Space: 1889 & Beyond—Abattoir in the Aether

By L. Joseph Shosty

Copyright 2012 by L. Joseph Shosty

Space: 1889 © & ™ Frank Chadwick 1988, 2012

Cover & Logo Design © Steve Upham and

Untreed Reads Publishing, 2012

Cover Art © David Burson and Untreed Reads Publishing, 2012

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

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

Other Titles in the Space: 1889 & Beyond Series

Journey to the Heart of Luna

Vandals on Venus

The Ghosts of Mercury

A Prince of Mars

Dark Side of Luna

http://www.untreedreads.com

“ABATTOIR IN THE AETHER”

By L. Joseph Shosty

To Brandy and William. You made this possible.

Chapter One

“The Long Hours of Earth”

1.

EXCERPT 30.

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

Friday August 30th, 1889.

Here in the aether, a question has awaited man’s true emergence, a question of basic, yet singular philosophical concern, one that has been asked and answered already, yet with no thought to the future. Now that our boots have stepped upon alien soil we must ask again, how does one reckon time? Are seconds, minutes, and hours still sufficient, or should we adopt a new paradigm? More to the point, should we subject Venus, Mercury, Mars, and the others to come to the long hours of Earth, or should we free them to take their own skilful measurements? For what is night and day to a man on tidal-locked Mercury, or the coming of Spring to generations who will one day grow into the majority on Luna? What is a year to a man who reckons it in eighty-eight solar days? Does it retain its significance, and does the Mercurian eventually swell with ignorant pride over a lifespan that seems four times as long as that of the Earthman?

Such questions are all I have, these days. I’ve begun keeping this journal again to record such wayward thoughts. There is little else with which to amuse myself, and I fear our end may be near. Thus, this journal may remain as the sole document of how we spent our final days.

The flyer Esmeralda, which spirited us away from Mercury, is inexorably becoming our tomb. Annabelle underestimated my ability to determine a ship’s worthiness, and it seems that the ghost of Colonel Shawbridge, the Somerset family friend who gave us the flyer as a gift, was all too ready to be rid of us following that horrid business with Hermes that he neglected to reveal its shortcomings. Had I greater competency, I would have found the hairline cracks in our hull or the damage to our navigational equipment. Annabelle is adept at navigation of the most basic sort, but she knows next to nothing of a flyer’s upkeep. Thus, we are limping toward Mars (we had hoped to return to Venus to retrieve the gear we left there, but that notion has been forced to one side due to our current predicament), which at the moment is the only inner world within easy reach, with no orrery or similar device to guide us, a faulty aether propeller, and a hull that is, as Annabelle mistakenly calls it, “taking on aether”, a term I’ve reluctantly adopted for expediency’s sake. The ship is small, and is possible to crew primarily from the bridge with only the occasional trip to stoke the boilers. To conserve atmosphere for as long as possible, I’ve sealed off all but the bridge, galley, two private quarters, a lavatory, and the greenhouse. These measures are merely stopgaps against the inevitable.

A reason for optimism. Annabelle has been a wonder in the face of our adversity. We have a well-stocked larder, and I doubt we’ll run out of potable water before we run out of breathable oxygen. By her command, we dine by candlelight and drink wine until we are giddy, and every meal is a feast. As I fear time is short, I’ve relaxed my manners with her somewhat. She has responded well to it. Though her sense of humour is morbid and common beyond description, and her coarseness and oftentimes masculine energy scandalises me, I proclaim before God that if I’m to meet my fate here in the aether, I cannot think of a more stalwart and lively companion.

But let me confess, finally, that I tire of these magnets in my boots. Although I knew little of such things four months ago, after travelling in several different kinds of aether flyers I now realise that the gravity I enjoyed on Sovereign is not the norm.

2.

Annabelle dragged herself from the depths of sleep. Thusly she sat a while, gathering her wits, before unbuckling herself from her berth and pushing off towards the floor. The dream again. Already the images were beginning to fade, save that of the little girl. She could have been no more than three, this child. They were at the Tall Oak, the Summer grazing grounds for her tribe, near a creek where Annabelle once filled bladders with its cold, sweet water. When the men were hunting, she would often bathe there. The child, with flaxen hair so soft that Annabelle ached to run fingers through it, was naked and wet, as if she had just gone bathing herself. It was here the dream always ended, and Annabelle woke in a deep, unexplainable melancholy, as if something had been taken from her.

The muscles in her back and shoulders were sore. She stretched. The dreams also left her tense and panicky, and her sleep was suffering. Hovering in the dark, naked but for her under garments, she shivered. It was cold out in the aether, and already they were using so few of the flyer’s amenities to conserve power, she felt guilty in wanting for something like a warm cabin. Her best dress, the one with pink chiffon and lace bunched at the neck, hung from a brass rod by the porthole to air. She hastily performed her toilet and dressed for dinner. Nathanial will just have to swallow decorum for once and help hook me into this dress, she thought. Until then, she could do with it hanging loose on her. At least in the dress she was warm.

Speaking of Nathanial, she found him sometime later on the bridge, sitting in his usual spot, the window seat nearest the convex bubble viewport. On his lap was one of his dusty, old books, his face turned outward to stare into the inky depths of the aether. Since leaving Mercury he had made such daring strides to be friendly to her, but Annabelle knew these feelings were manufactured, put on in some misguided masculine desire to protect her. She saw through it all. There was a sense of melancholy growing in him as well, supplanting his usual reserve. Once, when he stared into nothing, Annabelle would wonder what incredible ideas might be swirling around in his head. Now, it was as though a shadow was passing over his face.

“Dinner is served,” she said.

She carried two platters laden with food. Upon seeing her Nathanial came forward to help set the table, but she gently pushed his hands away. This wasn’t his work to do. Nevertheless, he insisted on lighting the candles and folding the napkins, while she served. She would have liked freshly cut flowers in a vase, but Nathanial said they could spare nothing from the greenhouse.

“We have Summer truffles,” she said. “Don’t ask me how; it’s best it remains a mystery. Canned pheasant garnished with potatoes and carrots. Mexican tortillas, the same recipe Abuela Gutierrez used in Arizona. Remember her? And candied walnuts.”

“Sounds delicious,” Nathanial replied. “I could do with a bit to eat.”

“And there’s wine, of course,” she added. Nathanial grinned at this. Even drank through a glass straw from a sealed container, the wine was heavenly. “There’s enough of it to get us roaring drunk, if we like.”

The meal was bland, but filling just the same. When they were done they adjourned to the window seat, taking their sealed glasses with them.

“The air has a strange taste to it today,” Annabelle said.

“An unfortunate side effect of taking on aether, I’m afraid,” Nathanial explained.

“It’s giving the wine a queer taste.”

“I’m afraid the news is much worse than that.”

She set her glass down. “What is it now?”

“It’s the greenhouse. I don’t know how, but we’re losing power to the solar lamps. When they cease to function, our supply of breathable air will quickly run out.”

“Any other news?”

Nathanial arched an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“I’m expecting a heliograph message from my Aunt Mabel, from back East. I was wondering if someone had come ’round with it.”

“Annabelle, this is serious, I think you’ll agree. Do please act accordingly.”

“Merely trying to lighten your spirits.” She took up her wine glass again and drank from it.

“I’m in no mood for it.”

“I can tell.” Nathanial gave her a sour look, but she ignored it. Instead, she asked, “So, do you have a plan?”

“For what?”

“When the situation becomes hopeless, of course.”

Nathanial lifted his chin. “I hardly think this is a topic for polite discussion.”

Oh, that Nathanial again. The stiffly formal gentleman who had worked with her uncle a year ago, the one who had sought to keep her at arm’s length when all his aloofness did was entice her. She had almost forgotten that Nathanial ever existed, given the changes he had undertaken since coming to her rescue on Luna.

“It’s just the two of us, Nathanial. Let’s speak freely.”

“You forget the presence of God, and what you’re suggesting is a terrible sin.”

“So, is it your plan, then, that we salute the flag and suffocate, as God intends?”

“That is blasphemy!” Nathanial leapt to his feet, wine glass forgotten, and paced a few feet away, where he stood with his back to her. His shoulders heaved with powerful emotion.

Annabelle was ashamed for having spoken so to him, yet she did not apologise, either. Let him fume, she thought. Whatever he might believe, she was not going to die in such a way. Her derringer held two shots. Used properly, that was enough for them both. At the very least there was a bullet for her when the time came. She would meet her Maker in her own way. If that was insufficient to grant her entry into Heaven, then so be it.

Some moments later Nathanial spun on a heel and marched to steering. Taking the aether wheel in hand, he corrected their course. The loss of their navigational equipment had been nearly the last straw until Nathanial had conceived of a new plan. Using their telescope he had located Mars. Taking a small pot of ink, he had drawn a circle on the view port glass. By keeping Mars in the circle, they would eventually reach its orbit. Limping as they were through the aether, corrections were only necessary twice a shift, if that. What had begun as a tiny dot in their sky had grown larger since. Mars was not her first choice as a port of call, but it had dry dock and materials for repairs, assuming they could be afforded.

Annabelle finished her wine. I should see to the cleaning up, she thought. Good grief, how domestic that sounded! She might have stirred, then, just to have something to do, but all of a sudden Nathanial was back at the window seat, peering out at something outside. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of what had his attention, but she could see nothing. Probably exactly what he was looking at, too: nothing. Nothing that would interest her, anyway.

“Really, Nathanial. The worst of it must be sitting here, waiting for the inevitable. Can’t we…”

“Just a moment,” Nathanial replied. He climbed up onto the seat, his legs and hips jostling Annabelle so that she crawled off the seat and stood behind him, hands on her hips. Nathanial floated upward, pressing his face to the glass to have a better look.

“You look ridiculous.” She would have said more, but he was waving off further comment. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell.”

This piqued Annabelle’s curiosity. She climbed onto the window seat with him and stared out of the window. “I don’t see anything,” she said after a moment.

“Wait,” Nathanial replied. “It will come again.”

A minute later, it did. There was a flash of light, a short one, followed by two longs, and a short. “Do you see?” Nathanial asked.

“Yes.”

“It has a definite signature, which means it’s coming from an intelligent source.”

“It’s Morse Code,” Annabelle said.

Nathanial stared at her. “You’re certain?”

“Of course. Someone is using an aether flyer class heliograph. We’re being hailed.” Annabelle went to their heliograph. Luckily, it worked on manual control, and thus was still in use. She tapped out a brief reply.

“A new message!” Nathanial shouted.

Annabelle ran back to the view port and waited for the message to repeat. When it did, she sat down.

Nathanial looked down at her. “What is it? What does it say?” he asked.

Annabelle heaved herself to her feet. The cleaning up would have to wait. She needed to get to her quarters and fetch her knife and gun.

“It’s a cutter,” she said, “one of three. We’re in restricted space, and we’ve been informed their guns are trained on our hull. If we change course suddenly beforehand, they will open fire on us.”

“Beforehand? What do they mean?”

Annabelle shrugged. “They mean to board us, of course.”

Chapter Two

“Boarded!”

1.

A row of grim-faced men crowded close, squinting at Nathanial over the sights of their carbines. They were very clean, Nathanial thought, which he admitted might be a queer first impression for a normal chap, but he had not bathed in nearly two weeks. His hair was oily, and his scalp itched. A thick ginger beard crusted his chin and jaw, while these men were clean-shaven. Their blue coveralls were pristine, their carbines shiny and well oiled. His clothes were dirty and stank like some wild animal.

Annabelle had disappeared not long after the ships had hailed. Nathanial could only wonder where she gotten herself to, but he was glad she had chosen that moment to hide. If there was to be violence, he hoped she would have the good sense to stay hidden.

Two men emerged from the airlock. One was a tiny fellow, perhaps in his sixties, small-boned, with a sharp patrician nose on which perched a pair of spectacles. His lips were thin and bloodless, and his skin had the papery look of one who had crossed the threshold into old age. With him was his near antithesis; a large, broad-shouldered Irishman with bright yellow hair, florid skin, and an energy that made the room crackle with his presence. A grin split the Irishman’s face, while the little man remained reserved.

“Be back ’round in a moment,” the Irishman said, and he left, motioning for two of the men to follow him. The little man nodded, almost imperceptibly. Nathanial got the impression that the man’s every movement was microscopic, so one had to pay strict attention to the man to know what he was thinking or doing.

He spoke.

“You’re English,” he said.

Nathanial nodded. “I am. And you’re clearly not. Belgian? Austrian?”

“You’re in restricted space, and by a standing order from your mother country, you’re to be held in custody until such time as agents will be sent from Earth to retrieve you so you might stand trial.”

Nathanial held up a hand. “One moment, sir. Am I given to understand that I am being taken prisoner by Her Majesty’s Royal Navy? If that is the case, where are your ship’s colours? Why are these ratings not in uniform, and furthermore, why is a foreigner clearly in command?”

“Know much about the Navy, do you, sir?”

“Suffice it to say, I’ve become well-acquainted with them as of late, and I am in the employ of the British Government. I also know my rights as a Crown citizen, and it doesn’t involve my being arrested without knowing the nature of my crimes.”

“I’ve just explained them to you.”

