square of Princess Christiana Station. Little huddles of people were standing around, pointing and crying. Some of them were shouting, their fists raised.

And around each little group, there were ghosts.

Some of them were as solid and concrete as Shawbridge’s own ghost had been earlier, but most of them were hazy phantoms, displaying the same flickering and shifting that had been reported in earlier sightings.

“Right!” bellowed Shawbridge at the top of his voice. “There’s no need to panic.”

A woman in a nurse’s uniform with a coat wrapped around her shoulders came running over. “Sir,” she said, her voice heavily accented. Nathanial caught sight of her name badge: Nurse Juanita Lopez. “I have seen one—and it was me!”

Shawbridge threw a glance at Nathanial. “Is that so, Nurse? Well trust me, there’s no need to worry—”

“But it was me!” she repeated, patting her chest. “I am going to die, aren’t ? I’m going to die!”

Nathanial fought back the impulse to point out that everyone was going to die. “Listen to me, Juanita,” he said calmly, making sure that he had her attention. “These things—ghosts, whatever they are—they don’t mean anything.”

“But it was me!” she repeated, clearly fixated on the idea of her own death. “How can that not mean anything?”

“Professor Stone is right,” Shawbridge said. “You’re not the only one to see your own ghost.”

“He’s right,” said a massively-built soldier who’d been standing nearby, his arm around a sobbing young woman. “There’s Joan’s.” He pointed to a translucent figure standing just a few yards away. Its face was hazy and unclear, but the resemblance to Joan was indisputable.

“Does that mean we’re all going to die?” asked someone else.

“We’re going to die, aren’t we?” another voice chimed in.

A fresh round of wailing and muttering broke out.

“This is madness,” muttered Shawbridge to Nathanial. “What do I tell them?”

“The truth?” suggested Nathanial.

“We don’t know the truth.”

“Well, tell them that, then.”

“And have them lose faith in me? What kind of commander would I be, then, admitting I don’t know?”

“An honest one?”

Shawbridge glared at Nathanial, and he wondered whether he’d gone too far. The colonel’s attitude to his own ghost had been more rational than Nathanial would have expected, but now, faced by the panic of the station personnel, was he losing control of his faculties?

“And why haven’t we all seen them?” chirped up Iris. “Does that mean some of us aren’t going to die?”

“No one,” said Nathanial calmly, “is going to die. Not before their natural time, anyway.”

“And how would you know?” asked the soldier, pulling Joan closer. “With respect, sir, you’ve been here less than two days. Some of us have been here months, and I’m telling you, there’s something not right with this place.” He pointed at her ghost. “These things ain’t right, and you know it. If you know what they are, then tell us. If you don’t…”

“Have some respect, Lister,” Shawbridge warned him, but his voice was thin and devoid of authority, like a teacher who’d finally lost control of a class of unruly boys. The soldier just glowered and, arm still around his wife, turned away.

“Sir,” insisted Iris. “What do we do?”

“Go back to your quarters, Iris.” He turned to address the crowd. “Everyone! Go back to your quarters. Whatever these things are, they can’t harm you.”

“Says who?” shouted someone from the back of the crowd.

“Stop that, man!” Shawbridge shouted. “You want to be up on a charge of mutiny, do you?”

Nathanial realised he was holding his breath, and let it out in a long sigh. This was going from bad to worse. “Colonel Shawbridge is right,” he stepped in without thinking. “These ghosts can’t harm you—they have no physical substance. We don’t know exactly what they are yet, that’s true, but we can assure you that they mean no harm. Go back to bed, stay with friends or workmates—whatever makes you feel safe. But trust me, you’re in no danger.”

A sullen muttering broke out and gradually, the crowd began to disperse. They were not happy, but they were going.

“Thank you, Stone,” said Shawbridge under his breath—but the tone of his voice held no gratitude whatsoever. “Thank you very much for that.”

And without another word, he stormed off.

“What did I say?” Nathanial asked Iris before she rushed after Shawbridge.

She turned and gave Nathanial a withering look. “Why did you come here?” she snapped. “Why did you come here?” Iris ran after the colonel, leaving Nathanial feeling more wretched and alone than he’d felt in a long time.

Yes, he thought to himself miserably. Why did I come here?

3.

Nathanial knocked tentatively at Annabelle’s door, not at all sure that she’d welcome him after their earlier parting. There was no answer so he tried a little louder, but still nothing. He pressed his head against the wood of the door, and for a moment he felt like punching it. He’d come here as Annabelle’s friend, to see Annabelle’s uncle—and now he seemed to have alienated both of them, never mind the rest of the station’s personnel.

Where could he go? Back to his own bungalow? To lie sleepless in the dark, fretting and worrying about how this whole trip seemed to have turned out?

Damn it, no!

With new resolve, Nathanial drew himself up. He knew where he needed to go.

4.

Heath walked her back to her bungalow in awkward silence. There seemed to be a lot of people around, she thought—couples, individuals and groups of people—heading away from the main square.

“Sorry for getting a bit, you know, back there, miss,” Heath said eventually, clearly sensing the awkwardness as much as Annabelle. “It’s just…” His words dried up and he pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose noisily into it.

“Don’t worry about it—you’ve had a terrible time over the last few weeks. Heaven only knows how I’d cope in your shoes.”

He managed a crooked grin. “I must have sounded like a right loony, mustn’t I?”

“Of course you didn’t.” She paused. “I’m sorry, too.”

“What for?”

“For not backing you up—back there with Reverend Lyden. I should have done.”

Heath shook his head. “Don’t worry, miss, really. I reckon this is something I’ve got to sort out on my own.”

She wasn’t quite sure what he meant, and he read her expression correctly.

“I know you and Professor Stone—and the Frenchman—have your own views on that thing down there, and I respect ’em, I really do. But I was brought up proper, to know right from wrong. No offence meant, I’m sure you were too, miss. But my mum always told me that if you stand by and let summat evil happen, then you’re no better than the evil itself.”

“I don’t…” said Annabelle, hesitantly. “What do you mean? What are you going to do?”

“Don’t you worry yourself, miss. This is man’s work. You get off to bed, or go find that gentleman of yours. Everything’ll be fine. I’ll sort it all out.” And with a nod, Heath turned and vanished into the dark, leaving Annabelle with a very bad feeling.

Chapter Ten

“In Which Annabelle Discovers a Plot”

1.

He wasn’t normally a drinking man, but by God he needed a scotch. Shawbridge realised his hand was shaking as he poured a generous measure, the bottle clinking against the glass, and slumped into a chair in his quarters.

Damn Stone! he thought. Damn him!

What gave him the right to address everyone like that? What gave Stone the bloody right to humiliate him in from of his own staff? For a long, long moment he wished that he had the courage—or the cowardice—to go down to Esmeralda right now, get her fired up and just…go!

His hand was still shaking as he downed the scotch and poured himself another.

Everything had been fine until Annabelle had brought Stone here. Well, obviously not fine—but it was all in hand, it was all being managed. He still had the respect of everyone, and everything was going to turn out right. Of course it was. He hadn’t spent all those years in India and Africa without learning a thing or two, had he?

The glass fell from his hand and shattered on the terracotta tiles as his ghost appeared suddenly at the far side of the room.

“You!” he glared, pointing a shaking finger. “What the Hell are you, eh? You and the rest of them. You see what you’ve done?”

The ghost just looked at him.

“Nothing to say for yourself now? Ha! You weren’t shy earlier, were you?”

Shawbridge kicked the broken glass aside with his boot and reached down into the cupboard to pull another one out and poured himself a double.

“Still here?” he asked, turning round.

“You seem distressed,” his ghost said, its tone annoyingly calm. “You don’t need to be, you know.”

“And what would you know? You’re nothing—you’re…” Shawbridge waved dismissively with his glass, slopping scotch onto the floor.

“I’m you,” replied the ghost. “Remember that. I know how you feel.”

“And how do I feel, exactly? Eh?”

“You feel like this whole situation is running out of control; you feel that you have lost the respect of your people here; you feel that your career is going to end in ignominy.”

Shawbridge could only glare at the figure in front of him as something inside quietly began to crumble.

“I can help,” the ghost said after a few seconds.

“How? How the Hell can a ghost help me?”

“Trust me. There’s something you should see.”

2.

“Arnaud! Arnaud! Wake up!”

Nathanial pressed his ear to the Frenchman’s door and knocked again. “Come on, Arnaud,” he whispered under his breath.

From inside there came the sound of something falling over, cursing in French, and then the sound of the door being unlocked. Arnaud stood there, bleary-eyed in only his pyjama bottoms.

“What?” he muttered, and Nathanial could smell the cognac on his breath. He pushed past him without waiting to be invited in. “Come in,” Arnaud said. “Please.”

The room was as messy as Nathanial had expected—plates and cups stacked along the top of the empty bookcase and dirty laundry strewn everywhere. Arnaud sagged back down onto the bed and tipped his head back, moaning.

“What is the ti—?” he asked blearily, but Nathanial cut in.

“Do you know what just happened out there? Do you?”

With a sigh, Arnaud levered himself back up into a sitting position. “No, mon ami, but I imagine you are about to tell me, no?”

“Ghosts, Arnaud. Dozens of them. Everywhere!”

“What?”

“And I’ve seen Shawbridge’s, too,” Nathanial added.

Arnaud frowned and scratched his head. “Are you drunk?”

“Shawbridge brought him to see me earlier, just after you’d gone.”

“You are drunk.”

“You’re not listening, Arnaud. Shawbridge brought his ghost to see me, and we chatted like it was the most normal thing in the world. And then Miss McConnon came to tell us that we were being invaded by ghosts, and then we went outside and—”

Arnaud raised his hands. “Wait, wait, wait.” He gestured to the bookcase. “Get that bottle.” He leaned over the side of the bed and reappeared with two grimy glasses, blowing into them to clear the dust out.

“Is that your answer to everything?” snapped Nathanial.

“You have a better one?” Arnaud thrust the glasses towards Nathanial. “Pour!”

Against his better judgment, Nathanial poured. And then drank. And then, at Arnaud’s insistence, poured again.

“Right,” said Arnaud, pulling his legs up and sitting cross-legged on the bed, still shirtless. “Start from the beginning and tell me everything,” he said. “Possibly twice.”

Fortunately, once was enough.

“I think that was perhaps not a good move, you know, mon ami: the things you said to everyone in front of the colonel.”

“I was trying to help, you idiot. Shawbridge was losing control.”

“And now, thanks to you, he has recaptured it?” Arnaud raised an eyebrow.

Nathanial slumped. “I suppose not, no,” he said quietly. “But that just means we have to work out what the dickens is going on.”

“What the what?”

Nathanial waved the question away. “Everyone else is running around terrified of these ghosts, or whatever they really are. We’re the only ones capable of getting to the bottom of this.”

Arnaud gave a little drunken giggle at the word “bottom.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, man!” Nathanial snapped. This seemed to drag Arnaud round, and he sat up primly and pulled a sorry face that only made Nathanial laugh. “You,” he said, “are très fou!”

Arnaud’s eyes widened. “See—you do speak French after all. But no,” he wagged a finger. “I am not mad. I am just a tiny bit of the drunk.”

“Well,” said Nathanial firmly, heaving himself out of the chair with not a little difficulty, “you’d better stop being a tiny bit of the drunk and sober yourself up. We’ve got work to do.”

Arnaud gave a considered nod and got unsteadily to his feet. “Where are we going?” he asked, reaching for the door.

Nathanial picked up a shirt from the back of a chair and threw it at Arnaud. “Until you’ve put some clothes on, we’re not going anywhere.”

3.

Annabelle let herself into her bungalow, freshened up, and decided that no matter how late it was, she had to see Nathanial. Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your wrath. It felt like they had either been at loggerheads or in different places altogether for most of the time they’d been on Mercury, and she wanted to get the air cleared, to restore a little normality.

But, once again, Nathanial wasn’t in his quarters. She tried Arnaud’s, but there was no answer. The only place she could imagine they might be was the laboratory.

She’d almost reached the laboratory when she heard muttering and a crashing, splintering sound. Curious, she crept around the side of the building and saw three men forcing open the big wooden door to some sort of storage shed. She had no idea what it contained, but it was clear that they were up to no good. They looked around shiftily—and she recognised Corporal Heath.

Her first thought was to go and find Uncle Ernest and tell him. But somehow that felt rather traitorous: she knew Heath had put a lot of trust in her, and if she reported him, she doubted that she’d ever win it back. No, she thought firmly. There’s only one thing to be done.

Drawing herself up, she stepped out of the shadows and headed straight towards them.

“What are you doing?” she asked imperiously.

The poor soldier—who had been peering back inside the shed as she’d approached—almost jumped out of his skin. He clearly didn’t know what to do, so Annabelle just brushed him aside and entered the shed before he could muster the wits to stop her.

By the light of a hand-held lamp, Corporal Heath and another man—a heavy-set fellow with arms the size of Annabelle’s torso—were levering open a wooden crate.

“Corporal!” she barked, and both men started.

“Miss Somerset!” said Heath, rushing over. “What you doing here?”

“I heard you breaking in. What are you doing?”

“I told you, miss, I’m going to sort it. Me and the lads. Have you heard?” He paused, his eyes both bright and dark at the same time. “There was ghosts everywhere this evening, all over the place. Me and you, we were with the chaplain, so we missed it. But at least twenty of the buggers, bold as brass.”

“What did they do?”

“Nothing much—just, y’know, appeared. Joe here says the colonel tried to calm everyone down but from what I heard it didn’t make much difference. His girl, Joan, saw her own ghost, too.”

Annabelle couldn’t believe that she’d missed it all. She indicated the opened chests. “And what’s in there?”

“Best you don’t know, miss.”

“I’ll be the judge of what’s best for me to know,” she said. “Now tell me….”