Nathanial laughed. “And you truly expect me to believe such rubbish?”

“It matters very little to me what you believe, sir. I can detain you by right of law and by right of arms, and I am doing so with both in mind.”

A nervous tremor passed through the armed men. Nathanial took their measure. One held his weapon incorrectly. Another’s hands shook. These were not soldiers. Some of these men had never so much as held a gun before in their lives. He could not say what this was about, but Nathanial knew what it was not. If he did not acquiesce, one of these nervous men might get even more so, and the consequences could become catastrophic. The men had taken him in front of the viewport, after all. Any stray gunfire would spell the deaths of every man on board.

“Let me get my books, then.”

The small man shook his head. “Your flyer will be towed and your belongings left on board. They will be sent with you back to Earth when you are retrieved by the proper authorities.”

A shot rang out, and Nathanial’s blood ran cold. The men were frightened, now, making him tense. When a bullet from an errant gun did not pierce his chest, he let out a long, protracted sigh. Two men dragged a furious Annabelle onto the bridge. The Irishman followed, chuckling at her antics.

“Found her easily enough,” he said. “Really, if you’re planning to hide from us, stay out of sight of our telescope.”

2.

The cutters were small ships, smaller even than Esmeralda, equipped for crews of five, though as many as ten or even twenty could be housed comfortably for short journeys. Such flyers were not long-range vessels, which left Nathanial wondering where they were headed. Unless he missed his guess, they were deep in the aether, with no planets for days or even weeks. A larger ship, perhaps, like Sovereign, could be patrolling the aether, yet, as he’d noted earlier, these men were not Royal Navy. And what was this foolish business about restricted space?

A storeroom was cleared and turned into a makeshift prison cell, with two armed guards posted outside. Nathanial sat on the floor, scratching an itch on the back of his head. Annabelle paced the tiny bit of floor available to her. She was dressed much the same as she had been when Nathanial had last seen her, but he knew from experience that she had her derringer and knife secreted in places beneath her skirts that would be improper for a man to search. The gunshot he had heard earlier had come from one of the men sent to fetch her. She had leapt on his back suddenly, and the man had squeezed off a shot before the others, the big Irishman included, had wrestled her to the ground.

Now she looked more like a caged animal. Gone was the generosity and industry he had witnessed in their journey from Mercury. Truly, the old Annabelle had returned, and, he had to confess, much of his old vigour was returning as well. The veil of doom was lifting from his shoulders just as the twin stones of anxiety and boredom were crashing down on her, as they often did when she had no external incidences to engage her.

“Where do you think they’re taking us?” she asked for the eighth time.

“We won’t know until we get there,” he said.

Annabelle clearly did not like this response. “What if they decide to kill us?”

“They could have done that already. They have a specific destination in mind, and I, for one, am curious to see what it may be.”

“Even under arrest?”

Nathanial shrugged. Unless they had fallen into the hands of the Germans or the Russians, he was certain he could talk his way out of their predicament. His importance to the interplanetary efforts would be currency enough to buy his and Annabelle’s freedom, regardless of what phantom law they might have inadvertently broken. If they had broken any at all. Briefly, he wondered if perhaps groups independent of sovereign nations had gotten their hands on liftwood supplies or found a way to build an aether propeller, but he quickly discarded the line of thought. The notion of it made him want to laugh. Aether pirates! Sounded like some fanciful bit of dribble for the penny dreadfuls.

His musings were interrupted by a sudden shaking of the hull. At first it was merely a vibration, but before he could think two thoughts in a row the vibration had become a rumble. Annabelle lost her footing, catching herself on the storeroom wall. Shouts from the crew rang out. Nathanial could hear them scrambling to keep the cutter on course.

“What’s going on?” Annabelle shouted above the din.

“Aether vortex!” he replied. “A very big one, from the feel of it!”

In his time on HMS Sovereign he had experienced just such an anomaly, where the aether streams of Earth and Venus had met and reacted violently. The resultant “storm” could have destroyed Sovereign had it not been for his improvements to the design of the aether propeller governor. He recalled being afraid then, even though the chaps under Folkard had been particularly adept at navigating its outer edge. Still, the buffering the ship had received was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. Part of that had to do with the overall size of the ship. Sovereign had carried two cutters roughly the same size as this one in her belly, but that was only a portion of his concern. This vortex was definitely larger, and by turns more violent.

The roaring became a screeching. Annabelle clapped hands over her ears and screamed, though the noise she made was drowned. Visions filled Nathanial’s head of the cutter ripping apart and their bodies floating free with the debris. He closed his eyes and drew his knees to his chest, where he sat with his head covered by his arms. His insides felt gelatinous, sloshing about inside his abdomen.

Moments later, the screeching subsided, reduced to a roar, and so forth until all was silent again.

“My God!” Annabelle whispered. She was shaking.

The door opened a moment later, and the Irishman stuck his head inside. “Everyone here all right? No one shaken apart, or the like?” He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Hale and hearty,” Nathanial said. “Did your pilot try to fly us through an aether vortex?”

The Irishman chuckled. “Not a’tall, not a’tall. A beauty as big as she, we would have been torn apart. No, we passed a good four hundred statute miles from its horizon, at the least. Hell of a racket, though, even at that distance, wasn’t it?”

Nathanial’s jaw fell open. “Four hundred?”

“At the least. You should see her. She’s enormous.”

“I should like to, if I could.”

“You might, at that, once we get where we’re going.”

“And where would that be?”

The Irishman winked. “Ah, now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

3.

What seemed like hours passed. Conversation reached a lull, and Nathanial nodded off. When he woke he became aware of a new vibration in the cutter’s hull. Annabelle was wide-eyed and staring at him for confirmation. Something buffered the cutter to his left, and then shortly to his right. A lurching sensation gripped his stomach.

“We’re settling into dock,” he told her. “Don’t worry. Unless these men are incompetent, our worries are over.”

Or just beginning, he thought.

4.

The Cutter settled, and the slight sense of movement one felt when a ship was traversing the aether vanished. A curious, yet all too familiar feeling replaced it: gravity. Nathaniel felt his limbs grow heavy again for the first time in weeks. He cocked an eyebrow at Annabelle, who began casting her gaze around the hold as if she was seeing it for the first time.

Before Nathanial could wrap his head around this newest revelation, the Irishman reappeared at their door, the two armed guards were with him. They had no brig, he said, and so Nathanial and Annabelle would be left here, under guard, until something more permanent could be arranged. Food and water would be provided, and trips to the cutter’s toilet would come every two hours, whether they were needed or not. Nathanial tried to engage the man in discussion, but the Irishman was having none of it.

“Save your breath,” he said. “You’ve still got the Juggernaut to talk to. Anything you want to say can be said to him. In the meantime, I suggest you get yourself nice and comfortable, and don’t entertain any thoughts of escape. A guard will be posted outside the ship.”

The door closed. Annabelle waited a beat or two before turning to Nathanial. “The Juggernaut?” she asked.

“I’m familiar with the name,” Nathanial replied, but he did not like what he knew. “Doctor Henry van den Bosch. He’s a Dutchman who makes his home in Austria. He works for King Franz Joseph, but he presses nations all over Europe to advance the sciences. ‘Coerce’ may be a more appropriate word. ‘Bludgeon’ would be another. His tactics are said to border on the grotesque, or so goes the rumours. Were it not for his tireless ambition to see science flourish in the coming century, he would have likely been done away with long ago.”

Annabelle nodded. “If he’s anything like Uncle Cyrus, I think I can weather his outbursts.”

“I daresay he’s something of an order or two of magnitude worse than your uncle. Many reputations have been destroyed because certain persons were unlucky enough to cross the Juggernaut.”

“Is he really so bad as all that?”

Nathanial shrugged. “I suppose we’re about to find out. The important question, at least to me, is what is he doing out here, in the aether?”

“It must be a project of some kind.”

“Yes, but what project?” Nathanial raised his hands to demonstrate his helplessness. “I’m afraid I’m currently at a loss.”

Chapter Three

“The Juggernaut”

1.

Given the definite schedule the Irishman laid out, Nathanial was able to accurately judge the time they spent incarcerated in the ship’s hold. Every two hours they were taken to the toilet. Even sleep was interrupted. Three times Nathanial was awakened with a polished black boot nudging the side of his head until he stirred. The guards never spoke, even when Annabelle protested (which was often), but they were never impertinent. Nevertheless, Annabelle took the treatment as the worst sort of torture. Nathanial’s every attempt to divert her attentions came to naught.

When awake Annabelle questioned Nathanial further about van den Bosch, but he had few answers for her. No, he was sure the Juggernaut and Cyrus Grant had never met, and no, he did not know van den Bosch’s field of study. He could not say where the man had been educated, though he remembered a slip of a rumour that he’d been at Oxford at some point. Nathanial surmised that if what their captors had said was true, and that Esmeralda had entered restricted space in accordance with British law, that meant Her Majesty was no doubt in some sort of deal with the Austrians, if van den Bosch was involved. An Austrian who had lived for a time in Britain would be the perfect man to head such a project, whatever that project may be.

Between sixteen and eighteen hours after their arrival, the small man with the foreign accent returned. He identified himself as Mister Joram Franziskus Hague, personal aide to Doctor Henry van den Bosch. Before Nathanial or Annabelle could introduce themselves, Mister Hague produced Nathanial’s journal and asked him if he was its author. Nathanial was annoyed at this invasion of his privacy, yet said nothing. He could sense a change for the better in Mister Hague’s attitude toward him and would not risk a reversal of fortunes, not if this meant a chance for release.

“I should apologise for the dismal way you’ve been treated, Mister Stone,” Mister Hague said.

“Professor Stone,” Annabelle corrected.

Mister Hague gave her a brief glance, and then smiled at Nathanial. “Yes, you’ve drawn quite an amusing character in your benefactor, Director White.” He winked as if to say “your secret is safe with me”.

Another dart of annoyance hit Nathanial, but he shrugged it off. “What can I do for your employer, Mister Hague?”

“That should be best explained by the man himself. If you would kindly come with me, Doctor van den Bosch is waiting for you in his study.”

Nathanial rose to his feet and dusted off his trousers, a curious gesture considering he was filthy. Mister Hague gestured him to the door, and Nathanial complied.

“So what am I to do, in the meantime?” Annabelle asked.

Mister Hague shook his head. “I’m sorry, miss, but the doctor specifically asked for an audience with Mister Stone alone. I will have someone come deliver you books to read, if you like.”

“I could do with something to eat.”

“Of course, miss. We’re in between meals in the galley at the moment, but I can send down a steward with bread and cheese.”

Annabelle nodded. “That’ll do. I’m famished.”

“I’m sure, miss. Again, please excuse our stern treatment of you.”

A guard outside the storage closet slid the door closed. Mister Hague led Nathanial the short distance to the bridge and down the gangplank to the outside. Nathanial was anxious to get a glimpse of his surroundings, but before he could duck down to have a look, the second guard appeared carrying a sack.

“Is this really necessary?” Nathanial asked.

“Secrecy must be maintained,” Hague said, motioning for the guard to continue. The sack was thrown over Nathanial’s head and tied loosely about his neck.

It was in this way that he was led across the docking bay, and into a steam-powered lift, which lurched upwards with a loud hiss, the hot, pressurised air pushing them upwards. Hague said little during their ride, and Nathanial was unsure if a guard accompanied them or not.

The lift door opened, and Nathanial was led out into what sounded like a bustling thoroughfare. A cacophony of human voices and the loud clanging and thrum of workers assaulted him. The docking bay had been well-lit, and the sack was cut of thin, bright cloth that let him sense changes in lighting. Here, amongst the bustle and buffering of men occasionally bumping into him as Hague led him through the thoroughfare, Nathanial could see nothing at all. The area was dimly lit, not completely dark, but little light could be had. The noise was so loud and so boisterous that he could make out none of what was being said, and if Mister Hague were speaking to him, he was sure the little man’s quiet voice would be drowned out.

Once, he did hear something directed at him, when a man several feet to his left yelled, “’Ey! Would you get a load of the bludger with the sack over ’is ’ead!” Several men roared with laughter.

2.

The crush of bodies soon lessened, and the noise died to a far off rumble. Hague led Nathanial through a dizzying series of twists and turns until they arrived at what Nathanial could only assume was their destination. The little man knocked three times, waited a moment, and then spoke something in Austrian to whoever opened the door. Nathanial and Hague were admitted into a room. The door was closed behind them, and the sack was removed from Nathanial’s head.

He was in a finely appointed and spacious study of some kind. Bookshelves were stocked with excellent volumes. A globe, not of Earth but of Venus, was nearby with maps of the Hackley Expedition detailing the interior continents and waterways. The floor was fine oak, properly shellacked, and three-quarters of the way covered in Oriental rugs. A large desk lay ahead of him, studded with stacked reports and various trivialities well-travelled men often used as mementos for their adventures. An eye floated in a jar whose cap was scribbled with Egyptian hieroglyphics. A cobra, well seen to by a taxidermist, was coiled and ready to strike, its hood open and its mouth revealing its deadly fangs. A small, jade Buddha sat next to it, laughing at the snake’s antics. Behind the desk sturdy, wine-coloured curtains hid what was likely a fabulous panorama of star lights. Two overstuffed chairs sat on this side of the desk.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” said Hague.

Whoever had let them in had gone. It was just Hague and himself. For a moment Nathanial wondered if some fabulous trick had not been played on him, and that Hague had been, in fact, van den Bosch all along. That notion disintegrated when the door behind him slid open, and horror entered the study.

Nathanial could only assume it was a man, though its height and bulk surely made it one of the most uncommon sort. He was cloaked in dark green, with a matching wide-brimmed hat pulled over his eyes to keep even the room’s sparse candlelight at bay. Thick, imposing boots covered feet large enough to stomp a bear in half. The hands, seen clearly from the cloak’s sleeves, were wrapped in bandages greying with wear, as was the chest and face of the man who now stood before them.

Nathanial scrambled to his feet. The nightmare man stomped into the room, the panel door sliding into place behind him as if it had a life of its own, and he seated himself behind the desk without so much as a word. Nathanial was confused as to whether he should sit or stand, but upon seeing Hague settle into the chair beside him, decided to follow suit.

The nightmare man spoke, and his voice was deep, echoing through the study like a controlled detonation. “Mister Nathanial Stone,” he said. Something in the violence of the voice, as if it had to crash the ramparts of the man’s face to leave his lips, was too much when taken with the enormous, ruined body. Nathanial was instantly frightened of the man.

“Doctor van den Bosch, I presume,” he said with a stammer.

“Mmmm. Excuse the gloom. I find electric light no longer agrees with me, and so I tend to keep to the darker parts of this place to avoid the discomfort.”

“I rather like the ambience, actually. One might think I was back on Earth, if the bay window behind you didn’t peer directly into the aether.”

“Indeed. I must say, Mister Stone, I was rather surprised to find you out here. May I ask what you were doing in a crippled flyer with the niece of Cyrus Grant in tow?”

Nathanial had no desire to tell him everything, and he most certainly did not want to reveal his recent adventures on Venus and Mercury. “I’ve been doing some travelling as of late. Our flyer took damage negotiating an aether vortex, and since then we have been limping toward Mars in hopes of finding a dock to make repairs. You should know, Doctor, that I had no idea such a station existed this far out,” he added, even though it was not entirely true, he had heard vague rumours of such a thing from Director White while working at Chatham, although he had almost forgotten about it, until now. “Nor did I know the space around it was restricted by any government. If I had, we most certainly would not have passed through.”

“Yes, but pass through it you did, and now you are in my care until it can be decided what is to be done with you and your friend, Miss Somerset.” Van den Bosch lifted a report from the top of one stack and began to thumb through it. “So, you’ve deduced that this is a station. That demonstrates something of your acumen. Tell me, do you know the purpose of this place?”

“Know?” Nathanial asked. “I know nothing. Your men have been quite careful to shroud everything in secrecy.”

“Secrecy must be maintained. It is our mantra. Do you know this word?”

“I do. I deduced this must be a structure of some incredible dimensions, if it could house as few as three cutters without difficulty and the sheer amount of floor space I have crossed in coming here. No aether flyer currently in service could hope to have said dimensions. That leaves a station.”

“Apply your powers further.”

“If you wish. We’re on a heliograph station, not a research station, as I’d initially believed.”

Van den Bosch clapped his enormous hands together so hard the resulting shock made Nathanial wince. “Very good! How did you come by this deduction?”

Nathanial smiled. “By mention of your name, of course. If this were a scientific post, out here to study the aether and its anomalies, yours would be a long-term position, to be held by someone on the downside of their career, but you are still in your professional prime. No one with your rather formidable reputation would allow himself to be tied to such a post unless it were either a short-term one, one destined to bring him great acclaim, or both. The construction of a heliograph station in itself is not something likely to grant you any sort of acclaim at all, given that two have already been built. That leaves a specific kind of heliograph station, one which has been placed at a strategic spot, not orbiting a planet or satellite, but one that has achieved its own, special orbit.”

“Toward what end?” Van den Bosch was clearly enjoying these questions.

Nathanial shrugged. “To speed communications between Earth and Mars, no doubt. The two spend many months of each solar year separated by the Sun. A heliograph station, or rather two such stations, placed in strategic positions could facilitate year-round communications between the planets, and when a station is built on Venus, the Empire would have in place a fast, efficient means of interplanetary network, thus giving us a distinct advantage over our competitors.”

“Excellent! I can see now why your reputation has grown so recently. You are mostly correct in your deductions.”

Nathanial arched an eyebrow. “Mostly?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t plan to tell me how I erred?”

The eyes beneath the hat were suddenly small and intense. Nathanial, who had been growing increasingly at ease with the man’s presence, was reminded then to whom he was speaking. Here was a man who was used to getting his way, one who would not think twice about destroying the reputation of anyone who got in his way.

“No, I don’t plan to tell you any more than you need to know.”

“Such as the, ah, artificial gravity in the station?” The intensity of the eyes did not change. Now this was an interesting turn. “Very well. And what is it that I need to know, Doctor?”

“Have you heard of Professor Thaddeus Wren, by chance?”

Nathanial’s eyes lit up. “Wren? The polymath? Of course! His name is synonymous with genius. Is he here?”

“He was. I’m afraid he passed away recently.”

“How?”

“It’s impolite to discuss such things, Mister Stone. What you should know is that Professor Wren designed this entire station. Every rivet and every room, down to the very decorations themselves. If you see it before you, Professor Wren envisioned it, and in a small workshop in Shropshire, first. But unfortunately, only he understood much of its workings. As you’ve already experienced, we’ve an unmatched need for secrecy here, and when the professor passed, so did the only person on this station with a complete knowledge of its systems.”

Ah, now here was the reason for Hague’s sudden change in demeanour. This was also why Nathanial had been plucked from his makeshift prison, marched into the upper parts of the station, and placed before the Juggernaut himself. It had nothing at all to do with mistaken identities or the reputation of up-and-coming natural philosophers at all. This was a case of need, pure and simple.

“And now something has gone wrong with the station,” Nathanial said.

Mister Hague coughed, which Nathanial took as a sign between the two men, for Doctor van den Bosch’s tone changed. When he spoke again, he was brusque and business-like. Also, there was a tone of menace behind each word that made Nathanial shiver.

“You are correct. Something has occurred, and you are going to help us discover what is broken and fix it.”

“You must understand, sir, that I am limited in my knowledge of heliograph stations. My area of study has been almost entirely limited to the development of certain devices which facilitate propulsion. I’m afraid I would be of little use to you.”

“Ah, but it’s in the station’s orbital stabilisers that I believe the trouble lies.”

“Is that so? And what if I should refuse to help you at all? It is my assumption that I’m still under arrest for trespassing.”

“It’s in your best interest to help,” Hague said, breaking in. “Please, Mister Stone, now is not the time to become…difficult.”

“Listen to Mister Hague,” van den Bosch said. “You’ve been candid with us thus far. Please continue.”

“If I help, would the charges be dropped?”

“We will consider it,” van den Bosch said.

“That won’t be good enough to gain my services, I’m afraid. I have to be reasonably assured of my and Miss Somerset’s release before I’ll agree to offer any assistance.”

Van den Bosch’s shoulders rose in angry tension, and he placed his hands firmly, palms down, on his desk. “You are hardly in a position to negotiate any sort of terms,” he said.

Ice filled Nathanial’s belly, but this was no time to shy away from conflict. “Quite the contrary,” he said. “I’m reasonably assured of my acquittal of any charges levelled against me, as my contributions to Her Majesty’s interplanetary efforts thus far have demonstrated my forthrightness and patriotism. I’m no more a trespasser as I am a traitor or a spy. If you agree to release me―and make necessary repairs on my flyer so we might continue our journey to Mars―you have my solemn promise I will do my very best.”

The Juggernaut chuckled, a low, ugly sound. “What makes you think you’ll get a chance to acquit yourself at trial?”

“What, do you seek to toss me out an airlock if I don’t agree? Surely you can do better than threats of violence, Doctor.”

“Oh, I can. Let’s see what you think of this. I’m sure you recall the aether vortex that shook the cutter that brought you here. You should know that we are currently on course to strike the vortices’ horizon in fourteen days. An anomaly so massive and powerful as that will surely rend this station asunder. You should also know that, in order to complete this station on schedule, we’re working at far past reasonable capacity for our cutters should we need to evacuate. Thus, some men will be left behind. I will see it arranged that you, and your friend, Miss Somerset, are among that number selected for sacrifice. Now, should you by some miracle manage to escape aboard one of these vessels beforehand you should know that the charges levelled against you will be far worse than trespassing. You will be charged with a special treason for failing to give aid to your realm, and even then should you somehow manage to evade the noose for such crimes, your name will be forever synonymous with the loss of the millions of English pounds that have gone into the station’s design and completion.”

The Juggernaut leaned in suddenly, not with the rage of one about to strike, but with the cold malice of a tiger that could feast on the baby gazelle in its claws but chose forbearance instead. “How is that, Mister Stone? Have I exceeded your expectations where a threat is concerned?”

Chapter Four

“A Strange Visitor”

1.

“Well, what could I do, after all?” Nathanial said some time later.

He was fresh from his bath, his hair still damp and stuck to his scalp. A fresh toilet kit had been made available, with a razor so sharp it had glided across his cheeks and left them as smooth as they had been since he was twelve. The whiskers he had kept to counteract his youthful face. A blue coverall like the ones worn by all the men had been given him, and he luxuriated in being clean for the first time in weeks. A certain euphoria had swept over him, in fact, the moment he first lowered himself into one of the great, brass tubs in the common bathhouse. Nearly all systems were powered by steam, from the lights to the operational shutters on the heliograph mirror itself, or so he had been told in his brief introduction to the place, called Peregrine Station in some reference to the Egyptian god, Horus. Hot water could be had at the mere opening of a spigot, and in whatever quantities Nathanial desired.

Annabelle, also freshly bathed, dressed behind a screen. Her room was Spartan, but clean. In fact, everything he had seen of the station had reflected a fastidious ethic. Even the workers, who went about in pristine coveralls and shiny black boots, seemed perpetually clean, quite unlike Boswell’s team of engineers on Sovereign. Additionally, there had been no catcalls, jokes, or otherwise indecent talk or action from the men when guards had brought Annabelle up from the docking bay. That, too, was something seldom seen. It was as if van den Bosch had found some alchemical equation for cheerfulness and efficiency and had applied it to his crew. Her Majesty’s Royal Navy should be so disciplined, Nathanial thought, thinking once more of the engine crew of Sovereign.

“Your heroism certainly has its limits, Nathanial,” Annabelle said. Hands came up to drape the towel that had been around her head over the side of the screen. “However, there is heroism, and then there is foolishness. Only a fool would have continued to argue with the man once it was clear you were beaten.”

Nathanial felt a flash of annoyance. Annabelle, in her own way, was complimenting him, but as often happened her coarse manner brought the compliment about in the form of a verbal backhand. She came from around the screen, and he helped hook her into her dress without comment.

“Thank you,” she said, then added coyly, “You’ll make some woman a fine husband someday.”

Nathanial said nothing. The less this subject was broached, the better. There had been many long hours on the flyer from Mercury for him to think on certain…occurrences there, and he was still unsure how to consider them. Certainly, these new feelings stemmed from the character flaws which had plagued him since boyhood, and he needed time to sort them out. Peregrine Station, however, was certainly not the place for that. A nice villa on Mars, with a sirocco blowing sands across the desert and a cool glass of wine in hand, and then he could put such fancies to the test. Until then, he had to keep his wits about him.

Annabelle went to her steamer chest and removed the pocket watch Nathaniel had seen her carry on occasion. She wound it, and with a clever movement of her hands, made it disappear somewhere Nathanial could not see.

“Well,” she said at last, “at least you didn’t get us tossed out with the refuse.”

“The night is young,” he replied.

“When do you start your work?” she asked.

“As soon as possible. According to Doctor van den Bosch, we’ve only a few days before the station will start to slide into the vortex. If I haven’t arrived at a solution by then, he will call for a general evacuation.”

“And what shall I do in the meantime?”

Nathanial smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find some terrible secret to become embroiled in.”

Annabelle laughed that tinkling, elfin laugh of hers. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

“You could work with me.”

“Perish the thought! I should turn this hovel into a bordello and offer my services to the lonely men of Peregrine Station, first.”

“Annabelle! Good God!”

“Oh, Nathanial. Surely you know me better than that.”

“Yes, I do, but I should warn you, the men here are not used to your…ways. Talk like that is apt to breed distraction, and would no doubt make an enemy of our host.”

“To Hell with Henry van den Bosch. I’m not at his service, like you are. And anyway, disrupting men is something of a specialty of mine.”

There came the clacking noise as the door’s mechanism was employed. The panel slid aside, but no one stood in the doorway. Nathanial and Annabelle exchanged glances. They were supposed to be under guard, and had been ordered not to leave their quarters under any circumstances until they were summoned to dinner. Nathanial’s first instinct was to wonder if this was a test of their obedience. Annabelle poked her head out of the door, looking left, then right. She turned and spread her hands in confusion.