4.

“No!” said Nathanial, snatching the bottle out of Arnaud’s hand and hiding it behind his back.

“Pft!” Arnaud said sulkily. “You are no fun!”

“We have work to do, remember—if you’re good, I might let you have a drink later.”

Arnaud’s pout blossomed into a grin. “I am always good.”

Nathanial raised a querulous eyebrow.

They’d returned to the laboratory in the hope of going over all the rocks and bits and pieces of information they had, in the hope of putting them all together in some sort of “Eureka!” moment; but Nathanial’s head was pounding. He didn’t hold out much hope.

“Right,” said Arnaud. “Where do we start?”

Nathanial stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the room. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“What we must do is assemble everything that we know about everything. Lay the pieces of the puzzle on the table, so to speak, and see what picture appears, yes?”

“It’s a plan,” conceded Nathanial. “So what do we have?”

“First—Hermes.”

“Hermes. Right. Hermes is some sort of entity that can project its thoughts, yes, and read ours to some degree? It’s been here for thousands of years and resides in these rocks—which we have already decided are like the brain cells of Hermes. And the ones around the professor must have grown in the weeks that she has been down there, so it must have some very usual properties.”

“Like the time delay when light shines on it.”

Nathanial nodded. And Hermes itself had said that it consisted of electronic and optical impulses. This was fitting together perfectly.

Arnaud narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and rubbed his chin. “And if the professor’s ghost had never heard of Hermes, is it not madness to think that the crystal that grew around the professor is perhaps not connected to Hermes? Or under its control.”

“Seems reasonable.” A thought occurred to Nathanial. “And you remember what Hermes said about copying Professor Fournier and what Annabelle said about the professor’s ghost and how she said something about ‘others are coming’? Well how’s this for an idea: the crystals aren’t just the means of copying: they are the copy. That’s why, when we broke up the stones to get at her body, she vanished from Annabelle’s room. And the ‘others’ she mentioned—I think she meant us. Me and you and the soldiers.”

Arnaud nodded. “And the thing that the professor warned Annabelle about was Hermes, so there’s clearly some connection, even if it’s just a vague awareness of each other.”

Nathanial slumped, realising that his next bit of the puzzle didn’t quite seem to fit the shape of the ones already down. “But what about the other ghosts? Colonel Shawbridge certainly wasn’t dead when I met his ghost. And he certainly wasn’t down in the cavern covered in crystals.”

Arnaud’s mouth pursed up as he pondered. “Ah,” he said suddenly, a grin spreading across his face. “But who says the ghosts—the copies, yes?—have the need to be of the dead?”

Nathanial wanted to hug Arnaud—all along, he’d been thinking that the ghosts had to be those of the deceased. Well, until he’d met Shawbridge’s, and then all the others out in the square.

Arnaud was already thinking the same thing. “Shawbridge and the others you mentioned were not dead, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t be copied.”

“But how? None of them—as far as we know—have been near the cavern, much less embedded in crystal.”

“Perhaps the actual, physical contact is not necessary. We have been assuming that because of the professor. But what if that was simply coincidence, eh? We know that Hermes can project its thoughts, yes? So is it not also likely that it can read thoughts at a distance, copy them into the crystal…?”

“Like scribbling notes on someone in a notebook?” Nathanial suddenly remembered how Shawbridge’s ghost had described itself: like it was being sketched in. Nathanial told Arnaud.

“C’est parfait,” he said.

“But why are only some of the people here seeing ghosts? And why ghosts of themselves—apart from Annabelle, obviously?”

“Because,” said Arnaud slowly, constructing his theory as he went, “the copies have some sort of connection to their living originals. Yes! That would make sense—if they are projecting their thoughts into the people’s heads to make them see and hear them, then obviously, they would find it easier with people whose minds were like theirs.”

“Ah, but remember—I saw Shawbridge’s ghost, too—and all the others in the square.”

“Perhaps they are simply getting stronger,” Arnaud suggested. “Getting the hang of—is that correct?—projecting themselves into the minds of others. You said yourself that the colonel’s ghost seemed much stronger while it was with you. And you said that this evening, everyone could see all the ghosts.”

“So you think that the copies—the ghosts—are stored in the rock seams that you saw, and that Hermes mentioned, along with itself. Remember—Shawbridge’s ghost hadn’t heard of Hermes, and Professor Fournier’s didn’t mention the name, even though she seemed to have a sense of something dangerous.”

“Then Hermes must have some way of separating the minds stored inside him, so that they are not aware of him.”

Nathanial wasn’t convinced—but he had to concede that they knew so little about the actual mechanism by which the copies were made, and how they were stored, that it was quite possible that Hermes had exactly that ability. “Hang on, though—the professor’s copy, we’ve established, was stored in the crystals around her. If she’d been stored somewhere inside Hermes itself, then she wouldn’t have vanished when we dug her out. And as far as I know, she hasn’t been seen since, has she?” Hot on the heels of that thought came another one. “How many ghosts have been seen? Twenty-something?”

Arnaud nodded. “I think twenty five or so, yes.”

Nathanial smiled and shook his head slowly. “Oh, Arnaud,” he said, mock patronisingly. “Dear, dear, Arnaud. What kind of a geologist are you, eh?”

“At the moment, Nathanial, I am a very puzzled geologist.”

Nathanial leaned over the table so that his face was just a few inches from Arnaud’s. “When we were down in the cavern, how many of those crystal spheres did you see? The ones sticking out of the walls like boils.”

Arnaud could only shrug.

“You mean you didn’t count them?”

“Should I have done?”

“There were twenty five of them—twenty six if you count Professor Fournier’s.”

For a moment, Arnaud simply frowned. And then, before Nathanial could stop him, he grabbed his head and planted a kiss on Nathanial’s forehead.

“I say!” said Nathanial, pulling back.

Arnaud just waved him away, still grinning. “I know, I know—I am too French.” He shrugged. “Guilty as charged! So we are saying that each of the boils, as you put it, is one of the ghosts, one of the copies, yes?”

“Unless that’s just a coincidence, of course,” Nathanial cautioned, realising they were in danger of getting carried away with their theorising. “And that would perhaps explain how they do not seem to be aware of Hermes itself—because they are physically separate.”

“So…” Arnaud drummed his index fingers on the edge of the table. “Hermes, for some reason, has made these copies of people—copies of their minds—and is storing them in, as you say, the boils. But why? Why is it doing this?”

Nathanial didn’t have an answer to that question—not a definitive one, at any rate. “Perhaps it’s simply curious about us, about mankind. I know we didn’t speak to it for long, but I have to admit, I had no sense of deception or of it having an ulterior motive.”

“This is true, yes—but you are also right that we did not speak to it for long. Do you remember its reaction when Heath lied to it about Colonel Shawbridge knowing we were down there?”

Nathanial recalled that Hermes had been confused—not simply by the lie, but by the very concept of lying. “Yes, now you mention it, that was very strange, wasn’t it? It seemed to have no idea about what lies were at all, did it?”

Arnaud, again, was already ahead of him. “But think, mon ami. Think of how it is to be Hermes. No other intelligent beings, no other minds, as it said. Not until humans arrived here. If you were the only person around, and you had never met another person, who would you lie to? And about what?” He paused. “But when there are no others, you would never learn to lie. And if it has been keeping the others, the ghosts, away from itself for some reason, then it might not have learned—even from them.”

“You know, that does make sense, Arnaud, when you put it like that.” Nathanial beamed broadly at the Frenchman. “God, we’re good, aren’t we?”

“Bien sûr—of course—how could we be anything else?”

“But let’s not get too cocky,” Nathanial cautioned—trying not to grin at the same time. “Half of this is still supposition, remember.”

“But informed supposition.”

“Yes.” Nathanial stopped, suddenly struck by something so obvious and so profound that he wondered why it had not occurred to him earlier. “You know what this means, don’t you? It means that we might be looking at the end of death. Not physical death of course. Not the death of the body.” Nathanial tapped the side of his head. “But the death of the mind. Imagine how big this tiny planet is. Think of how much rock and crystal there is: how many minds do you think a whole planet could store, Arnaud?”

“Millions, surely. Almost certainly many more. You do know that when knowledge of this reaches Earth, it will be a, um, bull in a china shop. Is that right?”

Nathanial pulled a bit of a face. “Close. But yes, it will rather, won’t it?”

“All the great scientists, philosophers, thinkers, poets—their minds, their genius—it need never die. Just imagine that!”

Something Arnaud said jumped out at Nathanial. “Poets! Remember what Annabelle said about Professor Fournier? She said that Hermes—we assume—was scared of a poem.” He furrowed his brow. “Scared of a line in a poem? Why would a being like Hermes be scared of a line in a poem?”

“Remember that Hermes said that the professor’s copy was incomplete. Perhaps she did not know what she was saying.”

“Maybe, but it’s a curiously specific thing to actually remember and to tell Annabelle, isn’t it?” Nathanial looked around the room. “Poetry books! Did she have any poetry books here? Or in her quarters?”

“No, look—here they are. Four, five—six of them” Arnaud took them off the shelf and spread them out on the table with a grin.

“What are we looking for?”

“A frightening poem. Well…” Arnaud added. “A frightening line in a poem.”

“I have no idea where to start. And besides, you know her tastes in poetry better than me. Ah! And didn’t Annabelle say that it was her favourite poem. Surely you must know that one.”

“She had so many favourites,” Arnaud sighed, and then jabbed his finger at one particular book. Nathanial read its title upside down: The Collected Works of John Donne. He knew the name, but little beyond that.

Arnaud slid it across the desk towards him and began flipping through the pages. He stopped when he got to the index and let his eyes scan down it, slowly shaking his head. “No, nothing stares out at me….” He continued for another minute and then looked up at Nathanial. “Finally,” he said, pushing one of the other poetry books towards Nathanial. “I get to make a poetry-lover of you, Nathanial.”

5.

Ernest Shawbridge was struggling to work out which of the two competing emotions had the upper hand: confusion or excitement. He suspected the fact that he was following his own ghost through Princess Christiana Station, an unlit lantern in his hand, settled the matter. It was a clear mix of the two! “Where are we going?” he hissed, looking round to see if anyone was in earshot.

“To glory,” said the other Shawbridge cryptically.

“For God’s sake man, stop talking in riddles.”

But his ghost would say nothing more on the matter. Shawbridge wondered if he was as cryptic and frustrating to the people around him, but couldn’t see it, somehow. Iris would have told him.

They reached the edge of the station grounds, and Shawbridge realised that there was only one place they could be headed. “Why?” he asked the ghost, forgetting for a moment that he was just an apparition and trying to stop him by grabbing his arm. But his hand passed straight through him.

“Because that is where you will find the answer you’re looking for.”

And without another word, the ghost turned and began descending the stepped path to the beach. Shawbridge was too far into this now to turn back, and he had so little to lose. He grimaced, lit the lamp, and followed the ghost.

Chapter Eleven

“In Which Nathanial and Arnaud Take Action”

1.

“Explosives?”

Annabelle stared aghast at the open crate, packed with sticks of dynamite, wrapped in red paper.

Heath screwed up his eyes and clenched his teeth. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said with a regretful shake of his head. “You shouldn’t have seen this. You shouldn’t have got mixed up in it.”

“Well now I am,” she said firmly, looking him in the eyes.

He tried to look away, but something in Annabelle’s gaze held him. “So, what—you’re going to tell your uncle, or your friend now, are you?”

She heard the tremor in his voice. “What, exactly, am I mixed up in then?” she said, ignoring his question.

Heath looked awkwardly at his friend, Joe, for a few seconds before turning back to her. “We’re putting a stop to it.”

“To what?”

Heath waved his hand. “To everything—to that Devil in the cavern, to the ghosts. To everything that’s gone wrong since that French woman arrived.”

“And how do you propose to do that, Corporal?” Annabelle looked down at the case of dynamite, realisation dawning. “You’re going to blow it up?”

“What else are we supposed to do, miss? You saw what it was like, you’ve seen the ghosts. You can’t tell me that thing down there is good.”

Annabelle remembered what Maria’s ghost had said: “Its thoughts are so deep and dark, my dear,” she’d said. “Be careful… It has such plans…” How could she trust the words of a damaged ghost?

Clearly thinking similar thoughts to Annabelle, Heath said: “Professor Fournier’s ghost warned you about him. Said it had bad thoughts.”

She didn’t correct his words—the meaning was, the more she thought about it, perhaps more accurate. What if the next stage of the ghosts would be to somehow possess their originals, taking control of them? Then she’d be almost powerless to stop it. They all would. For a moment, she wished Nathanial were here to advise her.

No, damn it! Annabelle thought. I do not need him to make my decisions for me!

She clenched her jaw, and although a part of her was shouting “No, this is madness!” its voice was becoming increasingly drowned out by the one that screamed “Yes, this thing is evil—it has to be destroyed!” At the very least, she thought, she ought to confront Hermes again. Going along with Heath’s plan would at least allow her the chance to do that.

She grabbed Heath’s forearms and nodded. “Then count me in.”

2.

None of them noticed, as they made their plans, that just outside the door, a figure stood silently and listened….

3.

The ghost seemed to be in a hurry, and Shawbridge found himself slightly out of puff as they descended the sloping section of passageway that would take them down under the World River.

“Hold on,” he said, leaning against the wall for a few moments to catch his breath.

The ghost turned. “We can’t afford to wait,” he said. “I sense that there are forces that would seek to stop us.”

“Forces? What forces? And what d’you mean, stop us?”

“I’m not sure—I can sense them on the periphery, plotting and planning.” The ghost seemed distracted, less like he’d been when he appeared to Shawbridge.

“This better not be some sort of game, you know,” he grumbled as he set off after the ghost. “After the day I’ve had, I’m in no mood for shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans?”

“Playing the fool. You know what I mean.”

“I am not playing the fool. I am helping you achieve what you wanted to achieve. You fear that your career will end in ignominy, don’t you? It won’t—it will end in glory, for you and all humanity. Remember, I think what you think.”

Shawbridge raised his eyebrows dubiously. He didn’t see how anything could rescue his career now. He really had nothing to lose, did he? “This had better be worth it,” he muttered as they set off again.

4.

“Annabelle!”

Nathanial turned to follow the direction in which Arnaud was looking: standing in shadow by the door was, indeed, Annabelle. “Oh, I didn’t hear you…” Nathanial paused as Annabelle stepped forwards. “What’s wrong?” he asked, worried by the look on her face.

“Nathanial,” she said, her voice low and worried, with a slightly odd tone to it. “You have to go down to the cavern.”

Nathanial flashed a puzzled glance at Arnaud. “Why?”

“Because Heath is going to destroy it.”

“What?” he exclaimed. “Why?”

“Because he believes that Hermes is the Devil.”

“What nonsense. Where is he? I’ll have a word with him. You do realise what we’ve just worked out? We think that the crystals, these—” he held picked up one of the plates from the table “—are where Hermes and the ghosts are stored. The ghosts are copies of the originals, of living people—their minds and thoughts, at any rate—stored in those crystal boil things I told you about. Don’t ask us how it works, but we’re pretty sure. They’re rich in zinc and tin, like everything seems to be around here: the soil, the river. It’s everywhere. I believe it has some effect on the electrical conductivity of the crystals, somehow enabling—”

Annabelle raised a hand. “There’s no time for a lecture, Nathanial. Heath is setting off soon.”

“We have to stop him, Nathanial,” agreed Arnaud. “If Hermes can copy human minds, it means that no one need ever die. Just think about it, Annabelle—the greatest minds of our generation, and future generations, could live and think forever. And remember that poem that Maria mentioned—the one that she said frightened Hermes? Well we think we’ve found it.” He held the book out to her, open at Meditation XVII. She looked down at it, scanning the page. “We still have not worked out which line made it so scared, though.”

Annabelle frowned as her eyes flicked up and down the page, and for a brief moment, Nathanial saw a flash of something pass across her face. Recognition? Realisation?

“What is it?” he asked, but she shook her head as though it didn’t matter.

“You have to act,” she insisted. “Go down to the cavern and stop Heath and his men, somehow. Their plan won’t work, trust me. They’ll only make things worse.”

“Now you’re talking in riddles, Annabelle.” Nathanial looked at Arnaud who simply shrugged.

“If you’ve ever trusted me before,” she said. “Then trust me now. Just go—please.”

Nathanial took a deep breath: he’d trusted Annabelle on many occasions, and she’d always shown herself worthy of that trust. If Heath was planning to blow up the cavern, then an unparalleled gift to humanity could be about to be destroyed.

“We must stop them,” Arnaud said. “At least until we’ve had chance to speak to Hermes again, to confirm our theories. If he succeeds…” His voice tailed off.

Nathanial looked Arnaud in the eye as he said: “Very well, Annabelle. But you have to stay here. It’s too dangerous—”

He turned back around, but Annabelle had gone.

“Where did she go?”

“I have no idea, mon ami.”

Nathanial shook his head. Frustrating woman! But a persuasive frustrating woman.

5.

“How much further?” Shawbridge asked the ghost, noticing how it didn’t seem to cast a proper shadow from the light of his lamp. In all other respects, it seemed perfectly solid. He had no real idea how the ghosts worked, and shrugged it off as just another peculiarity.

“Not far now,” the ghost said without turning its head.

“This is to do with that Hermes chap that Stone and Fontaine mentioned, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. But don’t be afraid, Colonel. Hermes has great plans for you.”

“Hmmm,” Shawbridge said, not quite sure whether that was a good thing. Annabelle had given the strong impression that Hermes was something ungodly, something dangerous. But, then, Stone had been full of fascination and intrigue for the creature. And he was a scientist, after all—if that counted for anything, especially considering his recent behaviour. Maybe he should have spoken to them before coming on this foolish trip.

As if reading his thoughts, the ghost said: “Annabelle is wrong in her fears.”

“Are you reading my mind now? Well don’t. A chap’s thoughts are his own.”

“We are learning, Colonel. We are…improving, if you like.”

“Not sure I like the sound of that. How does a bally ghost improve?”

The ghost stopped suddenly. “We’ve arrived. Do not be afraid by what you see. It is simply a mental representation of Hermes. It does not physically exist.”

Shawbridge wasn’t quite sure what this meant—presumably that what he was about to see was Hermes’ own ghost, or something like that.

Having already turned on the generator as they passed, the tunnels were brightly lit, and as they turned the corner, Shawbridge could see the light from the cavern. His ghost stood aside to let him pass. Drawing himself up, he stepped forwards.

6.

“That’s it,” Joe said to Heath as he checked his watch. “She’s had enough time to get her jacket. If that’s where she’s gone. I knew it was a mistake to let her go. She’ll be here with Shawbridge, you see if she isn’t.”

Heath scowled, gazing out across the World River, rushing mindlessly by, constantly circulating around the planet. Endless and eternal. “She wouldn’t.”

Heath had almost forgotten that Joe was there.

“You barely know her,” the man said, looking down at Heath. “She’s not one of us, Paul. She’s one of them.”

Heath raised a hand to silence Joe. “I trust her,” he said. “She won’t let us down. She hates that thing as much as I do. Look!” A tiny patch of yellow light was weaving its way down the path from the station to the beach. “See!”

Joe and the other men hoiked their backpacks, full of dynamite, up onto their shoulders. Heath himself was carrying the clockwork detonator mechanism.

As the light reached the foot of the cliff and headed towards them, Heath felt himself tense up: what if Joe was right, and this wasn’t Annabelle but Shawbridge himself? What would they do then? There was taking a stand—and then there was mutiny.

A wave of relief rushed over him as he saw that it was Annabelle.

“Joe thought you might have changed your mind,” he said as she drew close.

“Why would I do that?” Annabelle said, a little crossly. “You think I’m that sort of person?” She glared at Joe.

“Not me, miss,” Heath apologised. “But Joe doesn’t know you as well as I do. Don’t think nothing of it. Right, best be off.”

Annabelle asked if there was anything she could carry, but they insisted that this was “men’s work”.

“Besides,” Heath said, heading towards the riverbank and a ramshackle wooden jetty, “we won’t be carrying them most of the way.” He gestured ahead. “We take one of these boats across to the other side: there’s another tunnel that leads down. Joe and Saul here have checked it out. He knows a lot about blowing things up, Joe. And Saul, here, he knows a fair bit about potholing and caves. Knows exactly where to place the dynamite for maximum effect.”

Saul was the wiry, swarthy man who’d been keeping watch over the shed door earlier. He had dark, cold eyes. He nodded respectfully at her but didn’t say anything.

“So then,” she asked as they climbed up onto the jetty. “What’s the plan?”

Joe looked at her suspiciously.

“The plan,” Heath said, ignoring Joe, “is that we place these explosives at the far side of the cavern. There’s another entrance there where Saul says the rock has a lot of fractures. It’ll bring the whole cave down on itself.”

Three little, white-painted boats bobbed gently on the swell of the river. Joe pulled one closer to the jetty with effortless ease and stepped in, causing the boat to rock worryingly. He held out his hand to help Annabelle aboard, and Heath and Saul joined them.

“Joe’s going to be rowing,” Heath said with just a hint of a grin. “The current’s fairly fast and we need to get across as quickly as we can before we’re taken downstream too far.”

As Saul untied the boat, Joe took up the oars and began to row. Such was the power in his arms that they made swift progress, reaching the other side in just a few minutes. A series of wooden posts had been hammered into the ground, stretching several hundred yards along the river’s edge—presumably to account for different rowing speeds. The boat was tied up and they all splashed onto the sand.

“What?” Annabelle said, as one of the men muttered something.

“What?” echoed Heath, a little puzzled.

“Someone said something—didn’t they?” She frowned and Saul laughed, white teeth flashing in the dim light.

“Reckon you must be hearing things, miss,” he said, lifting his backpack into place. “Maybe it’s one of them there ghosts.”

Saul winked and Joe laughed too—but Heath threw the pair of them a sharp look, and Saul’s smile guttered out instantly. They knew of his own experience with ghosts and should have known better than to make fun of such things.

“How much further?” Annabelle asked, gathering her jacket about herself. There was a surprisingly cool breeze tonight, especially on the open water.

“Not far, miss,” Heath said, indicating a dark patch in the much lower cliff wall at the far side of the beach. “Should be there in about fifteen minutes, I reckon.”

7.

Little did they know, but Nathanial and Arnaud had missed Annabelle by just ten minutes. Indeed, if they hadn’t been in such a rush to get to the cavern and had spent a few moments looking out across the river, they could have seen the tiny shape of the boat tied up on the far side.

“Have you given any thought to what we’re actually going to do once we get there?” Arnaud asked. “These are trained soldiers.”

Nathanial had indeed given it thought. But since he’d come up with nothing concrete other than “stop them”, he’d pushed that aspect of their plan to the back of his mind, hoping that something clever occurred to them once they were there. “We’ll think of something,” he said, hoping he sounded confident, as they ducked into the entranceof the cave.

“If you’re thinking that we will wrestle them and overpower them, I think you might be mistaking me for someone who was ever good at the sports. I cannot even swim, mon ami!”

“Damn!” Nathanial said, as he realised that there was something they should have borrowed to bring along. “I should have asked Annabelle for her gun, shouldn’t I?”

“She carries a gun? And I thought she was the very model of an English lady.”

“Appearances can be deceptive,” Nathanial smiled. “Not that she isn’t a lady, of course, just American,” he added. “A very well-armed one.”

As they turned the corner into the passageway containing the generator, they could hear it sputtering ahead of them, and see the glow of the wall-mounted lamps beyond it.

“They must already be here, then.” Nathanial’s stomach clenched a little.

“It is a shame that Annabelle did not tell us how many of them there would be,” Arnaud said. “Perhaps we should have found the colonel and told him.”

“Oh, I don’t think Shawbridge would have been in any mood to listen to me, Arnaud. More likely he’d have has us locked up or court-martialled or something.”

Arnaud reached down and picked something up: it was an offcut of the wooden staves that had been used to shore up the tunnel. It was only about a yard long, but Arnaud swished it around like he knew what he was doing. “I took a few sword-fencing classes,” he said by way of explanation. “Many years ago.”

“Oh good,” Nathanial said archly. “Fencing with a stick. Yes, that should show the blighters that we’re serious.”

“See if you can find yourself one,” Arnaud said. “We have nothing else, do we?”

Nathanial found himself one—a little shorter than Arnaud’s. As if that was likely to make any difference if it came to a fight.

“You know that they may well have guns, don’t you?”

“Oh,” Arnaud said, coming to a stop. “You think that now is the moment to point this out to me, do you?”

Nathanial couldn’t help but smile. “I fail to see the source of your disconcertment. With Excalibur there, you’re going to be pretty much invincible. As they say—into the fray, mon ami. Into the fray!”

Chapter Twelve

“In Which Shawbridge Is Made an Incredible Offer”

1.

Shawbridge entered the cave with some trepidation—only to discover that his ghost had disappeared. He now felt quite alone and vulnerable, and the fears that he’d been a stupid old man grew further.

He noticed the pile of rocks that he imagined must have been the Frenchwoman’s burial mound, and the negative connotations of it compounded his edginess. He was on the point of turning around and making haste back to the surface when something a little like smoke began to form in the air in the centre of the cavern. Within seconds it had grown denser and stronger, and Shawbridge could see that it was a sort of swarm made up of many millions of sparkling fragments, like tiny pieces of glass.

And then, making him start somewhat, the cloud drew in on itself to take the form of a man. A giant man, but a man nonetheless, although possessed of no facial features. Once his initial alarm had died down, he realised that this must be the Hermes chap that Nathanial had mentioned.

“Colonel Ernest Shawbridge,” boomed a voice right in the centre of his head. It was a deep tenor, a man’s voice, but as it continued speaking, the pitch and timbre of the voice shifted around most discomfortingly. “You are not a happy man, are you?”

“He told you that, did he?” Shawbridge said, referring to the ghost that had led him down there. “The other fella.”

There was a pause before Hermes replied. “In a manner of speaking, yes. You appeared to be contemplating leaving a moment ago. Why?” There was genuine curiosity in the voice—that had steadied at a rather effeminate man’s voice, which rather disconcerted him.

“I don’t have to account to you!” Shawbridge snapped.

“Is that how you see my question? It was simply curiosity. I apologise if I’ve offended you, Colonel.”

“Yes,” huffed Shawbridge. “Well, all right then. But remember I’m in charge of this planet, not you.”

“Your remit extends beyond yourself and Princess Christiana Station and its personnel, does it?”

“This,” said Shawbridge, pointing at the ground, “is part of the British Empire I’ll have you know. So yes, it does.”

“Ah,” Hermes said and there was a sudden fascination in his voice. “The British Empire. And the Russian one as well. What is it that is so special about the British Empire?”

“What kind of a question is that? It’s the empire. With Her Majesty Queen Victoria sitting right at the centre of it. Our territories cover half of the map.”

“That is not true.” There was an even longer pause. “That was a lie was it not?” A strange sort of hunger had crept into Hermes’ voice now.

“Well, perhaps not in land area. But it’s a Hell of a lot bigger than those bloody Russians, let me tell you.”

“Why is the British Empire so diametrically opposed to that of the Russians?”

“You’re asking rather a lot of stupid questions, aren’t you? Any sane person knows why. Everything they stand for must be fought. And crushed.”