“No one there, including our guard,” she said.

“Strange.”

Nathanial was about to suggest they close the door when a strange figure dropped from above the doorframe and landed in a crouch behind Annabelle. An inarticulate shout of dismay leapt from Nathanial, and Annabelle was turning to see what had upset him when he snatched her by the arm and jerked her to his side.

What stood before them looked like a man, but it was dressed in rags. Its skin was white like bleached bone, its eyes bugged and wild, rolling around as if of their own accord, and his teeth were an ugly, yellowish tint. The face was hairless, and the scars of what appeared to be burns on his face and neck were evident.

The thing smiled at them, and Nathanial could not suppress a shiver. It looked squarely at him.

“Well, hello,” Annabelle said, being the first to recover. “And who might you be?”

The creature responded by doing a jack-legged dance, skinny arms and legs flopping as it lurched to some unheard, chaotic tune.

And just like that, it was gone, scampering away in the gloom of the corridor. The panel then slid back into place, and the clacking noise resounded again.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Nathanial asked.

Just then, the clacking noise repeated itself. The panel slid aside, and the hulking figure of Loaves, Annabelle’s guard, stood before them.

“’Ello,” he said. “Are you two fine folks ready for supper, then?”

“We are, at that, Loaves,” Nathanial said. “Thank you.”

“If you’ll follow me, then, we’ll get you set up nice and proper.”

2.

Nathanial and Annabelle followed Loaves down the passage. Though everything was thrown into wavering shadows, Nathanial could see the corridor was done up in an elegant, intricate design. The walls and ceiling were monuments to mankind’s abiding love of art, from African and South American cave paintings to replicas from the Sistine Chapel and others. The centre of mid-decks was done up in the style of a Gothic basilica, St. Vitale’s in fact, with the domed rotunda in the middle a near-replica of St. Vitale’s chapel, complete with stained glass ceilings and windows, back-lit so each panel could be seen.

“How are you enjoyin’ your stay so far, miss?” Loaves asked Annabelle.

“It’s certainly interesting,” she replied, cutting eyes toward Nathanial, who shook his head. Annabelle ignored him and pressed on. “So, who was the little fellow before you arrived?”

“Li’l fellow, miss? I’m ’fraid I’m at a loss.”

“The tatterdemalion sort who was dancing at our door. He looked a nightmare. Surely you saw him.”

“No, miss, I did not.”

“Why weren’t you at guard?”

“I went to fetch a candelabra, but Griggs the quartermaster tol’ me there was none. Was hopin’ to give you a little light to see by. It’s a bit disconcertin’, all the shadows, until you get used to it.”

“We appreciate your efforts, Loaves,” Nathanial broke in. “Sorry to bother you with it.” Annabelle looked daggers at him. She might want some sort of controversy, but Nathanial did not. He had more than enough to worry about, just then. The fate of an entire heliograph station was suddenly in his hands.

“Coincidentally, I know who that chap was.”

“Who?” Annabelle asked-shouted, before Nathanial could speak.

“That would be Professor Thaddeus Wren, miss.”

Another glance was exchanged. “But I thought Professor Wren had passed away recently.”

“Oh, ’e ’as. That’s ’is ghost what you saw. Been hauntin’ the place all merry like since the fire.”

Oh, that’s superb. More ghosts, Nathanial thought, just what we all need.

Chapter Five

“Dramatis Personae”

1.

Starward Observation Deck, which housed one of the two powerful telescopes used to read communications from either Earth or Mars, was as yet unoccupied by its staff, given that Peregrine was not yet fully operational. As such, it served as a formal dining room for the station’s department heads. A long table had been erected from left over wood and placed there for that very purpose. Rickety chairs lined both sides, with a single, doubly-reinforced chair at its head, presumably for Doctor van den Bosch. Even with a fine white tablecloth, a bright array of candles running down the middle, lace doilies and all the other fineries that could surround it, the thing was an eyesore at odds with the station’s otherwise elegant features.

As the station’s new guests, Nathanial and Annabelle were given places at van den Bosch’s right and left hands, respectively. Several department heads had already arrived and seated themselves. As there was still much to do, the others, specifically the quartermaster, chief translator, and fleet supervisor (who oversaw the docking bay and cutters), would not be joining them. The station’s security chief, the Irishman named Dolan, would be arriving late, as he was overseeing the handling of Esmeralda.

Introductions of those department heads present were made. There was Doctor Matthew Holmes, the short, rotund station’s physician, a one-man department who, by his own words, had got a free trip out into the aether, as injuries, aside from the occasional scrape or bruise from a hard day’s work, was all that had occurred thus far.

“Except in the case of occasional death,” Mister Uriah Provost, the station’s resident wit and botanist (“Minister of Breathable Oxygen”, he claimed was his title), replied with some humour. He oversaw the station’s three greenhouses, situated in transparent domes along the top of the station, in the shadow of the great heliograph mirror.

“Of which I had no part,” Doctor Holmes insisted. “My record remains clean. Didn’t even have a chance to perform a post-mortem on the poor bugger.” Holmes was clearly already drunk, despite dinner having not yet arrived, and he was apt to raise his glass in toast to even the most mundane points, from day-to-day activities to the mention of Earth itself.

Next to Provost was his apparent partner-in-crime, Mister George Fullbright, the station’s operational engineer. He was, at least technically, the station’s second-in-command behind van den Bosch, but he did not comport himself in such a manner. Instead, he assumed for himself the role of irreverent commentator on every aspect of station life that did not meet with his tastes. “If you ask me,” he said, “the airlocks get used far too liberally around here.” This rather dark statement nevertheless brought about peals of laughter from Provost and the drunken Holmes.

Annabelle watched the three men with some distaste. Typical slovenly brutes, she thought, hiding behind breeding and education. It astonished her how quality of character was so highly prized in England, yet so rarely was a prerequisite for ascending to any position of authority. Quite often, it was politics and surname that put one in such lofty places, all else be damned. Not that the Americas were much better. It was just that the British Empire was no doubt thick with competent men, yet they never seemed to find a real place in higher society, never quite managed to scrabble upwards to realms where they were noticed for their efforts. Such hypocrisy rankled.

Nathanial, however, seemed quite taken with the three men’s antics. He sat forward, engaged in what they had to say, whether it was commenting on van den Bosch’s feet or the cloying rose oil scent of the station’s lavatories. It was clear he wanted to be a part of such raucous frivolity. Here was a side of her friend she had not seen before, probably some remnant from his days at college, where such childishness was tolerated, and even in some circles, encouraged. Boys will be boys, or so the saying went, even if one was clearly middle-aged, as was this Doctor Holmes. Annabelle rolled her eyes and looked elsewhere for her entertainment.

She found it in the form of a little man who called himself Mister Avram Salt. He was in charge of overseeing that Professor Wren’s overall aesthetic tastes were properly rendered. He had no official title, but his job was clear. The station’s cleanliness and beauty were his responsibility.

“So you are who I should thank for the oppressiveness of this place?” she asked.

Salt did not smile at her jest. “That would be the late Professor Wren,” he said. “I merely oversee that his vision is realised.”

“Oh, yes,” Provost said. “If it were up to Salt here, every meal would be subject to his laws, and the basilica would instead look like a shule.”

“A wholly different sort of oppressiveness, that,” Fullbright replied. Holmes lifted his glass in a toast.

Annabelle was confused at all of this. She looked at Nathanial.

“It appears our Mister Salt is Jewish,” Nathanial said.

“Yes,” replied Salt. “A constant source of conversation, or so it would seem.” He looked squarely at Fullbright, who smiled back at him and nodded. “And a constant source of amusement, as it were.”

“Well I, for one, am glad you’re not responsible for this mess, whatever your religious beliefs,” Annabelle replied.

“Thank you, miss. I take it you don’t share Professor Wren’s vision of man’s mastery of art?”

“I don’t see it as such, if that’s what you mean. You see a shrine; I see a tomb.”

Salt sat forward in his chair. “Interesting,” he said. They spoke on artistic matters, of which Annabelle knew little but was interested nevertheless, until van den Bosch arrived, with Hague in tow.

The man was, as Nathanial had said, a pure nightmare. He had warned her of van den Bosch’s appearance beforehand, so it did not astonish, yet his description had done little justice. Annabelle caught herself staring at the man as he heaved his massive frame onto his chair, settled himself, and looked around the table. She tore her eyes away when his gaze fell on her, and she could feel him boring into the top of her head as she kept her eyes averted. Finally, the man turned away, and addressed everyone.

“I apologise for my tardiness. I assume the others will take their meals later in the cycle.”

“Indeed, sir,” Hague said, settling himself between Nathanial and Salt.

“Good. Where’s Dolan?”

“He’ll be along momentarily, I believe.”

“Excellent. Well, everyone has introduced themselves, I’m sure. Shall we begin?”

Stewards appeared and delivered the first course, an egg and potato dish with very little taste to it. It needed onions, salt, and pepper, Annabelle decided, but it was at least hearty.

“Get used to this,” Fullbright commented. “One of the great problems of having a Spaniard for a chef, aside from the language barrier, is the cuisine. There’s a fine young man named Turner who acts as his sous chef. When the Spaniard is drunk, and this is often, our meals are a little more palatable.”

“This cycle, it seems, sobriety rules the roost,” Provost said. Holmes did not toast this admission, but picked at his food.

Nathanial ate like a man starved. “I rather like it,” he said.

“Give it time,” said Provost. “You’ll come to hate it like you hate having no decent light to read by.”

“I have noticed the lighting here is poor,” Annabelle said. “Why is that?”

Bottles of wine were brought. Two bottles previously drained by Provost, Fullbright, and Holmes were cleared, and two more were put in their place.

When the stewards left, van den Bosch took up the narrative. “To answer your question, miss…” and he paused then, looking expectantly at Nathanial.

“I’m sorry,” Nathanial said. “Where are my manners? Doctor Henry van den Bosch, this is Miss Annabelle Somerset, Doctor Cyrus Grant’s niece.”

Van den Bosch inclined his head. “Miss, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I hope you’ll excuse our actions to date. Your uncle’s reputation is known to me. Any relative of his is welcome in my house.”

Annabelle gave him her most disingenuous smile. “Thank you.”

“To answer your question there are currently no limits to individual quarters, but the mid-decks, what the men here refer to as Heaven, and the below-decks, called Hell, operate at one-quarter normal power.”

“Are your generators broken as well as your stabilisers?”

“No. The steam power necessary to operate the lights at full capacity were once used in other avenues. Now, given my recent…illnesses, I can no longer abide bright lights, and so we have never adjusted them for normal settings.”

“What were these previous avenues?”

“I’m afraid that has to remain a secret.”

2.

The next course was glazed pork shanks, a Moroccan sausage served with dried peppers and picked onions, and canned potatoes herbed and slathered with butter, served with black bread. Salt received a small cut of beef in place of the pork, something of which Fullbright made great sport.

“I should convert,” he said, and Salt chuckled. He was a pleasant man, Annabelle decided, if unattractive. He had large eyes and protruding teeth. His hairline had receded some time ago, but had stopped its retreat somewhere in the middle, leaving a swept-back shock of curly hair that gave the impression of a man who was constantly in some extreme forward motion. Even sitting still, Salt appeared at all times to be moving ten times faster than the man next to him due solely to this illusion.

“Rabbi Feinman will be pleased to hear this. For once, our dietary customs play into our favour. It would be an original occurrence.”

“I’ve had enough swine aboard this station to last me a lifetime. Tell your rabbit to expect me for the Seder. But really, must I wear the silly hat?”

Salt took these japes in good humour. “We wear yarmulke to temple to remind us that God watches us.”

“Then it’ll be a while before I convert, for what I have planned upon my return to Earth, I doubt I’ll want God seeing any of it.”

A roar of assent erupted from Provost and Holmes, and there was another toast. The men were getting drunker as time went on.

After cleaning her plate, Annabelle sat drinking the remnants of the excellent wine the stewards had served. She made brief conversation with Hague, over what it was later difficult to recall, waiting for van den Bosch to finish his meal before continuing her small inquisition.

“Doctor van den Bosch, the stabilisers. Do you know what caused them to malfunction?”

In the gloom she caught sight of a mouth beneath the bandages, something malformed and twisted. She tried not to recoil at its sight. Van den Bosch raised a napkin to it, blotting his mouth clean of grease and crumbs before answering. “No one can say. That is why the appearance of your friend, Mister Stone, has caused such celebration.”

Nathanial looked up from his meal and arched an eyebrow. “Celebration?”

“Oh, yes!” Provost exclaimed. “Why, you’ve arrived here on the backs of angels to deliver us from the very abyss!”

Another toast.

“I’m hardly a saviour, but I’ll do my best.”

“And that’s all that can be expected,” van den Bosch replied, appearing not at all like the monster Nathanial had described, but a mentor encouraging a doubting student.

“Is it common, then, for such systems to malfunction so soon after construction?”

“It’s an insufficient explanation, Miss Somerset,” said Mr. Fullbright, “but these things do happen from time to time.”

“But so soon? Nathanial has told me your chief architect, Professor Wren, has recently passed away, and now your stabilisers have broken down, and so close to an aether vortex. It all seems a little convenient to me.”