“But why? You are made of the same flesh, eat the same food, experience the same emotions, breathe the same air. How can such a division be possible in people of the same species?”

Hermes seemed genuinely puzzled. If he couldn’t understand simple concepts like that, then how did he expect to be able to help Shawbridge?

“It seems very wasteful.”

“Wasteful?”

“Of lives, of resources. Of time. Why can you not talk and reach a resolution, a compromise that suits both sides?”

“Because that’s not the way it is,” Shawbridge pointed out, his voice forceful. “Some people refuse to listen. That’s what this war is all about—proving to them once and for all that there is only one way civilised people should live. The British way.”

“I mentioned this to Professor Nathanial Stone but they had to leave so the conversation was abandoned, but I believe I have a theory about why humans have such binary thinking.”

“What’s that, then?” he asked Hermes suspiciously, assuming it was some sort of insult.

“You see things as a choice of two distinct states. Black and white, love and hate, male and female.” Hermes paused. “Left and right.”

“Sorry old chap, but you’re losing me. I’m not sure what it is you’re saying.”

“That humans rarely think in shades of grey. Your language and your perceived reality is structured in a binary way. The British Empire versus the Russian one. It does not seem to have occurred to you that there are many shades of economic system in between, and that one of them would surely suit both parties and bring an end to the war.”

“And throw away the British Way of Life? No thank you, sir!”

“You are making my point for me, Colonel Shawbridge. And do you want to know my theory about why that is?”

Shawbridge couldn’t have given two figs for any theory, but found himself nodding anyway.

“You are creatures with bilateral symmetry.” Hermes anticipated Shawbridge’s puzzlement. “Each half of you is symmetrical—approximately. Two eyes, two legs, feet—and hands.”

“And?” This was the sort of gobbledegook he could get from Stone; he didn’t need to hear it from a floating man made of light or insects or glass or whatever.

“With only two hands to pick up objects or to gesticulate with to amplify verbal communication, you are forced to pick the two extremes on any continuum. This—you indicate with one hand; or that—with the other. I suspect that had you been trilaterally symmetrical that your innate sense of balance and symmetry would be to pick two extremes and a midpoint. With four hands, you would pick the extremes and two points equidistantly from each other. With five—”

“I’m not stupid,” cut in Shawbridge. “I get it. But what has this to do with the British Empire, for God’s sake?”

“Had humans evolved three arms, I imagine that a third economic system would have arisen to counterbalance the other two. You think in such a limited way, and that is not meant to be an insult, Colonel Shawbridge. Those limits have been programmed into you by your biology and physiognomy. If I understand the concept correctly, there is a certain irony in my evolving on a planet like Mercury, eternally fixed in position so that one side is in perpetual dark, the other in perpetual light, is there not? A non-binary organism on a binary world.”

Shawbridge snorted. “And that makes you perfect?”

Hermes paused as if actually considering that possibility. “In one sense, yes. I have no symmetry whatsoever. I have no fixed physical form. It changes as parts of me are damaged and others are constructed, threading through the planet. Therefore, if my theory is true, then I can imagine and consider all possibilities equally. I do not seek out the extremes as you do. So my decisions must, logically, be more balanced and considered than your own.”

Shawbridge gritted his teeth. The only thing that stopped him from telling Hermes exactly what he thought of him and his ruddy ideas was that the more he listened to all this nonsense, the more he felt that Hermes—as his ghost had promised him—owed him. “Well,” he said, smiling fakely. “My…” He gestured vaguely. “My ghost said you had a plan or something for me. What’s all that about, then?”

“I do have a plan, Colonel Shawbridge.” The figure raised a fuzzy arm, trailing behind it the tiny sparkles of light until they caught up with it, and pointed to the wall of the cave to the right of where Shawbridge had entered.

“What are they?” Shawbridge asked, moving round to get a better view of what appeared to be two figures—normal, human-sized figures—carved out of some sort of pinkish ice. They stood side by side on a plinth of rock, like statues. “Ice sculptures?” He took a couple of wavering steps onto a pile of rock to get closer—and reached out and touched the closest statues. It was glassy and slick, but not at all cold.

“They are made of crystal, Colonel Shawbridge. I have made them for you.”

“For me?” It was only when he moved a few paces around that he could actually recognise the closest figure. “I’ll be damned!” he said slowly. “That’s Her Majesty, isn’t it? Queen Victoria!” He moved still further to see if he could identify the second. His eyes didn’t seem to be liking the light down here, for it looked a little indistinct—until it seemed to snap into focus.

Shawbridge turned back to Hermes. “Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Well,” he exhaled and shook his head, “I’ll be damned. And you made those did you?”

“Yes. As gifts for Her Majesty Queen Victoria. From me. And you,” Hermes gestured at Shawbridge with his hand, “will deliver them personally to her. You will give her the two most exclusive gifts that I imagine she has ever received. You, Colonel Shawbridge. You.”

2.

“DAMN IT!” grumped Nathanial as he felt Arnaud poke him in the back with his wooden sword. “I do wish you’d stop that, you know. We’re grown men, not schoolboys. If you’re like this now, I dread to think of what you must have been like as a child.”

“I was the very perfection of school boys,” Arnaud replied.

Nathanial couldn’t be bothered correcting Arnaud, because suddenly they were in sight of Hermes’ cavern, and he imagined he could hear voices. “Sssh!” he said, putting his finger to his lips. “Listen!”

In silence they struggled to hear what was being said, and although they couldn’t quite make out the words, the two voices were distinctive—one of which had the acoustics they’d have expected, the other of which was speaking right into their heads: the former was Colonel Shawbridge, the latter Hermes.

“But where are Annabelle and Heath?” Arnaud said, mystified and looking back up the corridor.

“Perhaps they were delayed or something—or maybe they are there but have not spoken,” Nathanial suggested. There was no possible hiding place between where they stood and the entrance to the cavern.

“Perhaps,” said Arnaud wiggling his eyebrows again and lowering his voice to a whisper, “they have entered the cavern ahead of us and are hiding, waiting for the moment.” He said “Boom!” silently and mimed an explosion with his hands.

A sudden, ghastly thought struck Nathanial. “What if Heath is planning on taking himself out when he blows Hermes up? And Annabelle!”

“But he would not do such an un-gentlemanly thing, would he? He’s British!”

“He’s also probably stark staring mad, Arnaud.” This made up Nathanial’s mind and he set off quietly—but determinedly—for Hermes’ cavern, Arnaud close behind.

3.

Annabelle and her partners-in-crime’s progress was relatively swift, but she was pleased she had her jacket and had put on a tough old pair of walking boots: the floor was wet and slippery, and some of the passages they had to navigate were perilously narrow, their walls as gritty and rough as sandpaper. She suspected, sadly, that after this little experience, she might have to throw the jacket away, so worn would be the elbows.

She pulled out her pocket watch. One thing she would never throw away, because much like Nathanial’s satchel that contained his precious books and journal, the watch was one thing from which she would not be parted. It did not matter how much gear they had left behind on Venus, the watch would go everywhere with her. It was, after all, a gift from her father. Being in caves always reminded her of her parents, and she often found herself playing with the contours of the watch when her thoughts returned to them.

She shook her head and checked the time. It was later in the day than she had thought, and she returned the watch to her pocket, wondering how Nathanial was faring up in Princess Christiana Station.

Heath was a few yards in front of her, turning sideways to get through a particularly tight crack. For a moment, she wasn’t sure he was going to be able to get the stout, rope-handled box that contained the detonator through with him. But with much wriggling and cursing he pulled it through after himself. He caught Annabelle’s eyes and gave a simple half nod—as if he now saw her as a fully-fledged conspirator. She didn’t quite know how she felt about that.

Realising that Joe (who must have had even more of a struggle to get through the narrowest bit) and Saul were right up behind her, she returned her watch to her pocket and got a move on, following Corporal Heath. By the time she’d caught up with him, he was standing in a much more comfortable widening of the passage waiting for the three of them to catch up.

“Not far now,” he said to Annabelle. “Another twenty yards or so and there’s another bit like this, which is where we set up this baby,” he nudged at the detonator in its case, on the floor. “And the actual explosives go another twenty yards beyond: just in the entrance to that Devil’s lair.”

“And then what?”

“Wire those beauties up to this, set it going, and go and tell that creature what I really think of it.”

“You don’t mean you’re going to stay there while the dynamite goes off?” Annabelle was aghast.

“Not planning to, miss. But if that’s what it takes, then that’s God’s will—and who am I to argue with Him?”

“But that’s madness! How can you possibly know that’s what God wants, Paul?”

He gave her wink. “I know, miss,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “I know. He has a plan for my life. I’ve known it for years. And this might be where it all ends. But it’s for a reason, isn’t it? The best reason ever.”

Annabelle’s heart was racing: if planning to blow yourself up wasn’t insane enough, he actually thought he was fulfilling some sort of plan. God’s plan. It struck her that that’s what they were all doing, really—he just had an insight into how the plan ended. Or a vision. Or maybe just the screams of a madman, rocketing around in his head. She thought about getting away from there. If Heath was as unbalanced as that little speech made him sound, then how could she trust his judgment about whether Hermes should be killed or not? Had she just been too stupid and too blind not to see it all along?

“You can’t know that,” she insisted. “For certain.”

“I do miss, trust me. Right, let’s get moving.”

Trapped between Joe and Saul behind her and Paul in front, Annabelle had little choice but to keep moving, her heart sinking with every step.

4.

Shawbridge could barely take in what Hermes had said. It seemed so…well, bizarre. And yet made a sort of sense.

If he were the one to deliver the two crystal statues to Her Majesty, it would secure his position in history, surely. Her Majesty would be delighted—particularly with the one of the Prince Regent.

“So what’s so special about this crystal, then?” Shawbridge asked, not wanting to appear too keen, and yet wanting to hear things about them that would make them even more special in Her Majesty’s eyes.

“It is a particularly pure and dense form of…” Hermes tailed off. “It doesn’t matter. You would find it as dull as you find science. But in effect, it can capture light and other electromagnetic radiation, hold it and then release it later.”

Shawbridge gave a shrug with his face. “Sounds, um, nice. So they’ll glow, is what you’re saying?”

“More than that, I think: the density and structure of them is such that they will absorb light at different speeds and different frequencies in different places and then re-emit it anywhere between thirty seconds and an hour later. I believe they will be seen as truly wonderful. As will you.”

This seemed like rather un-Hermes-like flattery and made Shawbridge a bit suspicious again. “And what will you get out of it, eh?”

“I will be able to talk to Queen Victoria through the statue.”

“Both of the statues, you mean?”

“Of course,” Hermes corrected himself. “Both of them. I will be able to learn from her about the British Empire, from the woman who sits upon its throne.”

Shawbridge wasn’t so sure about this bit. The idea of this thing, Hermes, being able to chat with Her Majesty seemed rather impertinent. “Oh,” he shook his head. “I don’t know if that would be right, you know.”

“In what way?”

“Well, y’know. All that stuff you were saying earlier. About the Russians. Not sure whether she’d want to be hearing all that nonsense.”

Hermes seemed to consider his doubts. “Then I shall not do so,” he said. “If you think that it would be inappropriate.”

Shawbridge eyed the flickering giant dubiously. “You sure about that, hmm?”

“Lying is a concept I do not understand. Throughout the entirety of my existence, there has been only me. From whom could I learn to conceal things? And there was no other to conceal things from me.”

That made a sort of sense, thought Shawbridge.

“I am learning many things from humans. Individuality, autonomy, how the same event can be remembered in so many different, contradicting ways. So many strange, redundant ways of thinking….”

Hermes seemed to drift off for a few seconds, and Shawbridge wondered whether, now the thing had told him its plan (and what a plan it was!), whether he shouldn’t just be off, back to his office, to start filling in the paperwork for getting the statues back to Earth. That’d show them—all of the station’s men that were standing round, letting Stone walk all over them. And Stone himself.

5.

Arnaud and Nathanial looked at each other, both faces reflecting a mixture of disbelief and worry.

“What’s going on?” Nathanial whispered. “Statues of Her Majesty and the Prince Regent?”

“They would be quite a gift,” Arnaud said.

“But if Hermes is capable of talking and listening through them, what else is it capable of?”

Arnaud frowned for a moment before realisation dawned. “Sending a ghost, you think?”

“Why not?”

“But all the ghosts that we know about seem to have no proper mental connection with Hermes.”

“Maybe… Maybe not. What if Hermes has been hiding some mesmeric power from us? And the way he can talk into our heads. And, I suspect, listen to thoughts that we weren’t consciously sending. Besides, a ghost could be enough to unsettle Her Majesty. After all, she is seventy or so. Imagine how that might affect a woman of her age.”

“And you don’t believe Hermes’ promise not to do so?”

“Do you?”

Arnaud shrugged. “He has not shown the capacity to lie before—as we were theorising, and as he has just stated.”

“But then he would say that, wouldn’t he? And didn’t he seem to be making a big point of it to Shawbridge?”

“He did, yes. Anyway, is there any sign of Annabelle and her conspirators?”

Nathanial rounded on him. “Annabelle is no conspirator!” he cried. Arnaud shushed him, and Nathanial repeated the words in a whisper. “She is keeping an eye on them, and you know that bloody well.” The volume of his voice was growing again and he pursed his lips tightly.

“I was not meaning that she was working with them,” Arnaud insisted, although to Nathanial he looked like a worm, wriggling on a hook. “I am meaning that she was with the conspirators.” He hunted around for the words. “A co-conspirator, then? English is not my native language, you remember?”

“Your English is perfectly good when it suits you,” Nathanial retorted and then raised his hands. “Look, we’re not going to have this argument now. We’ve got to make sure Annabelle is safe.”

“Agreed,” said Arnaud quietly. “I’m sorry, Nathanial.” His face showed that he knew how deeply he had offended Nathanial. As Nathanial stared at him, he realised that Arnaud was genuinely sorry and upset.

Motioning Arnaud to stay where he was, Nathanial scuttled down the last few yards of corridor. Keeping himself low and on the right, in the shadows, he poked his head through the cavern entrance. He could see Shawbridge, gazing raptly up at Hermes, but Hermes itself was out of sight. He ran his eyes over what he could see of the cavern, but there was no sign of Annabelle or Heath. He’d have liked a look at the statues that Hermes had promised Shawbridge, but they, too, were not visible from this angle. He looked back at Arnaud, silhouetted by the tunnel lights behind him and shook his head. Arnaud crept forward.

Shawbridge had, meanwhile, asked Hermes about the ghosts. And from what he was gathering, his and Arnaud’s theories about them were pretty much spot-on. Unless Hermes were lying, of course, which would mean he and Arnaud were wrong. Which he didn’t, for one moment, think was the case. The crystal boils were, indeed, the Kilner Jars for the copies of the people above ground: Hermes initiated the copying process and then “disconnected” itself somehow (although whether that was physically or mentally or both, Shawbridge didn’t ask and Hermes didn’t expand).

“If they aren’t here,” Arnaud said, “where are they?”

Nathanial could only shrug. “If she’d waited around a little longer and told us more details…”

“Perhaps she did not know them. They may not have confided them in her.”

“I suppose it’s possible. But what do we do? They might be coming down the corridor right now.”

“And if they are, the safest place is surely in there with Shawbridge. Hermes does not bear us any malice, and Shawbridge only hates you.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Nathanial replied drily.

“Oh,” Arnaud smiled. “You and your self-pity. Give it up, Nathanial. You are a better man than that, even if you don’t know it.” He mimed letting something go from his right hand. “Yes?”

Nathanial gave a grudging smile, not sure that he wanted to be lectured like this. If it had been anyone else but Arnaud, he knew he would have been far more annoyed.

The Frenchman had moved past him and was already heading for the cavern. Wondering whether Arnaud was as frustrating to his own wife or girlfriend—if he even had one—he set off after him.

6.

On the other side of the cavern, the men were taking their backpacks off for a few moments, stretching their tired, tortured muscles. Heath was unpacking the detonator and uncoiling the wires that led into it. There was what looked like a clock—the actual timer, presumably—and a considerable amount of electrical gubbins. The reality of what they were doing, and Heath’s insanity, were finally feeling real. Neither of them could be sure of Hermes’ nature or intentions. This was execution without even a trial. Annabelle watched as Heath finished setting the timer and stood up with a satisfied smile on his face that chilled Annabelle to the core.

“Wait!” she said suddenly, and turned her head slightly. “Voices!”

The others frowned and tipped their heads this way and that.

Annabelle turned. “Yes, definitely voices. Coming from up ahead. Well, one voice, anyway…” She strained to listen but the words were just whispers and echoes. She recognised the voice, though… “That’s Uncle Ernest!” she cried. “He’s in there.” She turned sharply to face Heath, Joe and Saul. “My Uncle Ernest is in there!”

Annabelle turned and began to make her way towards the sound of the voice—before she was grabbed around the waist by a massive pair of arms. Kicking and struggling, she found herself being dragged back towards the timer.

“How dare you?” she hissed, glaring at Heath as he came round to face her, wriggling in Joe’s arms. “How dare you?”

Heath’s face was a horrid mixture of utter calm, and utter madness. His eyes regarded her as if she were somehow less than human. “You go in there and you give the game away. Simple, miss. Sorry, but I can’t let you.”

“But he’s an innocent man. He’s done nothing wrong. He doesn’t deserve to die. This isn’t part of your blessed plan, is it?”

Heath gave a cold little shrug. “Looks like it is. Sorry, miss, but this is bigger than any of us. He’ll get his place in Heaven, just like me. Don’t worry.”

“You madman!” spat Annabelle, realising that she now had nothing to lose and managed to kick Heath in the thigh. It was a small victory.

“Take her back, Joe,” Heath said to the giant restraining her. “And make sure she doesn’t talk to anyone. Not ’til it’s done at any rate. Don’t worry, miss—no one’s going to hurt you.”

He raised his right hand, and Annabelle had the dreadful realisation that he was going to touch her face. She jerked her head away in revulsion—and saw the look in Heath’s eyes. Surely he couldn’t have thought…

But now his face was expressionless: if any human, sane emotion remained in there, it was locked away so tightly that it might as well not be there at all.

“Off you go,” he said and bent down to pick up the other two backpacks and dynamite.

Before Annabelle could start screaming to try to let Uncle Ernest know she was here, Joe’s meaty hand reached up and clamped over her mouth and she was dragged away.

Chapter Thirteen

“In Which the Dreadful Truth Becomes Apparent”

1.

“Professor Nathanial Stone and Doctor Arnaud Fontaine—I have been waiting for you,” declared Hermes in their heads as the two of them stepped into the cavern.

“You knew we were coming?” asked Nathanial.

“I sensed you as you approached, and allowed you to hear my voice.”

Nathanial glanced briefly at Arnaud: it hadn’t occurred to him that they’d heard Hermes because Hermes wished them to hear him.

“Stone!” Shawbridge exclaimed. “What the Devil are you doing here?”

Nathanial was unsure what to say: admit the truth that Annabelle had warned him about Heath’s plan, or make up some other story. Even as the thought came to him, he realised that Hermes would be able to read it from his mind. He changed tack completely to buy a little more time to think—and to see what Hermes’ reaction would be. “We were worried, Colonel—about you.”

Shawbridge snorted. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m going to be fine.”

“We heard,” Arnaud said darkly, and cast around for the statues. They were standing to the right of the cavern entrance and were, indeed, fairly impressive—even if their life-sized dimensions did make them look a little less so than Nathanial had expected. Arnaud, his brow furrowed, took a few steps closer to them.

“It’s certainly a remarkable likeness,” Nathanial said. “And I’m sure Her Majesty would be most impressed.” He turned to address Hermes. “You gave your assurances to the colonel here that you would not attempt to speak to, or listen in on, Her Majesty. How can we be certain that you will honour that?”

“Because, as I have explained, I am unable to lie.”

Nathanial shook his head gently and tutted. “Really? Because if you’d learned to lie since our last meeting, then we wouldn’t really be able to trust anything you say, now would we?”

“And how would I have learned to lie, Professor Nathanial Stone?” Was it Nathanial’s imagination, or was there a hint of edginess in Hermes’ voice?

“Perhaps from the lie that Corporal Heath told you. The lie about having to return to the surface because the colonel here was expecting us. You showed considerable interest in that lie, didn’t you?”

There was a moment of awkward silence before Hermes spoke. “You and Doctor Arnaud Fontaine are indeed perceptive people, I had not anticipated that my third attempt at duplicity would be so easily seen through. I need more practice.”

“Your third?” Shawbridge chimed up. “What were the others, then?”

Nathanial was surprised that Hermes seemed fine about discussing his own deception. “Your ghost,” he said. “The one that came to you a short time ago and led you down here. That was not your ghost. It was my first attempt to alter my perceived appearance. Less of a lie than a pretence, though. I must admit I was pleased it worked, even though I feared you would see through it.”

Shawbridge’s eyes went wide and Nathanial could see his jaw clench.

“But don’t worry, Colonel Ernest Shawbridge—the offer I made to you was genuine. It seemed the most effective way of bringing you here to see the statues. I apologise for the deception.”

“Um, Nathanial,” came Arnaud’s voice from behind him.

“So if you can lie,” Shawbridge growled, ignoring Arnaud, “then Stone’s right and I can’t trust you, can I? All the things you said about the statues—lies, I’ll bet!”

“Seems your plan—whatever it was—is over before it’s begun,” Nathanial said, folding his arms, trying not to sound too smug.

“I will edit your memories before you leave here,” Hermes said simply, as if it were nothing. “You will not remember the truth, only what I wish you to remember.”

Shawbridge was outraged. “You will do no such bloody thing!”

“I am fairly sure that I can achieve it without damaging any important memories. I have not attempted it before, but I believe it can be done. The longer I spend examining you all, the fuller my understanding of you.”

“Nathanial!” hissed Arnaud again.

Nathanial turned, slightly annoyed. “What?”

“The statues—well, one of them…”

Nathanial peered into the gloom, but could make out nothing about them that might be cause for Arnaud’s alarm.

The geologist pointed at one of them. “This one is definitely Queen Victoria. But the other one…I may be wrong, but…” He shook his head. “It does not resemble the Albert that I remember.”

With a quick glance at a puzzled Shawbridge and a silent Hermes, Nathanial joined Arnaud beneath the statues’ plinth. “Dear Lord, you’re right,” he whispered, struggling to fit this new piece of the puzzle into place.

“What is it, Stone?” asked Shawbridge.

“I think, Colonel, that we’ve discovered Hermes’ third lie.” He turned to Shawbridge. “This statue of Prince Albert… It’s nothing of the sort.”

“But I saw it with my own…” Shawbridge’s voice trickled to nothing as he remembered the initial haziness around the Prince Regent’s likeness.

“You saw what Hermes wanted you to see, I’m afraid, Colonel. It isn’t Prince Albert at all. It’s Tsar Nicholas, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias.”

2.

Annabelle realised how futile it was to keep struggling in Joe’s grip; and eventually she ceased kicking—partly because it was tiring her, and partly because she harboured the hope that Joe might then relax his grip on her, allowing her to make a bid for freedom.

At least he’d taken his hand away from her mouth once they’d gone far enough on the return journey for her cries to have been pointless.

“You do know you’re going to be shot for this—all of you, don’t you?” she spat.

Joe said nothing, pushing her ahead of him through the twisty passages. She considered making a run for it, but she knew he’d be on her in a second.

“When they find out—and they will—you’ll be facing a firing squad. Is it really worth it? He’s totally mad, you know. You heard him.”

Joe just sighed and pushed her on.

What was worrying her more was that she couldn’t be sure that, as a witness to Heath’s plans, he hadn’t lied about her own fate: had he given Joe secret instructions to kill her too?

“So what’s your view of Hermes?” she asked. “Do you think he’s the Devil?”

“Not for me to say, miss. I’m just doing my job.”

“Killing your commanding officer?” Annabelle said, her voice full of scorn. “That’s what you signed up for, is it?”

Joe shrugged. “I signed on to protect the British Empire, miss. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

It was pointless arguing. If only Nathanial had been here. He might have been able to persuade Joe, man-to-man. But he wasn’t.

3.

Heath waited until Joe and Annabelle were out of sight and then turned to Saul.

“Right,” he said. “You know the plan—wait here until there’s five minutes left, just to make sure no one messes with it. If I’m not back, go without me.”

Saul, like Annabelle, was beginning to feel like this whole thing was running out of control, especially now that the colonel was involved. But Heath had such determination, such confidence in it all, that he found himself being carried along.

“Yes, sir,” he said, but something in his voice must have rung alarm bells in Heath.

“I’ll do my best to get the colonel out of there before it all goes up. I’m no murderer; you’ve known me long enough to know that, Saul.”

Mollified, Saul managed a weak smile.

Heath patted him on the shoulder and, checking the backpacks were secure, one over each arm, he set off, unrolling the wires from the detonator as he went.

4.

Shawbridge felt confusion vying with anger at Stone’s words. He’d seen Prince Albert’s statue himself, with his own eyes. But then what did seeing things with one’s own eyes mean any more? This was getting too much to take in, too much to accept—that anything, or indeed everything of what he’d witnessed recently could be nothing more than a mirage. Perhaps Stone was trying to sabotage his plan, to ruin the last few years of his career.

“Why?” he heard Nathanial call to Hermes. “What’s the point of lying? Are you planning to somehow play with Her Majesty’s perceptions, and make her see Prince Albert, too? Why not just make a real sculpture of him?”

“Because that statue is not going to Her Majesty Queen Victoria,” Hermes replied. “It will be going to Tsar Nicholas himself.”

“What the Devil for?” Shawbridge asked. “I thought you wanted to curry favour with Queen Victoria. Not the damn Russians!”

“Think about it, Colonel,” Nathanial said, recalling the conversation that he’d overheard—well, that Hermes had allowed him to overhear. “Remember what Hermes said about the two Empires being at extremes. He’s not just interested in finding out about the British one. What are you up to Hermes, or shall I guess…?”

“I would be interested in your suppositions, Professor Nathanial Stone. Why do you think I allowed you to hear our conversation? Your viewpoint is important to me.”

Nathanial had no doubt that Hermes had probably already read his mind and knew what he was about to say. “Your earlier theories about humanity and binary perception were fascinating, and I suspect there’s more than an element of truth there. Yes, that’s generally how we think—and I’m not apologising for that.”

“You have no need to,” Hermes said. “You and Doctor Arnaud Fontaine are, in many ways, atypical of the humans I have so far observed.”

“Really?” Nathanial was thrown a little by this.

“You are men of reason and logic and science, and yet you maintain enough openness of mind to accept that there may be things that science cannot—as yet—explain. And there are other aspects of both of you that do not quite accord with the binary attitudes of other human beings—social and personal aspects that I have not before encountered.”

Nathanial saw Arnaud throw him a glance, and it was only in that moment that he had a sudden insight into what Hermes meant, and was reminded of a conversation he’d once had with his dean at Mortarhouse College in Oxford. “That’s all very well and good,” Nathanial said quickly, “but let’s get back to these statues and whatever your plans are. I am certain that they involve more than simply handing over gifts to the two most powerful figures on Earth.”

“Humanity,” Hermes said thoughtfully, “is a very promising species. You have energy and insight and dynamism. You are spreading out into the Solar System, changing it to match your image of how reality should be. That is understandable. However it is a very limited perception, incapable of seeing reality as it truly is. I plan to help you.”