“Miss Somerset, are you suggesting sabotage?” van den Bosch asked.

Nathanial cut in. “You’ll have to excuse Miss Somerset. She’s read too many adventure stories, and now she sees master criminals in every shadow.”

“Indeed,” van den Bosch replied. “I assure you, Miss Somerset, that there are no such goings-on here. What we have instead is overworked staff who are desperately trying to complete the station under schedule, if sadly over budget. You’re the first woman most of these men have seen in a long time, and they miss their homes. They want to be away from this place, and I don’t blame them. Professor Wren’s death, if you must know, was the result of a laboratory accident. He, too, was overworked and homesick, and no doubt this, in part, led to the accident. So you see, we have no great evil lying in wait for us here, merely mundane things which plague any man who’s been taken from his home for long periods. But you must understand, it’s no less deadly.”

“A laboratory accident?” Annabelle asked. “Was this the fire, then, that killed him?”

Silence followed. Van den Bosch rubbed his hands together, and then made them disappear entirely beneath the table. He was growing tense.

Hague cleared his throat. “Professor Wren and Doctor van den Bosch were old friends, Miss Somerset,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ve all taken the professor’s death dearly, but none more so than our administrator.”

“And what did you do with Professor Wren’s body?”

“Annabelle, really!” Nathanial whispered.

“I’m just curious, Nathanial.”

“And well you should be,” van den Bosch said, once again entering the fray. “I must say, this station must present a wonderful puzzle to someone with such an active imagination as yours. The secrecy which surrounds us must seem nefarious indeed.”

“I was thinking more about the social customs of a settlement existing outside of Earth,” Annabelle said. “I’ve seen many differing customs in my recent travels. Here, you live in a sealed community, and what is perfectly normal for Earth becomes impractical here. After all, there is no graveyard, I would imagine.”

Van den Bosch stared for a moment. “Bodies are to be disposed of immediately, Miss Somerset. Is that what you’re asking? A human corpse carries disease, and gases formed in decomposition can taint our air supply. Look around you. You will never find a cleaner, more sterile environment for workers. We must keep it that way, or the very air we breathe will become toxic.”

“So you pushed him out an airlock?”

“Annabelle!”

“Yes,” van den Bosch said, with the calm, yet patronising air of a father explaining something to an innocent child. “Now, this sort of talk is hardly fare for the dinner table. Please, let’s talk of other things.”

Nathanial shot a warning glance across the table, but Annabelle ignored it.

3.

Dolan arrived before the meal was finished and took a place next to Annabelle. He carried with him something wrapped in cloth, which he set on the floor next to his feet. His arrival annoyed Fullbright, who said, “Well, hello, Dolan. Come to see how quality dines?”

Dolan was served before he had even settled in. His wine glass was filled to the brim, and he took it up with great relish. “Oh, yes. Quality. You’ve got to love a man who thinks he’s better than the jack next to him because of some miracle of geography or birth. I’ll tell you what I’m curious to see, is how Quality plans to avert the disaster befalling this station, or how Quality’s social standing will be miracle enough to spirit him off this station, once the dying starts. Me, I’m of the opinion that death will come for Quality the same way it comes for us poor, common souls in the sweaty darkness of this place, and it will be just as horrific. The question is, how will Quality choose to die? That’s what I’m curious to see.”

“Oh, but haven’t you heard?” Fullbright asked, sneering. “Mister Stone here is going to save us all.”

Dolan turned an amused eye on Nathanial. “Oh, is that so? And how will you see to that, Professor?”

“We were just speaking on that,” Nathanial replied. “Before we went on a conversational tangent, I was going to say that I won’t know exactly what is wrong until I’ve taken a holistic view of Peregrine itself. Afterwards, I’ll begin to form my theories.”

“All well and good, but will your theories be in time to save us?”

“Of that, I’m sure. Luckily for you, Mister Dolan, your very problem lies within the very realm of my specialty. Once I’ve ascertained the problem, repairing the damage will not take long at all, assuming we have the parts and facilities for repair.”

“We do,” said van den Bosch.

“You seem very confident,” Dolan said.

“Confidence has nothing to do with it,” Nathanial replied. “Mathematical certainty is on my side. Confidence is merely an offshoot of one’s arrogance. Science has no arrogance. It simply is. I apply the principles of nature to the problem. Thus, I am its vessel, if you’ll permit a religious metaphor. Does the hammer feel confident it can drive the nail into a plank of wood? Of course not.”

Dolan rolled his eyes and snickered, a show for the others. “Well, you’ve certainly leapt head and shoulders above me, Mister Stone,” he said. “All this talk of religious hammers and the like, and my head is swimming.”

“I don’t mean to condescend, Mister Dolan.”

“No, no. Not at all.” Dolan downed the rest of his wine, poured a fresh glass, and downed it, too. He then reached for the parcel he had brought with him, unwrapped it, and set a cylindrical device onto the table between himself and Nathanial.

Annabelle recognised it immediately, and stifled a gasp. Realisation was slower to come from the others, but when it did, it came in a storm. Several men leapt to their feet, repelled by horror.

Van den Bosch roared for silence. He then turned his wrath on the Irishman. “What is the meaning of this, Dolan? How dare you bring such a thing as this to our dinner table?”

“It’s just so you know, sir. It seems that Mister Stone isn’t the only one confident in his abilities. Someone else believes likewise, someone who isn’t content to let the vortex do its work. And don’t worry; I’ve already removed the timer. We had an hour left.”

“You could have made your point without bringing it here.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I do have a certain flair for the dramatic. And begging your pardon, it’s easier to make a point when everyone feels they’ve got a personal stake in the matter.”

Annabelle glanced at Nathanial, who was as pale as a ghost. “Where did you find it?” he asked.

“One of my men found it while we were stowing your belongings in your new quarters. It was secured to the underside of your cot.”

“My God,” Salt whispered. “An hour, you say? That would have—ˮ

“Yes, it would have been just enough time for Mister Stone to have finished dinner and retired for the evening. Likely it would have taken him while he slept. A rather grim blessing, as blessings go, but one nonetheless.”

Little could be said after that. All eyes were on the bomb, which was three sticks of red dynamite lashed together with twine. That much explosive would have blown a hole in the outer hull, as well, and the catastrophic damage would have done more than kill one scientist. It would probably kill most of the men on the station.

Nathanial looked at Annabelle, who was still staring at her friend. Fear danced behind his eyes. She wanted to hold his hand and tell him he would be all right, but just then, she could hardly suppress the excitement and a certain smugness entering into her overall demeanour.

Overactive imagination indeed.

Chapter Six

“Pickwick’s Inheritors”

1.

Mad bomber. Anarchist. Saboteur. Assassin.

The glass of brandy pushed into Nathanial’s hands helped somewhat, but the words continued to loom over him like shadows. He looked at the brown liquid, swishing in the glass, and wished for Arnaud’s company.

“For your nerves,” Fullbright said, indicating the liquor. Holmes raised his glass in salute.

“Difficult thing, indeed,” Holmes added. He filled a snifter for himself from the decanter on the table before him.

Holmes’ quarters lay at one end of sickbay, with his private office at the other end. The quarters looked more like a sitting room in a middle class London home, with several overstuffed chairs and a settee pulled into a circle around the table. Two oak bookshelves protected its volumes behind glass cabinet doors that slid down when the books were not being perused. A small bed was all that told a visitor this was a private quarters. Indeed, Holmes’ intent surely had been to make this place welcome to visitors, and visitors he had.

Provost and Fullbright took their seats nearby, concern on their faces. Each sipped from a glass of brandy and regarded their new visitor with grave faces. Nathanial appreciated their concern, but he was uncomfortable under such scrutiny.

“I had a patient attack me with a knife,” Holmes said. “Came right at me. He was down from Winlaton. Turned over a new leaf, he’d said. He had taken up with his brother-in-law a bit late in life, or so he said, and was learning the pawnbroker business. Spent most of his life working the coal mines. The diagnosis I gave him, black lung, should not have come as a surprise to him, then, but I suppose he felt he had escaped that fate. It was too much for him to take, and he tried to kill me.”

“Sad thing, that,” Fullbright said, clearly lacking empathy, but trying nonetheless.

“Mmmm. Indeed it was. I still have the scar to remind me. Taught me something about mortality.”

“What did it teach you?” Nathanial asked.

“Nothing I can say to you, lad,” Holmes said. “Put any man in the same situation, and he would learn an entirely different lesson, each personal to he who learns it.” Momentarily the doctor’s eyes became lucid, and he squinted at Nathanial. “But I think you know that, or are becoming aware of it, at any rate.”

“How could someone have laid a trap for me so quickly?” Nathanial asked. The question had been rolling around in his head since dinner. He had scarcely heard van den Bosch’s roars of outrage and dire threats toward Dolan and the others to find the responsible party and bring him to justice. He had only nodded, numb, when Holmes had suggested he repair to quarters with the rest of them for a nip of “the creature”. Nathanial could not even remember if he had finished his dinner or not, knowing only that his appetite was gone, and that his hands had not stopped shaking. Now the question came tumbling out, and he was sure it sounded desperate.

Fullbright was quick to put him at ease. “We’ve known about you for several days. We keep observers at their posts on the telescopes at all times, every cycle. Your flyer was seen three days ago. I recommended caution even though the Juggernaut was ready to hit you with broadsides as soon as you were spotted. You were given the opportunity to change course away from Peregrine, but you instead altered course directly for us.”

“I corrected course for Mars,” Nathanial protested.

“I’m sure that’s so, but we couldn’t know that at the time. So, we prepared to intercept you. Word of your existence must have trickled down to the workers from that moment. So you see, there was more time to prepare a trap for you than you think. This surely can’t comfort you, of course, but there you have it.”

“And who’s to say it was directed at you, anyway,” Provost said.

“Oh, yes. There is that,” Holmes said, finishing his brandy. He sat forward and poured another, and when he reclined again, he looked none too likely to continue his narrative.

“What?” Nathanial asked.

“Oh, the usual,” Provost said. “At least, we believed it was nothing. Every project, even the most secret ones, get found out.”

“There are anarchists everywhere,” Fullbright added, “enemies of the Crown, even in the highest levels of Parliament. Rumour is passed around, and our enemies become aware of our activities.”

“Same thing happened on Harbinger,” Holmes said.

“Someone tried to blow it up?” Nathanial asked.

“Oh, no,” Holmes said. “You misunderstand.”

“Threats,” Provost said. “Written threats. Notes slipped under doors, stuck to doors back on Earth with knives, pinned to dead animals left on ministry doorsteps. Frightful stuff, meant to scare us away from progress.”

“I wasn’t aware of this,” Nathanial said.

“Of course not,” said Provost. “This is not the first heliograph station I’ve helped hurl into the sky, you see. Holmes and I were on Harbinger when we began receiving threats. And really, Stone, that was all they ever were, was threats. So you see, we had no reason to believe any different this time around. Empty threats to destabilise this co-venture between the United Kingdom and Austria.”

Nathanial shook his head. He was by no means a drinker of spirits, and already the brandy was muddying his senses. “Just a moment, gentlemen, please. Let me see if I understand you. You’ve been receiving death threats prior to my arrival.”

“That is correct,” Fullbright said. “We were scarcely up a week. The shell was together, and we had just begun pressurising the interior.”

“Yes,” Provost said. “I was overseeing the greenhouses. My crew and I were the only ones on Peregrine at that point.”

“Oh, yes,” added Fullbright. “Living out of the cutters and tugs we’d brought with us. The last ship had come to resupply us before we moved to our new accommodations, and the first note arrived. Slipped under the Juggernaut’s door of an evening.”

“Full of the usual monstrosities, of course,” Provost said, hints of a smile reminding Nathanial of the man’s wit. “Entrails, brutality, entrails, heads on pikes, a world without sin, entrails, etcetera. Really frightful stuff. We all had a good laugh over it, in fact.”

“Well, as you can see, there’s no reason to laugh over it anymore,” Nathanial said, a trifle angry at the flippancy that had gone on prior to his arrival. But of course, they could not have known something like this would happen. He had no reason to be angry, really, at least not at them. Now, the one who had tried to kill him, oh, there was plenty of anger for him, and it was just starting to bubble to the surface. Nathanial downed the rest of his brandy, felt it burn his throat and trace the shape of his stomach.

He held out the snifter, and Holmes refilled it.

“Then again,” Provost said, “it may not be an anarchist at all, just some fellow gone off his chump.”

That wasn’t a wholly reassuring notion, but Nathanial understood its intent. “So, our objective, then, is to get drunk and forget about it?” he asked.

“Oh, good heavens, no!” Holmes cried. “Your intention should be to repair our broken stabilisers before the vortex devours us whole, and our intent is to make sure such a thing happens.”

“Hear hear!” Fullbright and Provost said in unison, and there was a particularly vigorous toast at this pronouncement.

Nathanial could not help but smile. Truly, he had been thrilled at the antics of these men from the moment he had met them, and now he was sure his instincts had been true. Surely, they looked a mess, but they were good chaps, all of them, drunkenness aside.

“Well, thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m glad for your help.”