“Help humanity?” Arnaud spoke up.

“Yes. Through the statues and through your leaders, I will improve it.”

“Improve?” Nathanial asked querulously. “Improve in what way, exactly?”

“I am still considering the possibilities,” Hermes said, as casually as if he were discussing which coat he should wear. “But the most interesting idea I have had is to merge the British and Russian Empires, make them one.”

“Madness!” cried Shawbridge. “Utter madness. Neither we nor the Russians would have anything to do with such a plan.”

“I anticipate difficulties, yes, Colonel Ernest Shawbridge; but with your queen and the Russians’ tsar acting in accordance with my wishes, I believe it can be achieved.”

“But people aren’t stupid,” Nathanial protested. “They won’t just overturn decades of social order just because Her Majesty suggests it, never mind the tsar.”

“Stupid is the wrong word,” Hermes said. “Ignorant would be a better one. If they were not ignorant of all the other choices available, they would not have chosen their present ones. It will be necessary to modify things a little in order to bring about the necessary changes.”

Hermes used such calm, neutral-sounding words, thought Nathanial: modify, change… But what Hermes was planning felt much more dramatic than they would suggest.

“Generally,” Hermes continued, “it seems to me that your two systems are at war in a relatively minor way. For the majority of your people, it seems to be a fairly—if I am correct in my usage of the term—‘gentlemanly’ war.”

“I may be wrong, Hermes,” Nathanial said, “but I believe it’s true to say the United Kingdom and Russia are antagonistic rivals. We are not at war.”

Hermes paused as it considered this. “And yet you act as if you are at war. Incursions by one side are met by the other; the battlefield shifts around but, overall, the status quo holds. And while that is the case, the civilian populations of the two systems have no compelling reason to change that status quo. I will change that. I will accelerate the war, forcing the reality of it upon those who remain behind, safely, watching from afar. Once it begins to dawn upon them that the fight is real, that their lives are in danger—and not simply those they have charged to fight on their behalf—change will come. I am learning that the disjunction in your perceptions of reality is partly down to your individual nature and individual experiences. I will unite humanity in experiencing the true nature of war, and they will change.”

Nathanial was completely at a loss for words: in a matter of seconds, Hermes’ plan had bloomed, like cancer, from something relatively benign to something that horrified him beyond belief.

There came a shout from the far side of the cavern, and out of the shadows stepped a man.

It was Heath.

Even at a distance, Nathanial could see the swagger in his gait, the arrogant set of his head. This was a different Heath to the one he’d last spoken to, and he remembered Annabelle’s insistence that they stop him. Now he could see why. Nathanial looked behind Heath, expecting Annabelle to follow him in.

“Oi!” Heath had shouted, a cocky lilt to his voice that didn’t bode well.

“Corporal Paul Heath,” Nathanial heard Hermes say. “Welcome. I believe I sensed your presence earlier but, somehow…I could not feel you properly. There is something about your mental state that makes it difficult to read you.”

“What’s going on, then?” Heath said, looking round as if Hermes hadn’t spoken. “Plotting with the Devil, are you? Ha! I should have guessed it—you’re all as Godless as he is.”

“Heath,” Shawbridge said in confusion, clearly wondering why one of his men had suddenly appeared from nowhere. “What’s going on, man? What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to save you,” Heath announced, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve been sent on a mission.”

“By whom? I don’t recall giving you any orders, Corporal.”

“Sorry, Colonel…but by a higher power than you.”

“There is no higher power than me,” Shawbridge fumed. “I am your commanding officer.”

“Yes, sir, that you are. But there is a higher power than any of us here, isn’t there?” Heath raised his eyebrows meaningfully and it took Nathanial a moment to realise that he wasn’t talking about any human being.

“You’re saying that God sent you?” Nathanial ventured, hardly believing what he was saying.

“I am indeed, sir. He has a plan—a plan for us all, and a plan for me.”

“What ruddy plan, Heath?” sputtered Shawbridge. “Where are you getting these crackpot notions from, Corporal? Your accident unhinged your brain, did it?”

Heath simply shook his head—and, from the waistband of his trousers and hidden under his jacket, he pulled out a revolver.

Without another word, he raised it, pointed it at Hermes and pulled the trigger.

5.

Waiting edgily in the tunnel, Saul jumped when he heard the gunshot. Heath hadn’t mentioned anything about shooting. Maybe Colonel Shawbridge had shot Heath.

What was he supposed to do now? He felt sweat break out on his forehead, and wiped it away with his sleeve.

He had to stay calm. Stay calm and do the job. If it had been Heath doing the shooting, then nothing had changed; and if someone had shot him, then it meant that it was even more important to make sure the job was finished, didn’t it? Saul took a deep breath and fished out the small flask of rum that he kept tucked in his pocket. His shaking fingers struggled to unscrew it, but once it was opened, he drank the contents in one go, feeling himself become steadier as it burned its way to his stomach. But not steady enough that he didn’t jump when Heath himself suddenly appeared in the tunnel.

“What was that?” Saul asked suddenly, hiding the flask as well as he could. Heath didn’t seem to notice.

“Slight change of plan,” Heath said. “You need to move the explosives.”

Saul was totally lost. “Move ’em?”

“Yes,” Heath replied firmly. “Move ’em.”

“Why?”

“’Cos I’m telling you to. I don’t have time to explain, but where they are is all wrong.”

“But that’s exactly where they need to be to bring that place down,” Saul said, gesturing past Heath towards the cavern.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. But trust me, that’s not going to work. You’ve got to move ’em—and fast.”

“Right,” Saul said a little reluctantly, “but where am I moving them to?”

Heath fixed his eyes on Saul’s, and Saul braced himself for a ticking off. “You remember the last widening?” Heath said after a few moments. “Back there.”

Saul nodded, more confused than ever: he knew the fractures and fault lines in the caves like no one else, and Heath’s new choice of location meant that….

“Put ’em there,” Heath snapped.

Saul looked down at the timer, ticking away to itself: it had about ten minutes to go. “You sure? You’re cutting it fine.”

“I know, but if we leave them where they are, we might as well cut the wires, give up and go home.”

Saul shrugged. “You’re the boss, but I know these caves; I know the weak points. If we move ’em to there, all that will happen will be that—”

“Just do it, right? I’m going back there.”

“What was that gunshot?” Saul asked again, as Heath turned to go.

“Nothing for you to worry about. I’ll explain later—now move, man!” And with that, Heath disappeared around the corner.

Saul watched him go, still puzzling over his instructions—before sighing heavily and following him to get the dynamite and do what he’d been told.

6.

The bullet, as Nathanial fully expected, passed straight through Hermes as if Hermes hadn’t been there at all. Which, in a very real sense, he hadn’t. What they saw was a purely mental projection.

“Oh well,” Heath said blithely. “Worth a go.”

“That was your plan?” Shawbridge said in disbelief.

Heath threw him a withering look. “No, Colonel. It wasn’t.” He checked his watch and then looked back at Hermes. “Cat got your tongue, has it? Or can you just not stand hearing the truth?”

“I am still attempting to reach your mind through all the irrational noise it is generating at the moment,” Nathanial heard, checking Heath for a reaction, but there was none. Heath genuinely didn’t seem to be able to hear Hermes.

“Tell the truth and shame the Devil, my old mum used to say,” Heath shouted to the rest of them, his eyes still on Hermes. “Looks like Satan here is on the back foot, eh?” He gave a throaty chuckle.

Nathanial concentrated hard. Hermes, he sent with all the force he could manage. You can hear me, yes?

“I can, Professor Nathanial Stone, yes. You mind is uncluttered with Corporal Paul Heath’s confusion and irrationality. But I am making progress with him.”

Just tell me one thing—was Annabelle one of the ones with Heath? The ones you said you could sense but not communicate with?

“I believe she was, yes,” Hermes replied. No one else responded to this, so Nathanial assumed that this conversation was just between the two of them. Heath, meanwhile, was beginning to rant again. Hermes continued, oblivious: “But her mind, too, was clouded with the same sort of anger and confusion.”

Nathanial was a little puzzled at this, but her location and safety were paramount. Where is she now? Can you tell?

“She is more distant than she was. I can feel her, but I would have to expend more mental effort than I wish to in order to determine her exact location.”

Nathanial let out a sigh of relief: if she were further away, she was safer, he felt sure. Thank you, he thought at Hermes.

Shawbridge had just started on at Heath about what his actual plan was—and Heath, perhaps surprisingly, was as forthcoming as Hermes had been. His voice held a sense of invulnerability now.

“I’m going to send you back to Hell,” he said. “Back where you belong.”

“I fear that it is pointless arguing with you about my origins,” Hermes said, and this time Heath responded with a frown.

“What?” the soldier said. “I didn’t get all that.”

Hermes repeated the statement. To Nathanial, it sounded the same as before, but clearly he was now getting through to Heath.

“Argue all you want,” Heath sneered. “In three minutes, you’ll be going right where you belong.”

“What’s happening in three minutes?” asked Shawbridge.

“In three minutes,” Nathanial said, “Heath here is planning to blow this whole cavern to oblivion. Isn’t that right?”

Heath’s mouth actually dropped open. “How d’you know that?” He regained his composure somewhat to add: “Not that it matters.”

“A little bird told me,” Nathanial answered dryly. “You know it’s not going to work, don’t you?”

“Well let’s just wait and see, eh?”

“Blow it up?” said Shawbridge, as if Heath’s words had only just hit him.

Heath gave a respectful little nod of the head. “Yes sir. Now I suggest, respectfully, that the three of you run like Hell. It’s this Devil I’m planning to bury, not you lot.”

“You’re not listening, Heath,” Nathanial insisted. “Your plan won’t work.”

“The longer you stay here arguing, the less time you have to get away, sir.”

“Professor Nathanial Stone is correct,” said Hermes. “Your plan will not work. I now see into your mind, Corporal Paul Heath. You have explosives planted there…” One shimmering, luminous arm rose to point at the spot from which Heath had emerged. “They will destroy this cavern, as you planned; you will destroy the copies of your comrades. The ghosts. But my mind is distributed throughout a much larger volume than this cave. I will survive.”

“You would say that, though, wouldn’t you? But they won’t.” Heath gestured at the crystal sculptures.

“Although now I have learned to lie,” Hermes said implacably, “from you, Corporal Paul Heath, you can obviously not trust my words. But regardless of that, I am speaking the truth. You will only succeed in destroying yourself and the ghosts—and the statues, yes. But I will survive.”

A flicker of doubt flashed across Heath’s face. “From me? What are you talking about?”

“Yours was the first lie I encountered—and I learned.”

“Nathanial,” hissed Arnaud. “Maybe we should go, yes? The bomb, remember…?”

Arnaud was right. Even if the bomb didn’t destroy Hermes, it would probably kill the four men there. “Colonel?” Nathanial said. “Arnaud’s just reminded me that there’s a bomb about to go off. Now might be a good time to leave.”

Shawbridge was still clearly torn: he obviously still clung to the hope that, somehow, he could rescue some shred of his dignity and career from this whole, wretched affair. Nathanial saw him look up to Hermes.

“Just tell me!” he demanded. “Tell me the truth, Hermes. It’s over for me, isn’t it, plan or no plan?”

“You could still have had the glory, yes, Colonel Ernest Shawbridge. But it would come at the cost of humanity’s transformation. I don’t believe that is a price that you would be willing to pay.”

“One minute,” Heath reminded them quietly.

“Can’t you stop it?” asked Nathanial of Hermes, more out of curiosity than out of wishful thinking. Hermes’ plan for humanity’s improvement now far outweighed the loss of its ability to copy human minds. On one hand, Nathanial thought sadly, untold death; on the other, immortality. Binary thinking again. Perhaps Hermes had a point.

“I don’t believe I can, no. I could possibly create a complex series of illusions and thereby, somehow, get one of you to disarm the explosives. But a minute is not long enough.”

“And not long enough, either—I hope—for you to edit our memories of this encounter.”

He saw Arnaud raise his eyebrows appreciatively.

“No,” said Hermes—perhaps a little sadly. “I have the greatest of admiration for you, Professor Nathanial Stone. Playing for time, I understand it’s called. I continue to learn from you.”

All heads turned sharply at the sound of distant thunder from the passage at the far side of the cavern and the ground shook beneath their feet. A second later, a huge plume of dust and rock jetted from the opening, spreading out almost lethargically in the low gravity before beginning to settle. A sound like cracking ice cut in, and from the domed ceiling above them, more dust and fragments of rock began their slow-motion fall.

Everyone’s eyes turned to Heath to see him grinning triumphantly, the madness once again written across his face.

Time was up. Heath had won.

Chapter Fourteen

“In Which Things Are Not Completely What They Seem to Be”

1.

Annabelle’s heart missed a beat as she and Saul felt the tremors beneath their feet. They had just emerged into the dusklight on the far side of the World River. Joe still held her arms behind her back—but as the explosives went off, he released her, and she almost fell.

Turning, she glared at him. “You know you’re an accomplice to murder now, don’t you?”

Joe said nothing but she saw him swallow.

“What now, then?”

“We wait for Saul and head back, like Heathy says, miss.”

“Head back to what?” Annabelle spat. “A court martial? Oh, sorry,” she added sarcastically. “I forgot—your commanding officer is dead now, isn’t he?”

“Come on, miss. You really don’t want me leaving you out here, now, do you?” He nodded in the direction of the boat, still tied up and bobbing gently on the silver water.

Annabelle had no choice. All she could think of now was finding Nathanial. She had never missed him so much in her entire life….

2.