Fullbright laughed. “You’re going to need it, believe me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Provost.

“I think you’re going to find Doctor van den Bosch quite difficult,” Holmes said.

Nathanial chuckled into his snifter. “Oh, I’ve already learned that first hand. Does anyone know a good drinking song?”

They knew several, in fact.

Chapter Seven

“A Tour”

1.

“Thank you for escorting me to my quarters, Mister Dolan.”

“Not at all, Miss Somerset. I feel I should make up for our first meeting.”

Dolan was charming enough, if a bit rough around the edges. He had a strong, kind face, even if he smiled far too much for her liking. Though she was reserving judgment for later, Annabelle felt here was a man with whom she could help pass the time on Peregrine. Nathanial, after all, would plunge himself into his work soon, and he would be unavailable to fill those hours of boredom. She needed some kind of distraction. Dolan, as security chief and a man with access to these mad bomber investigations, was just that man.

Branching from the basilica in the middle of Heaven were two wings, one called British, the other, Austrian. British contained Starward Observation, sickbay, administration, two laboratories, the Greenhouse One lift, the galley and the quarters for all the department heads. Annabelle and Nathanial had been installed in Austrian, where station operations, the lifts for Greenhouses Two and Three, the quartermaster and the remainder of the labs resided. Annabelle and Dolan had left Starward and were making for the basilica. As security chief, Dolan wanted to personally assure Loaves and Jasperse, who had been attached as guards to protect Annabelle and Nathanial’s quarters, were in place. Jasperse, he said, did not worry him; Loaves, on the other hand, had to be seen to.

“Dim-witted,” he said.

“That doesn’t inspire my confidence.”

“Oh, he’s a loyal fellow, and true. Once he’s had his orders explained to him, you’ll find no one more steadfast. But if you’ve got a complex task, Loaves is not your man. I just want him to know exactly what I expect.”

“Very well. Doctor van den Bosch doesn’t think too highly of your men, does he? What did he call them?”

“‘Cockney guttersnipes’. And no, I can’t imagine he does, but it’s not like him to ever honour a man for his good works. He only berates a person on his failures. He had nothing good at all to say about any of us, did he, only that he wanted me on the job personally where it came to finding the bomber, not one of the infamous cockneys on me staff. That’s about as close to a compliment as you’ll find falling from his tongue. You should bear that in mind, seeing as he dislikes women more than he does guttersnipes.”

“Really? I thought I had simply made a bad impression on him with all of my questions.”

Dolan favoured her with a wise look. “Spoke roughly with you, did he?”

“No, just dismissive, is all. I think I would have preferred evoking his ire.”

“Only because you haven’t seen it yet. Your friend Stone has, I’ll wager. Timid as a mouse, he is.”

“Well.” Annabelle let that trail off. She hadn’t approved of Dolan being so rough with Nathanial earlier, and would give the man no ammunition to damn her friend further.

“So I guess you’ll be working with him, then? Stone?”

“Actually, I’m not certain. I think I’m expected to sit patiently in my quarters and wait for the men to tell me what to do.” Her tone explained how she felt about that, and Dolan smiled yet again in response.

“Not your cuppa, then?”

“Reading dusty books Mister Hague brings me while there is a man out there, right now, planning how best to kill me and everyone else aboard this station? Perish the thought. That’s hardly fit for someone with my energies.”

“Are you a woman of action, then, miss?”

“I am, at that.”

Dolan knuckled his moustache. “And such modesty, too.”

“Modesty is not my strong suit, nor is subtlety. This, despite my mother’s best attempts to soften me into something more approaching a lady.”

Two workmen passed, struggling to walk, and seemingly carrying nothing until Annabelle realised it was a large pane of glass, so pristine it was nearly invisible.

“What is that about?” Dolan asked the men.

“Is goin’ into the big room on the end there,” one of the workmen said. His accent was one of those barely comprehensible British varieties that seemed to rely heavily on a listener’s skill with context rather than the speaker’s enunciation.

The second worker’s brows knitted, no doubt noticing Dolan’s reddened cheeks. “Are you drunk?”

“I am, at that,” Dolan said proudly.

“’Ow’d you come by it, then?”

“Privileges of rank.”

The men roared with laughter. “You’re about as high up as worm’s shite, Dolan,” the first worker said, and the men engaged in further rough camaraderie before remembering a lady was present. Following some mumbled apologies, the workers lit out with their burden.

“No telling what it’s for,” Dolan said when they were moving again. “This place is fat with extravagance.”

“I’ve noticed that’s a mainstay of your empire,” Annabelle replied.

Dolan threw a look over his shoulder. “Not my empire, I can assure you. Unless you’re to mean that it’s built with blood and tears of men such as myself, and our bodies are its foundation.”

“My, but you have a touch of rebellion in you!”

Dolan shrugged. “Ah, it’s the wine speaking to you, just now. But yes. I suppose I do, to some extent. Spent a good deal of my youth abroad, doing odd jobs in your neck of the woods, in fact. Maybe I got me some of that rebellious fire while I visited.”

“You’ve lived in the States? Which part?”

“Both. Wherever the job took me. I didn’t like the Confederates so much. Lots of places with signs that read, ‘No Indians, no Irish’. Slept in more than me fair share of barns, there.”

2.

Before reaching the basilica, Dolan stopped and pointed down a hall to his left. At the end, in one of the only well-lit places Annabelle had seen thus far, was a fountain, sparkling in the bright light, partially tiled in turquoise. “Built that meself, when I first come came here,” he said. “Next to it is Professor Wren’s old laboratory. I was working the day of the accident. They keep the place locked up tight, these days. I wonder sometimes about it.”

“About what?”

Dolan shook his head. “I just wonder, is all.”

They crossed the basilica and soon found Nathanial’s quarters. There were no proper doors on Peregrine Station, or so Loaves had told them in their short walk to dinner earlier that evening. Professor Wren had not wanted the artistic flow to be interrupted for any reason, and had instead installed secret doors to every room. The trick in learning each door was in finding its locking mechanism, which was usually hidden somewhere in the artwork. In a cold shot of irony, a bas relief menagerie of grinning human skulls lined the wall. Dolan said it was Wren’s memory of the catacombs he had seen while in Paris. Annabelle suppressed a shudder to look at it. The skulls seemed to be mocking her. Dolan stuck fingers into the eye sockets of one, and the loud clacking noise could be heard as the door unlocked. The panel slid aside, and inside the room was one of Dolan’s men, sitting at a table, carbine across his lap. He nodded at them.

“Jasperse here will stand watch for Stone. You’ll be under guard until we find this bomber fellow. Jasperse, has Loaves been by recent?”

“He has,” said Jasperse. “Said he was off to grab a spot to eat from the galley, and that he would be along to Miss Somerset’s room as presently as could be expected.” Jasperse was a stocky man, solidly built, with greying chestnut hair and sea green eyes that seemed to stare into the netherworld. The man was as still and cold as stone.

“’Bout what we can expect, I guess,” Dolan replied.

“Yes, sir, but Loaves is all right.”

“As I was just telling Miss Somerset, here. Well, good evening to you, Jasperse.”

Dolan slid closed the panel, and they continued on their way.

3.

“So, about your man, Stone. Not much to him, is there?” Dolan asked when they were out of Jasperse’s earshot.

“Still waters run deep,” Annabelle replied.

Dolan shrugged. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“I’m sure you can make a case for your own worthiness without having to tear down another man, Mister Dolan.”

Again came the smile that always seemed to last a second or two too long. “Of that, I’m sure. Known him long, have you?”

“Some eighteen months or so, but we’ve seen a good deal together since April. One gets the full measure of a fellow when bullets are whizzing past your head.”

“Never took him for a bullets whizzing by your head kind of fellow.”

“Not by choice, I can assure you. He’s come a long way, though. I’ll make an adventurer out of him yet.” She cut her eyes sideways and peered at Dolan. “What about you, Mister Dolan? Are you that kind of man? You must be, if you’ve taken on the job of finding this bomber so readily.”

“Oh, I do all right.”

“But you want the job, correct?”

“Of course! I mean, that is to say, I don’t fancy facing down any sort of danger, especially since I was brought up here to do the sweeping up and all. But really, you’ve seen the rest. Do any of them seem like candidates for clamping shackles on a madman?”

Annabelle stopped in the middle of the hallway. “Mister Dolan,” she said, “I would love it ever so much if you would let me assist you in your investigation.”

“I would if I could, but the good doctor would never hear of it.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“Oh, he’ll know. There’ll be little birds aplenty to tell on me, rest assured.” He pantomimed birds twittering about his head. The significance was clear.

A man like van den Bosch had spies on this station, reporting anything and everything. Moving about here would be more difficult than Annabelle had originally believed. Spies would not so easily warm to fluttering eyelashes or fawning compliments. She would have to be more subtle if she was going to have her way. Mother would approve.

Chapter Eight

“A Study in Sawdust”

1.

A group of workers passed by, most of them on the way to the galley for dinner. Dolan seemed to know them all, calling them by name and speaking a word or two, usually in jest. The men responded in kind. This happened twice before Dolan stopped another Irishman on some matter that made no sense to Annabelle.

Her mind wandered. As it did, so did her attentions. Three men were coming her way. Two of them had dollies laden with wooden crates. What they might contain, one could only guess. Probably more polished stone tiles for the mosaic she had seen earlier, the one in the Starward Observation that appeared to be of the inner planets. Or perhaps the crates held more of the ghastly African and Oriental statuettes she had seen everywhere. This Professor Wren had been quite certain in his artistic principles, contrasting glory and doom with such artfulness. But with the long shadows, doom was certainly winning. Surely if the aether had weather, Peregrine would be eternally shrouded in deadly thunderstorms and moonless nights.

Another man followed closely behind the two with the dollies. He was a short fellow, soft around the middle, with curly hair the colour of beach sand. His face was a permanent red, a trait common in men with such fair complexion. Dolan paused and nodded to the first two men, but his attention reverted to his conversation with the Irishman when the third fellow passed. As he came into full view Annabelle saw that the front of his blue coveralls was flecked with pieces of white grit. She peered closer, yet tried not to stare. Sawdust?

Dolan finished his conversation, and apologised as they continued on their way. Annabelle cast a single glance over her shoulder, just in time to see the sandy-haired man duck around a corner.

“Dolan, I know this is a strange question, but must this station be kept so clean?”

“Yes, it’s essential. Professor Wren designed the rudiments of a system that cleans the air of dust and such, but it’s every man’s responsibility to maintain cleanliness at all times.” He chuckled. “You ought to hear the grumbling at how often the men are required to bathe. It’s like they’re being asked to strip off their hide.”

They arrived at her quarters. Dolan felt along the art-free wall until he found a slight impression. Pressing it, the mechanism clacked, and the door slid open, revealing Annabelle’s quarters.

“So why this concern over cleanliness?” he asked.

Annabelle smiled. “No reason.”

Dolan smiled for the thousandth time and said, “You’re an odd one, Miss Somerset, but just what the doctor ordered for this station. Loaves will be along in a moment to stand guard outside your door.” He gave her a nod to go with the smile. “Well, good evening, then.”

Dolan left, and Annabelle pretended to enter her quarters and slide the door shut, but rather than let the mechanism engage, she held it a moment, just long enough for Dolan put some distance between himself and her quarters. When she was sure he had gone, she dashed out, following the last route she had seen the sandy-haired man take, nearly colliding with a lean Indian fellow with several pieces of crown moulding thrown over his shoulder. He sucked in breath when he saw her, and dodged out of her path.

“Sorry!” she cried and hurried on her way.

2.

She rounded the corner and left the main corridor. She came to a four-way crossing and arbitrarily chose right. An urgent fear that she was about to lose the sandy-haired man spurred her on, and she broke into a half-run, made difficult by her shoes, which pinched her heels. She kept to the same corridor so she did not get lost. Soon, she caught sight of her man. He was strolling up the main corridor, headed toward British. Nothing in his hands, his posture and overall lack of urgency the very antithesis of the industry the other workers had so far shown, but instead a man trying to appear nonchalant and failing. He stopped once as three fellows were hauling a heavy oaken liquor cabinet past, and he turned to the way they’d come, as if choosing the path at random. Annabelle slowed her pace and began to follow him, twenty or thirty steps behind, careful not to lose him in the throng of workers going to and fro, but keeping enough of a distance to avoid calling attention to herself.

The trip took them deep into British. Just before entering Starward Observation he turned right, went two doors down, and paused before a panel. Annabelle stumbled at the abrupt stop, barely catching herself before a nasty fall. Using the wall she clawed herself back into an upright position, and scampered for safety around the corner. From this vantage point she saw the man pull a piece of cream-coloured paper, folded in thirds, from his coverall. He bent low and slipped this piece of paper beneath. A quick glance over his shoulder almost caught sight of Annabelle, who pulled back just in time to avoid being seen. She waited for a minute before looking around the corner again, her heart beating in her chest. When she finally did so, the man was gone.

She ran in pursuit, turned right (there was no choice, this time), but found, to her dismay, the corridor before her was long, unbroken, and quite empty. The man was gone.

“Damn,” she muttered.

3.

Sawdust.