“Out!” cried Nathanial, realising that the ceiling would, at any moment, collapse and kill them all. Hermes stood there, unmoving, unmoved. And impossible to kill. Even if the cavern collapsed completely, it would go on. Immortal and eternal. Nathanial glanced at Heath, not sure whether he wanted to punch the fellow or not.

“Not without you,” Arnaud hissed from his side.

Colonel Shawbridge seemed transfixed by the rain of debris tumbling around him. But it was Heath that suddenly puzzled Nathanial more. He was frowning, looking around the cavern in apparent confusion—as if something had gone wrong.

Moments later, a huge spume of water thundered out of the tunnel entrance, fountaining into the air and filling it with a fine mist. Heath was caught in it and blasted across the cave towards them, catching Shawbridge in the process. Both of them tumbled, propelled by the continuing torrent of water, towards Nathanial and Arnaud. Heath was the first to stumble to his feet, like a soaking rat. Nathanial could still see the bafflement written across his features.

“Your plan seems to have failed, Corporal Heath,” said Hermes—and if it were possible, it sounded even more puzzled than Heath himself.

“What did you do?” screamed Heath at Hermes as the water continued to flood in. It was rising fast, and only the fact that the far end of the cavern was a little lower prevented the four men from already being knee high in it.

“Heath!” shouted Nathanial, already turning towards their escape route. “Admit it, man—you’ve failed. Now come on!”

Heath shook his head angrily, looking around for the gun he’d dropped as the water had hit him. “There’s a plan!” he grunted through gritted teeth, never once taking his eyes off Hermes. “There’s a plan!”

“There is no plan!” Arnaud shouted as the water swirled around their feet, foaming and ricocheting off the cavern walls. “Colonel—leave him. We have to go.”

Shawbridge turned, his face a mask of sadness and confusion, as, suddenly, the force of the water building up in the far tunnel blasted the entrance wider, sending rocks from its shattered frame hurtling into the air.

“You did this!” shouted Heath, turning to Shawbridge, punctuating his words with a stab of his finger. “You did this!”

Shawbridge’s eyes were wide. “I—I had nothing to do with it,” he protested—as Heath launched himself at his commanding officer, murderous rage in his eyes. Despite the drag of the ever-rising water, now up to Heath’s waist, he slammed into Shawbridge, taking him down into the water with him, hands locked around the man’s throat.

Nathanial took a step forward to intervene, but behind him, he heard Arnaud. “Nathanial,” he said. “Please…”

He turned and saw the terror in the Frenchman’s eyes as he looked at the water, now foaming around Arnaud’s own waist—and then remembered what Arnaud had said: he couldn’t swim.

Nathanial looked back at the other two men, rising in and out of the water as they struggled against each other, plunging beneath its surface for a few seconds before re-emerging, still locked together as they thrashed about. It was clear that Heath was winning, raining blows on the increasingly-stunned colonel who fought back manfully, but with increasing futility.

In a moment of cold, horrid clarity, Nathanial knew that, as the water rose about his chest, that he had to make a choice: try to save Annabelle’s uncle from Heath, or get Arnaud to safety before he drowned.

Another choice, he thought grimly. Two options.

And he made the only decision he could.

3.

Annabelle shivered in the breeze as they stood in uncomfortable silence, waiting for Saul. What if he’d been killed in the explosion, too? How long would Joe keep them there?

And then there he was, stumbling out of the tunnel—soaking wet, the right side of his head dripping with blood.

“What the bloody hell happened?” asked Joe, rushing over to him.

Saul just shook his head, gasping for breath. “Heathy,” he managed to say after a moment or two, doubled over as he took in huge gulps of air. “He came back. Changed the plan.”

“Changed it?” asked Joe, as puzzled as Annabelle was.

Saul nodded. “Wanted the explosives moved.” He gestured meaninglessly. “Further back. In the tunnel.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t a clue. He said…he said his original plan wouldn’t work or summat.”

“So what happened?” Annabelle asked anxiously, wondering if this meant that Uncle Ernest might, miraculously, still be alive. “The dynamite went off. We felt it.”

Saul nodded, lifting himself upright. “But…it wouldn’t have brought the cave down, wouldn’t have killed that thing. He wanted it put where there was a fracture line up to the river.”

Joe still looked puzzled.

“So what are you saying?” asked Annabelle. “That the caves have been flooded?”

Saul looked down at his own dripping self. “Only just got out in time. Another minute and…” He shook his head again and dropped dejectedly to the sand, panting.

Annabelle, against her better judgment, rushed over to check his head wound. He pulled away until he realised she didn’t intend him any harm.

“So Heathy’s…?” Joe said. “You know. Dead.”

Saul managed a weak shrug. “The force of that water would have filled that cavern up in no time flat. Maybe he got out on the other side.” He shrugged again.

Annabelle turned to look out across the river, but the light was too dim and the tunnel entrance too small to make anything out. If the cavern hadn’t been blown up completely, there was still a chance that Uncle Ernest could have made it out.

“C’mon,” said Joe, helping Saul to his feet. “Let’s get back. God knows what we’re gonna say.”

4.

“Get moving!” yelled Nathanial to Arnaud, who’d moved to the entrance of the cave and was cowering, utter fear on his face, trying to keep his head above the water which was now splashing about his face.

“I can’t,” Arnaud shouted back.

“Why not? Get out, Arnaud, before the water fills the tunnels.”

The Frenchman looked close to tears. “I’m not leaving without you,” he said.

“And I have no intentions of leaving you either, you idiot—now move!” With one last glance back—to see no sign of either Heath or Shawbridge—Nathanial plunged under the water and struck out for Arnaud. In seconds he emerged just inches in front of the geologist’s terrified face.

With a grim smile, Nathanial wrapped his arm around Arnaud’s shoulders and pushed him under the surface of the water, gripping him tightly as he felt him struggle. The current surged around them, banging them against the arch of the tunnel entrance. Nathanial shoved Arnaud ahead of him, through the opening and along the gradual upward incline. The speed of the water increased as it was forced into the narrower space, but the flow was smoother; and using one arm to keep them away from the wall, he propelled his friend through the water, half-swimming, half-walking. Nathanial felt his lungs burning and the reflex to breathe in getting stronger and stronger until, miraculously, the two of them broke the surface of the water with just a foot of space above their heads.

The two men gasped frantically.

“Keep moving,” Nathanial said. “Just keep moving.” He slipped his arm under Arnaud’s and around his back. And like two half-drowned kittens, they stumbled up the tunnel towards the surface.

5.

Shawbridge floated in an endless, murky gloom, the pressure in his chest growing with every second. He was blind and deaf and had no idea of which way was up, never mind where the exit was, but he would not allow himself to breathe. Of Heath there was no sign. At the whim of the current, he was thrown around like a doll until his arm accidentally caught on something hard and smooth.

Colonel Shawbridge found himself clinging to the crystal statue of Her Imperial Majesty The Queen-Empress Victoria as the darkness wrapped itself around him fully.

But, as he finally relented to the terrible pain in his lungs and opened his mouth to breathe, his last thoughts were not of Her Majesty—they were of his beloved Esmeralda, sailing amongst the stars and shining so very, very brightly against the very blackest of nights….

6.

Bedraggled, dirty, damp and lost, Annabelle sat in silence as Joe rowed the boat back to the other shore. Even the effort of holding her as he’d brought her out of the caves didn’t seem to have diminished the strength in his arms, and for that she was grateful.

“Oi Oi!” said Saul suddenly as something caught his attention on the far bank.

Annabelle turned quickly to see what it was. She had to squint a little, but there was little doubt: two staggering figures had emerged from the other cave entrance. They reeled about a little before collapsing onto the sand.

Heath and Uncle Ernest?

She was torn between fear of the former and utter relief at the latter.

“Is it Uncle Ernest?” she whispered, but Saul, still peering into the gloom, just shrugged silently. Annabelle began to fidget in her seat until Joe threw her a look, presumably worried that she might overturn the boat. She ignored him. It must be Uncle Ernest and Heath. Who else could it be?

As the boat drew closer to the shore, she realised neither of her guesses were correct: it was Nathanial and Arnaud!

7.

She leaped from the boat when it was still several yards from shore and landed in the water, not caring how wet she got. Nathanial, it seemed, hadn’t noticed the boat until Annabelle’s shouts reached him, and he looked up in apparent shock from where he was hunched over Arnaud.

“Annabelle!” he cried; and after a brief glance down at Arnaud, he rose to his feet and ran over to the water’s edge to greet her. She flung her sopping arms around him and—dear Nathanial!—he returned the hug clumsily, before gently moving her away.

“Thank the Lord!” he said, a tired smile returning to his face, before—quite unexpectedly—pulling her back into his arms and squeezing her tight.

She heard the sound of the boat arriving behind her and she awkwardly disentangled herself from Nathanial as Joe and Saul splashed their way ashore, dragging the boat up onto the sand.

“Oh, Annabelle!” he cried again. “I feared you’d been…injured in the bomb blast.”

Annabelle smiled wearily. “Joe here was under orders from Heath to bring me back up here before it went off. But…why were you down there? I didn’t hear you. And Uncle Ernest… What happened to…?”

Her voice trickled away to nothing, like ice-cold water, as Nathanial averted his eyes from hers for just a second.

“I’m sorry, Annabelle,” he said, his shoulders visibly dropping.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she felt the tears welling up. She wanted to know more—but at the same time she didn’t want to know anything at all. Details could wait. “I’m sure you did everything you could.” She squeezed his arm. “But what were you doing down there?”

Annabelle looked back at Nathanial and saw the look of confusion on his face. Behind him, still on the sand, Arnaud began a violent coughing fit, and Nathanial helped him into a sitting position. Once he seemed happy with the Frenchman’s situation, he looked up at her.

“What were we doing? You told us to go down and stop Heath.”

“When? I never said any such thing.” Annabelle paused. “Have you had a knock to the head, Nathanial? And why are you so wet?”

“It is hard,” piped up Arnaud, still coughing and spitting, “to stay dry in water, Annabelle. I may be French, but I am not a saint.”

Nathanial shot him a strange, slightly aggressive look.

“Nathanial, what happened? Why are you wet? And when, exactly did you—” She stopped as she heard two gasps from Heath’s men, still behind her—and turned in the direction of their stares: between them and the cave entrance, a dimly flickering figure, much like the first ghost she’d seen on Mercury: the one that appeared to Heath in the hospital. It was much less steady than Professor Fournier’s, and seemed to be shifting its appearance around almost constantly, like Hermes’ had.

“Hermes?” she heard Nathanial whisper to the figure: the same thought had clearly occurred to him too.

“No,” came a woman’s voice—but certainly with no French accent. Its shape continued to shift, as though it were struggling to be there at all and the voice fluttered uncomfortably inside Annabelle’s head. “I am,” the ghost began, its voice thin and confused, “I am not quite sure who I am. There are so many others in here with me.” Again it shimmered, stuttering through three of four half-formed shapes, before it suddenly stabilised and grew almost solid.

Annabelle’s mouth dropped open and she let out a little gasp. It was her. It was the ghost of Annabelle Somerset.

Chapter Fifteen

“In Which Annabelle Says Goodbye”

1.

Nathanial’s head was still reeling from everything that had happened down in the caverns, and now this.

Annabelle!

“Are you really me?” whispered Annabelle herself, taking a step towards it.

The figure raised one hand and looked at it curiously. “I remember being Annabelle, yes. But I remember so much…of so many others…” It—she—looked up at them again and smiled. “I don’t quite know what’s happening to me, but I believe that it might be something quite wonderful, you know…”

“I don’t understand,” Annabelle said, convinced of the apparition’s identity by the accent as much as anything. “Why are you here?”

“I’m here to say goodbye—for now, at least. There’s so much to explain, so many things to tell you. But it’s—” She broke off suddenly and shuffled through half a dozen different faces. This time, though, Nathanial recognised some of them: Heath’s, other soldiers. Even Colonel Shawbridge’s. “Heath was right, in a way,” the ghost said, becoming Annabelle again. “Hermes meant no harm, really. He wanted to help, to improve…but he couldn’t grasp that his changes would have caused so much pain and suffering. His mind is stranger than we could imagine. But soon…soon he will learn more about humanity than he ever expected.”

“Why?” asked Arnaud, struggling to his feet, helped by Nathanial. “I mean how?”

“The poem,” the ghost said, looking straight at him. “You remember—you showed it to me. In your mind when I came to see you and Nathanial. It was the final piece of the puzzle.”

“The poem?” asked Nathanial, his mind still racing to catch up.

“John Donne’s Meditation Sixteen. The line that terrified Hermes so. ‘No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.’”

“But why did it scare him?” asked Annabelle, clearly no wiser.

“Because it was his Achilles’ Heel, if you like,” ghost Annabelle said. “The reason he kept all of us, all of us copies, isolated from himself. He was terrified of being infected—infected by us. All of us. Individuals, thinking different things. He has been an island from birth. And while we fascinated him, we scared him too. Which is why, if you like, he maintained a moat around himself.” Ghost Annabelle smiled as if at a private joke.

Nathanial shook his head and raised a hand. “Annabelle—or whatever you are. You’re going too quickly. Start at the beginning. What’s happened to Hermes?”

“It is terrifying for him, but he will soon become accustomed to no longer being alone, no longer being what he was.”

“But how?”

The ghost of Annabelle turned her head towards Joe and Saul. “The drawbridge is down,” she said, puzzlingly. “Heath’s plan would have failed—as Nathanial suspected. The explosives would have destroyed all of us, but Hermes would have gone on. And, sooner or later, he would have developed his abilities to the point where he could have reached out to anyone on Mercury, maybe even beyond, and manipulated them. Changed them. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Thank you, obviously—but are you saying that he can’t now? Is that it?” asked Nathanial.

“You and Arnaud gave me the clues. The water: you said it was heavily laced with zinc and tin. The same metals in the crystals.”

Arnaud let out a gasp. “It was you—and not the real Annabelle—that came to warn us about Heath?”

The ghost nodded. “Myself—the real myself—was difficult to reach.” She looked at a clearly puzzled Annabelle. “Your mind was clouded by the irrationality that Heath had fostered in you. I tried to come to you, but I couldn’t. I watched you in the shed, I picked up on the destruction of Hermes that burned so brightly in you, but I couldn’t reach you. So I went to these two, and I told them that Heath had to be stopped. Not because I wanted Hermes to survive. Well,” she added sadly, “not as he was. But Heath had to be stopped because his plan would fail and there would be no other chance. Without me and the other ghosts, the other copies, there would have been no one left to moderate him.”

“Moderate?” echoed Nathanial.

Ghost Annabelle nodded again. “I appeared to Saul, here, as Corporal Heath, and had him move the dynamite to a location that I knew, from Saul’s mind, would flood the cavern instead.”

Arnaud laughed. “Ha!” he said, turning to Nathanial, his eyes bright. “The water, yes? You see now! The water—it has so much of the metals in it. Like an electrical circuit, connected to all the spheres—and to Hermes itself!” He turned sharply back to the ghost. “The drawbridge that you have just mentioned. Have I understood that correctly?”

Nathanial understood it perfectly now too: Hermes’ fear of being connected—infected—with multiple human minds. Ghost Annabelle had made that fear a reality.

“And what now?” asked the real Annabelle of her ghost. “What happens to us—and to you?”

“You live your lives,” ghost Annabelle said, although her eyes flashed momentarily to Nathanial and Arnaud, and seemed to grow a little darker as they did so. “You are free to go—to have adventures together. You and Nathanial. We, all of us copies, are…” She tipped her head back and let out a sigh of something between bliss and alarm. Nathanial felt himself blush. “We are becoming one with Hermes himself.”

The ghost gave a shudder and emitted a spherical wave of blueish light that raced out from her into the dusklight, thinning and fading as it went. And then another, and another. “The things he has imagined. Oh my Lord…The thoughts he has had…”

“And the others?” pressed Annabelle, squinting a little against the intensifying glare. “They are all there, too?”

“Not all. Some were destroyed in the explosion. But there are enough of us,” ghost Annabelle continued. “We are becoming something more…something greater….” Another globe of light pulsed from her and she turned her head and fixed Nathanial with her gaze. “Nathanial. Dear Nathanial… I know you have secrets. Who doesn’t? But tread carefully. You have the potential for so much good. But so much hurt, too. Please be kind.”

The ghost gave another cry and broke up into the same glittering fragments that had made up Hermes’ form. She was still recognisably Annabelle, but more luminous, more translucent. “We have to go,” she whispered, no trace of a mouth visible. “We have such a journey to make.”

“Please,” begged Annabelle. “Before you go—one thing. Is Uncle Ernest in there? Did he survive?”

The ghost smiled: “He was almost lost, but… It is truly incredible what we can already accomplish now that we are becoming connected.”

The figure snapped instantly into that of Colonel Shawbridge. Still shimmering, still sending off whorls and spirals and waves of blue light. But most definitely Colonel Shawbridge.

“I’m so sorry, my dear Annabelle,” he said, a little dazedly. “I’ve been such a stupid, stupid old bugger, haven’t I?”

“Of course you haven’t, Uncle—” Annabelle began before she was cut off by his raised hand.

“I’m sorry, my dear—there’s no time. I know what I nearly did, and why. But things are changing. I’m seeing everything so differently now. Opens your eyes, I’ll tell you that for nothing.” He gave a gruff chuckle. “And I’ve been such a miserable old sod recently. I’m sorry your trip here has been so…well, like it has been. I just want you to know that I’m proud of you, my girl. And your parents would have been so terribly proud of what you’ve done, who you’ve become. They really would.”

Annabelle held his look, her fingers brushing against the contours of her pocket watch.

“I want you to have a little gift,” Shawbridge continued, “something to remember me by, something to help the two of you out on your journeys. A little more expedient than relying on commercial flyers. It’s nothing much—but you know Esmeralda?”

“Your flyer?”

He nodded, and gave a gasp, sending out wave upon wave of light that flooded the entire beach. “It’s yours. The…the old girl’s not much, but she’s fairly ship-shape. Should get you wherever you want to go next, at least. It’ll be a little piece of me—with you, out there in space, won’t it? More importantly, though, it will save you hanging around here waiting for the next transport. Probably best to just get in it…get in it and go.”

Even though Nathanial could see no eyes, he was certain that the old goat winked at them.

“Best…” Shawbridge said, his voice crumbling, “best not make a fuss, eh?”

Annabelle’s face broke out into a smile—but Nathanial could see the tears blooming in her eyes. “Thank you, Uncle,” she said as the tears began to fall. “And stop damn well apologising! It’s me who should—”

But Shawbridge had been replaced with something else—not Annabelle, not the colonel. Not even Hermes.

Human-shaped, it blazed with an almost painful white light. They all threw up their hands against it, while Nathanial tried simultaneously to shelter his eyes and to peer into it. But something told him not to. That he already knew as much as he was meant to.

“We are grateful to you all,” spoke a deep, sonorous voice in their heads, neither male nor female, young nor old, and so loud that Arnaud and Saul reflexively clamped their hands over their ears. “We don’t know what we’re becoming, but…whatever it is…”

They all heard a tremendous laugh, both rich and warm, and thin and sparkling. Almost imperceptibly tiny and yet incredibly huge.

And in an instant it was replaced by the loudest silence that the planet had ever known.

And they were, once again, standing on the beach, damp and shivering.

Overhead, the arc of light stretched the full length of the World River until it vanished at each horizon.

Epilogue

“In Which Nathanial and Annabelle Bid Farewell to Mercury”

1.

“This feels wrong,” said Annabelle as they stepped out of her bungalow, Nathanial carrying her case for her in one hand and his own in the other, while his satchel hung from his left shoulder. “Like we’re running away. And this,” she gestured at the sky “doesn’t help. It’s like we’re slipping out under cover of darkness.”

“Well, you heard what your uncle said.”

“Best not make a fuss,” she echoed the ghost’s words—and then gave a little shrug. “Maybe he’s right. But isn’t it going to look suspicious? Like we have something to hide?”

Nathanial paused and set their cases down on the ground. “We can stay if you like—and probably have to fill in a dozen forms and answer questions and be interrogated by whoever is going to take over from Shawbridge when they find out that he’s…well, that he’s gone.”

Annabelle wasn’t convinced by Nathanial’s words, but the thought of spending more time on Mercury depressed her. And the thought of being held there while a full investigation was made (and she knew how long the military took over such things) was almost unbearable.

And besides, she knew that she just wanted to be back out there, with Nathanial, exploring and adventuring.

“You sure they’re not going to think that we were responsible for the ghosts and everything and come after us?” asked Nathanial. “Your uncle said that Esmeralda was space-worthy, but I can’t imagine she’s built for outrunning proper ships.”

Annabelle threw him a suspicious look. “There’s no other reason, is there Nathanial?”

“No other reason? What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. I’m just a little surprised that you’re not wanting to get together with Arnaud and pull the whole thing to the tiniest pieces.”

Nathanial shook his head and smiled—but it was an odd sort of smile. A little forced, a little too smiley, she thought. But then he had been through as much as she had—possibly more, what with being almost drowned down there. Maybe she was just being silly. After all, Nathanial wasn’t the kind of man to sit around kicking his heels, waiting to be quizzed by some unknown general until the cows came home. And besides, how could she possibly complain that he wanted to spend time with her alone?

“This place,” he said, his shoulders relaxing a little. “It’s not actually very nice, is it?”

Annabelle couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, Nathanial!” she said, feeling the tears welling up for some reason. “No. It’s not very, is it? Promise me we’ll never set foot on this wretched planet again.”

Nathanial just smiled and picked up the cases again. “Come on, Miss Somerset. We have a flight to catch. To somewhere a bit more to our tastes.”

“With more light,” Annabelle said as they set off through the buildings of Princess Christiana Station.

“And gravity,” he added.

“Oh yes! More gravity. Lots more gravity.”

2.

As they reached the flat clearing where Esmeralda sat, in all her faded glory, Nathanial was surprised to see a small gathering, waiting for them. A cursory glance over the aether flyer as they approached the group of well-wishers was rather encouraging, he thought.

Iris was there, as well—perhaps surprisingly—as Joe and Saul. Doctor Schell puffed away on his pipe as a tall, spindly, rather effusive man (who, Annabelle informed him later, was Reverend Lyden) waved his arms about, gesticulating out into space and talking about God.

And, of course, Arnaud.

Something inside him gave a little jolt, and, if he hadn’t already been convinced that leaving so soon was a good idea, then he most certainly was now.

“Ah!” cried Arnaud, a beaming smile on his face. But there was something a little sad in his eyes.

“Arnaud! What’s this—making sure we leave, eh?”

The Frenchman pulled a hurt face, as Iris and Schell gathered around Annabelle and started rabbiting on about something or other. “Oh, you British,” Arnaud said with a shake of his head. “You are not so good, I think, at reading the emotions of the others.”

“Emotions?” Nathanial challenged, as cheerily as he could. “As you’ve just pointed out, I’m British. We don’t have emotions, never mind being able to read other people’s.”

Arnaud’s raised eyebrow brought an unexpected lump to his throat. “Now you know that is not true,” he said quietly. “We all have emotions. But sometimes we just choose to pretend that we do not, n’est ce pas?”

There was a long pause.

“Anyway…” Nathanial broke the silence, looking up at the flyer that was to take them back to Earth, letting his eyes take refuge in its wood and brass form. “It’s been an honour working with you.”

“Likewise, Nathanial. It has been, as you say, an education—in so many ways. And more. It has been a pleasure.”

“Nathanial?” Annabelle interjected, suddenly looping her arm through his. “Isn’t it lovely that everyone’s come to say goodbye. And everyone agrees that we should just go and let them fill in the forms, otherwise we’ll be here until Christmas. Go and say your farewells to everyone, and I’ll say mine to Arnaud.”

Nathanial looked at her. Worryingly.

“Go on!” she laughed, pushing him gently in the direction of the others—who seemed to be nodding approvingly at Esmeralda. “Scoot!”

Nathanial did so, and was soon in the midst of handshakes and hugs and congratulations and farewells. He tried to keep one eye on Annabelle and Arnaud but it was difficult with so many others tugging at his attention. In the end, he gave up.

“You know, young man,” said Schell affably. “If I weren’t the only doctor here, I’d be damn well up for getting aboard that thing and coming with you. A bit of adventure would do my liver a whole deal of good. Not sure I could cope with zero gravity and magnets in my shoes, though.” He patted his stomach.

“You’d be more than welcome, Doctor, but I’m not sure she’s stocked enough for two, never mind three.”

“Oh, Professor Stone,” said Lyden. “Don’t be such a doubter. God will provide.”

“He’s filled the larder and topped up the coal store, has he?” Nathanial replied, hoping he didn’t sound too sarcastic.

“Indeed he has,” Lyden said, holding out his palms to show the coal-dust all over them. “With a little help. That’s why He gave us two hands.”

Everyone smiled.

“Food, medicine,” added Schell. “That last one was my job if you hadn’t guessed, so if you run out of camomile lotion, blame me. Arnaud over there told us everything, and Joe and Saul here have vouched for you and helped top up the coal stores.” He chuckled. “I still think everyone’s been having an attack of the vapours, but… You’re sure that Hermes fellow isn’t going to bother us?”

Nathanial took a deep breath. “Nothing’s certain in this universe, Doctor; but, as a scientist, I can say with some accuracy that your guess is as good as mine. But don’t you already think there’s a change in the air? Like a weight’s been lifted from this place?”

“I can’t argue with you there,” Iris agreed. “I woke with more of a spring in my step this morning than usual. Until I heard the news, of course. Dreadful about the colonel. But….” She smiled sadly and pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of her cardigan and squeezed it tightly in her hand.

Nathanial put his hand on Iris’s shoulder and gave an awkward squeeze. “I reckon the colonel’s happier now than he’s been for a while, you know. You know what I think he’d like, Iris? I think he’d like you to brighten this place up.” Nathanial looked back at the drab, oh-so-British buildings of the Station. “How about pink?”

“Like in India? He told you about that?”

Nathanial nodded—and Iris really did start to cry. Schell put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze.

“All ready?” asked Annabelle suddenly at his side.

Nathanial looked back at Arnaud, still maintaining a small distance, who winked back and raised one hand to give an understated—and most un-French—wave.

3.

Farewells said, the two of them strode up the boarding ramp, pausing at the stop to wave down to everyone.

“So,” Nathanial said quietly to Annabelle. “Somewhere nicer, yes?”

“And warmer,” she echoed their earlier words.

“More gravity,” he said.

“And,” she added as they turned to enter Esmeralda, “no ghosts.”

No ghosts, thought Nathanial. No more ghosts.

The End

Next Time:

Abattoir in the Aether by L. Joseph Shosty

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank Frank Chadwick for creating such a fantastic world—and out of just bolts, wood, magnets and steam.

I’d like to thank Andy Frankham-Allen for being patient beyond the call of duty, and helping to fan the flames of my writing ‘spark’ when I thought it had all-but gone out.

And I’d like to thank Tom Lyden for his friendship and thoughtful and useful comments. HUGS!!!!!!

* * *

Mark Michalowski is the author of four BBC Doctor Who novels, a Doctor Who spin-off novel and a BBC Being Human novel, as well as more short stories than he can count (mainly because he’s never been very good at counting). He lives in Leeds, England with half a cat. Not in a macabre way—it’s just that Lulu spends half of her time living in the lap of luxury at various neighbours’ houses. If only humans could do that…