She had seen a lot of it in Arizona. Uncle Cyrus had moved in many circles, and often found it necessary to employ men with certain expertise in scientific areas that seemed so much more thrilling and violent than her uncle’s madcap inventions. These men and their devices seemed so much earthier, so much more practical than theoretical mathematics and natural philosophy. Such devices attracted that inexplicable wild blood in her, the stuff left over from her hardscrabble life with the Apache, and she’d followed these men about, flirting with them on occasion and otherwise using her wiles to keep herself in their company, learning everything she could.

So, she knew a thing or two about sawdust and its many uses. Like how nitro-glycerine was terribly unstable, and demolitionists were inclined to soak it in sawdust, which helped diminish its instability so it could be transported easier. Sawdust soaked nitro could be packed into sticks of dynamite, and with a few carefully placed charges, you could blow the top off a mountain.

Or blow a heliograph station to Hell and back.

Call it a hunch, but Annabelle was certain she had just seen Nathanial’s would-be killer.

Chapter Nine

“Frustration”

1.

EXCERPT 34.

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

Tuesday September 3rd, 1889.

Four days have passed since arriving on Peregrine Station, and I still am no closer to finding the cause of the stabiliser malfunction.

It has taken my host little time to begin stymieing my research. I’m confined to quarters except for necessary things such as to confer with department heads, to eat or bathe, and to meet with van den Bosch himself, which I am required to do before dinner each night. Hell is strictly forbidden, and it is here that the majority of my work is likely to take me. However, Doctor van den Bosch has declared it unsafe, given the presence of the bomber, who has yet to be sighted, much less caught, and because the doctor does not feel it is necessary for me to move about to perform my job. This frustrates me no end. I need to see the machinery, feel it in my hands if possible, and by denying me access he limits my effectiveness. Instead, I receive reports from men who have performed certain inspections in my stead. These men I do not know nor trust. After all, why should I trust the word of a stonemason who has been sent to study physical condition of a solar boiler? I wonder for the thousandth time why there exists this need for so much secrecy. Is the answer so easy, that van den Bosch is a petty tyrant, or it is it something more? Mysteries abound here, and every question that is answered spawns three more of the same.

The one shining light in all of this has been my nocturnal excursions to Holmes’ quarters. My new friends have made these past few days almost bearable. We gather each evening and partake of the finest liquor I have ever drunk (Arnaud would be most proud of me, I suspect), and some of the finest company I have ever experienced. Not since my days at Oxford have I felt such an easy camaraderie! Provost and Fullbright are thick as thieves, and they possess matching razor wits. Holmes is a pure wonder, a bon vivant locked away in this wretched place. I welcome every delightful story, every anecdote, every witticism and grandiose lie he tells. He is wise, and I have not forgotten that it was he who said van den Bosch and his cronies would hinder my work. He has placed himself and our friends in my service, if necessary. I hope it won’t come to that; I’ve no wish to strain their professional relationships with Dr van den Bosch, given the man’s dire reputation. However, if I make no headway in my formal investigations, I will be forced to accept their help for more clandestine inquiries.

Annabelle has been acting strangely. The morning I began to work on the stabiliser problem, she came to me, asking all manner of odd questions. I fear the dark atmosphere might be straining her nerves already. She asked about Gothic romances, a topic in which I confess little interest, such whimsy is more suited to my dear little brother. She nevertheless began to speak as if I had affirmed a deep love for these books, speaking on their conventions as though we were at a sewing circle. Helpless heroines trapped in dark, frightening men with absolute power over the heroine, dark secrets, and haunted houses. Oh, and secret passages within those houses. Yes, that’s what she was on about the most. Ghosts and secret passages.

“Wouldn’t it be grand if this were such a place, with hidden routes all over the station where one could travel top to bottom, with no other soul ever being the wiser?”

Well, of course there is such a way, and when I mentioned this she shrieked with such force Jasperse crashed into my quarters, rifle at the ready, believing we were somehow under attack.

Naturally, this station was constructed by men, and all parts must be accessible by men if maintenance is to be performed. Furthermore, its inhabitants are in need of breathable air, piped from the greenhouses above. So, naturally, Peregrine has air ducts capable of accommodating a man of average or greater size. Whole networks of them, in fact, exist throughout, allowing for the natural circulation of air from the steam turbines. She begged that I show her what I meant, and I produced the station blueprints just for that purpose. She was pleased at this revelation, and I have not seen her since, though I understand she has since begun giving her guard, the dim-witted Loaves, fits, disappearing for long periods of time while under his care, only to reappear later. I pray that whatever she is doing, that she at least be careful. The bomber is, after all, still roaming about, and capable of cold-blooded murder. I pray for her.

I pray for us all, in fact. As I was returning from Holmes’ quarters last night, there came a slight tremor beneath my feet. A few moments later, there came another, only this one was more distinct…our first encounters with the far edge of the aether vortex. The violence done to this structure shall only get worse. Please, God, don’t let my efforts be in vain.

2.

The room shook. The wineglass holding down the blueprint’s upper left corner began to slosh. Nathanial snatched the glass up before its contents could spill, took a sip, and held it until the shaking subsided.

“They’re coming with more frequency, they are,” Jasperse said. The way he said it, he might have been making an off-hand comment on the weather. He sat on Nathanial’s cot, nursing a mug of beer. Nathanial liked having the man in his company. Jasperse had seen a great many things in his life. Not just war, though the man had seen plenty of that, but he had travelled, too. Coming out into the aether was just another journey for him. Something about his demeanour was soothing to Nathanial’s nerves, which would otherwise be increasingly jangled.

“It’s going to get worse before it gets better, I’m afraid,” Nathanial replied.

“It always does, but you’ll uncover the problem, soon enough. You’ll see.”

“I wish I had your confidence.” Nathanial motioned to the stacks of reports on the floor next to his foot. “Nothing in any of these suggest even a rumour of a problem. Normally, this would be cause for celebration, but we know something is not working.”

Nathanial sipped his wine and tried to relax. If he could relax and clear his mind, perhaps a solution might wander in, as had happened in days past when Grant and he were working on the governor. In those days he would often find shade and sit in the dust, drinking water drawn from an artesian well, so crisp and cold it made his throat ache to swallow it, and he would relax. Staring up at the cloudless, azure skies his mind would drift into unrelated fancies. If nothing else, these daydreams were fine ways to pass afternoons where Cyrus was too moody for close company. Annabelle would return from her daily rambles into the desert or mountains, and they would talk until Cyrus would come upon them and scold Annabelle for taking company with a bachelor without a proper chaperone.

Nathaniel downed the last of his wine and set the glass on the floor. The leather satchel containing his books sat near the door. He reached over and rummaged through the bag. His journal was there, of course, and the copy of Conklin’s Atlas of the Worlds which he had procured before leaving for Venus. But neither of these books had the weight he needed.

“Ha!” he exclaimed and pulled out a thick volume, an overview on the principles of thermodynamics, and used it to hold down the corner of the blueprints instead of the glass. “All of this would be easier if Doctor van den Bosch would give me run of the station,” he said, wiping beer foam from his upper lip.

“Yes, but orders are orders,” Jasperse replied. “And I quite agree with the doctor on this point, I do. One attempt has already been made on your life. If you were to go gallivanting across the station, who knows what might happen? At any rate, Dolan’s incompetence is only likely to embolden our mad bomber in the coming days.”

This wasn’t the first time Jasperse had made disparaging remarks about the Irishman, Jasperse’s superior. “You don’t think highly of Mister Dolan, do you?”

Jasperse snorted. “The Army is full of men like him. They get promoted more for the art of their mouths than for any proper distinction. That boy was in the right place at the right time, and he’ll never let the doctor forget this, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, the accident, of course.”

“Accident? Do you mean—ˮ

“Yes. The one what killed that professor fellow.”

“Wren?”

“That’s his name. The doctor was there that day, and Dolan, too.”

“Extraordinary!”

“Well, you don’t think the doctor got in the shape he’s in now by being mauled by Bengal tigers, do you?”

“He was burned?”

“No, I should think it’s something more than that. They say that Wren fellow was set aflame and died of his injuries, but the doctor…he was hurt by something else.”

“Like what?”

Jasperse scratched at a peppery muttonchop. “Something Wren was working on, or so goes the scuttlebutt. The man had some peculiar ideas about the aether. Anyway, old Dolan was right outside the room, grouting that fountain of his, when he heard the commotion. Pulled the doctor out of there before the old man could be consumed, he did. And there hasn’t been a day pass since that he hasn’t reminded everyone of his heroics. It got him his promotion, and he’s done little since because of it except strut about. Peacocks like Dolan get honest men killed.”

“I should like to see this experiment Professor Wren was working on,” Nathanial said. “Once we’ve escaped our current predicament, of course.”

“Little chance of that, I’m afraid,” Jasperse said, shaking his head. “After the accident, they shut the place up tight, with all of Wren’s notes and God only knows what else. Makes one wonder, why build such a lab for the professor. No call for it, really. This station isn’t rated for research of any kind, and it was a waste of resources when everyone knows we’re woefully over budget. Mister Hague, now there’s a small tyrant, has reminded us of that on more than one occasion.” The old guard wagged a finger. “You mark my words, Mister Stone, there’s more going on here than just a heliograph station.”

“Glad to hear you say it, Jasperse. It’s been on my mind lately.” Yes, indeed. He recalled what van den Bosch had told Annabelle over dinner that first night, about the lights once being dim because the energy was being directed elsewhere. But to where? Wren’s lab? It agitated his curiosity just to think of it.

Jasperse, as if sensing Nathanial’s growing pique, continued with his theories. “Oh, there is something going on. Peregrine’s the third station built, and with Venus screaming for theirs. Why build it here? And why all the hush-hush?”

“And the ostentation. What do they hope to gain from making the station so ornate?”

“A museum, is my guess.”

“A museum? That makes sense.”

“Indeed. I’ve heard it said more than once. Mister Salt is constantly on about posterity. The doctor, he sees a time when travel in the aether will be as commonplace as a fellow taking a locomotive or dirigible from London to Brixton. People will come by the dozens to see a magnificent museum, floating freely in space. A hundred years from now, they’ll come by the thousands.” He made a dismissive noise. “It’s all vanity, I say, and vanity devours men like jackals.”

“One could say it certainly devoured Professor Wren.”

“And nearly the doctor himself.”

“Perhaps I’ll mention this to Doctor van den Bosch when I see him. Do you think he would appreciate the observations of a mere guard and an enslaved scientist?”

Jasperse chuckled. “Is it almost that time again?”

“Soon enough, Mister Hague will come by and collect me. Last night, Doctor van den Bosch yelled at me, calling me an incompetent. I wonder what we’ll talk about tonight. Perhaps he’ll accuse me of espionage.” Nathanial toyed with his whiskers. “Jasperse, if I did want to enter Professor Wren’s old laboratory, how would I get inside?”

The old soldier shrugged. “Easy enough, I would imagine. No one ever guards it, but it’s locked. You’d need a set of keys.”

“And these keys; they wouldn’t just be lying about somewhere that any old chap could pinch them, eh?”

“The doctor’s private study is where you’ll find those.”

“But if it was unlocked for some reason?”

“Then a chap could waltz right in, pretty as you please.”

“And you would stop me if I were to go waltzing one night?” Nathanial gave Jasperse a careful look to say he was serious.

“I wouldn’t be averse to helping you answer a nagging question or two, if that’s what you mean, sir.”

Nathanial smiled. “You’re a good man, Jasperse.”

“I try to be, sir.”

Chapter Ten

“The Austrian Manhunt”

1.

The station operated on a twenty-eight hour cycle rather than twenty-four, as one would see on Earth. However, the men worked in four shifts, fourteen hours at a time, which made for odd overlaps. Thus, the galley had to operate ’round-the-clock to meet the demands of a near-constant influx of workers wandering in for any of their daily three meals.

Annabelle hid inside the kitchen, watching the men sitting at the tables. Sweat and steam soaked her clothes. Currently, there were thirty-four men taking one meal or the other. None of them was her man.

The galley, usually a place for boisterous talk and good cheer, was silent, save for the occasional clatter of silverware on plates. Word had gotten around about the mad bomber. The men were trying to keep in good spirits, but they were becoming nervous. She had been with Dolan last evening when one of the men, witless with fear, was caught trying to steal one of the cutters. It was lucky for him it was Fullbright’s men who had gotten him and not one of the security force; for van den Bosch had given orders to shoot on sight anyone attempting to leave the station. The man was now in sickbay and received regular doses of ether to render him unconscious. To do otherwise was to have the man screaming and senseless. Annabelle’s guts squirmed with the mere thought of it.

The man had good reason to be afraid. The investigation was going poorly. Guards had already made a thorough search of Heaven, and they were posted at entrances to both British and Austrian to watch for anything out of the ordinary. Even now, they scoured Hell for any trace for either the bomber or further sabotage, but there was little hope of finding either. Hell was a labyrinth of twisting pipes, narrow passageways, and sweltering boiler rooms, all obscured by dim, red lighting and steam. The fellow need only pick a nice, dark corner, and an entire team of guards could pass him by none the wiser.

And anyway, no one knew the bomber’s description. Perhaps that was Annabelle’s fault, having seen the man she believed was responsible. Yet, she did not want to voice her theory without some kind of proof. She only had seen the man walking about the station, seemingly doing nothing, and then disappearing suddenly, as if through the walls themselves, with the only real piece of slightly damning evidence being that he was slovenly of dress, with sawdust on his uniform. That was hardly evidence, and van den Bosch would not react kindly to it. So far, he had been overlooking her repeatedly flummoxing Loaves to slip out of his company unnoticed so that she might go searching, but that would likely change if it was known that she was harassing workers with unfounded theories.

Dolan, meanwhile, had Doctor Holmes calling each man into his office under the auspices of a physical, but really they were using the station rolls as a checklist. Dolan believed that the bomber would recognise what was being done and fail to show up for his physical. If that was the case, they would have their man. What Dolan had failed to understand, and what Annabelle had tried and failed to explain, was that the plan assumed the bomber was on the rolls. What if he had been smuggled aboard somehow? Dolan, so far, seemed oblivious to such possibilities, or it could be that he did not care.

Already Annabelle was fed up with the man. Dolan was more interested in having his job than actually doing it, as if status was the most important thing to him. He strutted around, like the cock of the walk, talking to his friends, drinking whiskey, and gaming down in the workers’ dorms. More than once, she had thought of telling him what she knew. Maybe it would motivate him to find the bomber, if she gave him a clue to the man’s identity. She had not, though; there seemed little point, given his attitude. Sad. She really liked the man, but he was useless.

“’Ello, miss. Fancy findin’ you ’ere.”

Annabelle sighed and stood up. The day’s search was over. “Hello, Loaves. What can I do for you?”

“Anythin’ good on the menu, this evenin’?”

“Nothing. How goes the search of Hell?”

“In progress at the moment, miss. Still no sign of ’im. It’s like ’e…”

“Disappeared?”

“I was going to say, like ’e stepped outside the place, miss.”

“Did Mister Dolan send you to find me?”

“’E has at that, miss, after ’e gave me a boxing for losin’ you again. Could you stop doin’ that, miss? Please? I’m startin’ to look bad.”

“I’m sorry, Loaves. I don’t mean for you to lose me. I just wander off. My mother had the same problem as you when I was a girl. I just wander…” Annabelle paused for a moment, a rogue memory of the Chiricahua Mountains coming to the forefront of her mind. She shook it away with effort, and continued on. “So where is Mister Dolan, anyway?”

“Some crates have come up missing at the quartermaster.”

“Does this have anything to do with the bomber?”

Loaves looked confused. “Can’t say that I know, miss. Probably not, judgin’ by ’is annoyance. Normally, ’e’d assign one of us to the problem, but every man is spread out over ’ell.”

“So where does that leave us, then?”

“’E said come find you and bring you to ’im.” Loaves chuckled good-naturedly. “Maybe if ’e puts you to work, it’ll solve your wanderin’ problem.”

Annabelle sighed. “That it will.”

2.

Loaves led her through the kitchen and into the pantry. There, he opened a portal behind the staple goods, pulling the shelf inward like one might open a door. The hallway behind the secret door went left and right. To the left, Loaves explained, was a dumbwaiter that went into Hell. For what purpose, Loaves didn’t know. Next to the dumbwaiter was an airlock for the purposes of dumping refuse into the aether. Loaves told the story with the excitement of someone who’d just overheard an extraordinary tale at the pub.

To the right was a long hallway, given a sterile whitewash, that came to an abrupt end. A palm plate near the dead end opened a wall panel with a hiss of compressed steam, revealing the passageway that ran alongside the galley.

“Are there many secret passages like this throughout the station?”

Loaves shrugged. “None else that I know of, miss, but I haven’t been everywhere. There’s a rumour of a lift that goes straight from Mister Provost’s quarters into the green house, but that’s all I know.”

The quartermaster was an Austrian. Annabelle and Loaves passed Nathanial’s quarters, as it was just off the basilica. She wondered what he was doing. She really needed to speak with him soon. Someone else had to hear her theory, even as mad as it sounded. Of course, he would likely scoff, too, given her lack of evidence, yet not as harshly as she was likely to get from van den Bosch or one of his cronies. And, he made a good sounding board for her thoughts. A simple conversation with him might illuminate some avenues of inquiry she had missed. The secret passage problem, for instance. Air ducts! It was all so maddeningly simple, yet she had never thought of it.

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but you seem upset about summat.”

Annabelle caught Loaves staring at her, brow furrowed. He was genuinely concerned with her safety and well-being. It made her feel guilty that she had repeatedly been forced to abandon him to search for the bomber. “It’s nothing, Loaves, but thank you.”

“If there’s anything I can do, of course.”

“Of course. But no, really, there’s nothing for you to—ˮ

Annabelle’s heart lurched in her chest. Her eyes jerked toward a familiar movement. The stocky man with the sandy-coloured hair was visible only for a moment, and then he was gone around a corner. Annabelle left Loaves standing in the middle of the hall to investigate.

3.

As she turned the corner she saw him at once, strolling down the hall, hands in the pockets of his coverall. At the end of the hall, he turned left. It looked like he was heading toward the stairs that would take him below, to the workers’ dorms, but she couldn’t tell.

“Miss, is summat wrong? I really need to get you to Mister Dolan before he gets too angry with me.”

Annabelle turned and faced the big man. “Of course. Loaves, I must see Professor Stone at once about a private matter. Be a dear and tell Mister Dolan I’ll meet with him soon.”

Loaves shook his head. “No, miss. I can’t do that. You see, Mister Dolan’s sent me to find you, and ’e won’t like it at all if I should arrive without you.”

“Loaves, please. This is important.”

“I’ll come along, then.”

A panic rose in Annabelle’s chest. She could trick Loaves and hide from him again. It wasn’t at all difficult, but it would take longer than she had if she was going to find the bomber before he had the chance to disappear again.

“All right, Loaves. Listen to me. I believe I know who placed the bomb in Professor Stone’s quarters four cycles ago.”

Loaves’ eyes widened. “You do? We should tell Mister Dolan at once, miss!”

“No. We have no time for that. I’ve just spotted my man again, and we mustn’t lose him. Do you understand? We must find him so he can be questioned.”

“Of course, miss.” Loaves swelled with importance. “I won’t fail you.”

“Good man.” She took the big man’s thick, hairy arm and pulled him along, giving a brief description of her suspect as they went. Loaves nodded his head as she spoke, though she could not be sure if he truly understood what she said.

At the intersection, she directed Loaves right, and she went left, in the direction she had seen the bomber go. Dolan will simply have to wait, she decided. With any luck, she would have her man soon enough.

Chapter Eleven

“Bloody Savages”

1.

Tonight there was a choice of wine or brandy. Provost had brought a nice Riesling from his private stock, and Nathanial chose that instead, pouring a snifter of the brandy for Jasperse, which he took to the guard, who was sitting cross-legged outside Holmes’ quarters, carbine across his lap. Nathanial handed Jasperse the glass, who took it with great relish.

“Ah, the good stuff,” he whispered, as though he cradled a sleeping babe in his hands. He sniffed of its bouquet with his eyes closed, savouring it. “Nerves are settled, then?”

“Quite,” Nathanial said. “Thank you.”

Jasperse nodded. “What you’re doing in there, it’s the best way to stave off the darkness, short of a woman. That’s a trust you must make with your body, Mister Stone. It’s told you what it needs, which is good company and drink, and you’ve listened. Good for you, I say. You’ll find your way through your fears and uncertainty, sure enough.”

Nathanial found the wall and slid to the floor, sitting next to Jasperse. “Been in many difficulties yourself?” he asked.

The man nodded. It was a hard gesture. “Saw a bit of the stuff in Africa. The Zulu were advancing on us in waves. Had one clear the wall and come right at me, howling like a banshee on the moors. Had no weapon on him, but I was so frightened just to look at him all I could do when he charged was fall backwards onto my duff. Luckily, in falling I brought up my bayonet just as he leapt on me. Took him right through the gullet, it did, and the Devil take me if that stopped him. Pulled himself down my blade, trying to inch close enough to get those big, dark hands around my throat, and when he couldn’t go no further and knew his life was slipping away, what did he do? Vomited his blood in my face. There was so much of it, the surgeons were sure I’d go blind.” Jasperse nodded, half to himself. “He was the finest man I ever killed. Bully damned tough one at that. Later, when I was convalescing, I began to hallucinate. They had these bandages over my eyes, you see, and so all I had was my imagination to keep me company at night. I began to see the fellow coming at me out the darkness, over and over again. I’d wake out of sleep and hear him screaming my name as he charged me. It was a miracle I didn’t catch a death from fright.”

“But you did overcome it, yes?”

Jasperse shrugged. “Got a gun in my hands and went back into it. Traded one horror for another until Her Majesty saw fit to send me home, and then I forgot about it.”

Nathanial furrowed his brow. “As easy as all that?”

Jasperse shook his head. “No, but you shouldn’t keep your friends waiting, not with a half-blind old fellow who spins grisly war stories to keep himself awake.”

There wasn’t much to say to that, so Nathanial went back inside.

2.

They were deep in some discussion as he entered. Fullbright turned his head around at Nathanial. “Ah, Stone,” he said. “Good fellow. I was just telling the lads that the Juggernaut has commanded me to have your flyer repaired.”

“It’s not my flyer. It’s Annabelle’s,” Nathanial said, taking up his spot on the settee and grabbing his wine. “And I suppose that’s good news.”

“Oh, but tell him why,” Provost said, an amused glint in his eye.

“Well, as you might know, we have more men than we can safely fit in the cutters, should we be forced to evacuate. Your flyer alleviates that burden somewhat, so the Juggernaut wants it seen to. I sent men out in the previous cycle to begin preliminary reports.”

“Sent men out? To where?”

“Well, out to your flyer, of course.” Fullbright laughed. “We certainly couldn’t fit the bugger in our docking bay, if that’s what you were wondering. It’s too big, Stone. We’ve got it tethered outside of Sunward Observation, just below the viewport, so the men don’t have to travel across the station’s length just to have a look at her.”

Provost could no longer contain himself. “Isn’t that a glowing vote of confidence, Stone?” he said with glee. “The Juggernaut has such faith in you he is preparing to escape this place should it become an inferno.”

Provost and Holmes had a good chuckle over this, but Nathanial failed to see the humour in it. “I’ve been meaning to ask, just what is the plan should we evacuate?”

“Don’t think in those terms, lad,” Holmes said. “You’ll get us back in order soon enough.”

An evacuation plan was prudent at this point. Nathanial, after yet another frustrating day of poring over woefully inadequate reports, regretted his bravado from the other night, when he had pontificated to Dolan on the inherent virtue of the scientific method. “Suppose I don’t. What, then?”

“Something best not to say,” Fullbright said.

“But I want to hear it.”

“Oh, come now, Stone,” Provost said. “I, for one, don’t want to hear this dreary bit of nonsense.”

“Well, I do,” Nathanial said. “Please, Fullbright. Tell me.”

The engineer was annoyed, but he set down his brandy and fixed Nathanial with a serious look. “It’s all really quite simple. If an evacuation is called, the men will be assembled in the galley. The cutters are already loaded with emergency rations and a supply of potable water. More supplies will be added to accommodate additional men. Hague will then address the workers, telling them that we will begin sending men in an orderly fashion to the cutters below.”

“But even with Annabelle’s flyer, there won’t be enough room to carry all of the men,” Nathanial protested.

“Just so,” Holmes said. “Nor can we accommodate any sick or wounded.”

“Department heads will go first, of course,” Fullbright said. “Preference will be given to Crown citizens and the Austrians, and if there is any room left, we will take as many others as we can.”

“And then?” Nathanial asked.

“Oh, don’t be so obtuse, Stone,” Provost said, rolling his eyes.

“And then, we leave,” Fullbright said, with a sigh. “That’s to be it.” Nathanial’s uneasiness must have been evident on his features, for Fullbright added, “Well, I’m sure accommodations for you and Miss Somerset have been made as well.”

“And if not?”

“Well, I’m sure they have been.”

“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid.”

“Now see here, Stone, you can’t possibly—ˮ

Nathanial arched an eyebrow. “Can’t I?” he asked. He told the others what van den Bosch had told him during their first meeting. When he was done, there was silence. No one replied because there was nothing to say. Eventually, they moved away from the subject entirely.

“So, what did you and the Juggernaut have to say tonight, Stone?” Fullbright asked.

“Yes. The old boy was very quiet at dinner tonight,” Provost said. “Hardly heard a roar out of him.”

Nathanial shrugged. His eyes were turned toward the floor, his mind a swirling quagmire of the stabiliser problems, Annabelle’s face, and the imagined screams of dying men.

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “More of the same. He accused me of incompetence. Again.”

“Still no luck convincing him of letting you fire the stabilisers?” asked Fullbright.

Nathanial shook his head.

“Makes sense to me,” Holmes said, “if only on a purely scientific scale. After all, we’ve only van den Bosch’s word to go on. For all we know, the stabilisers are working, and he’s merely having us on.”

“I agree it bears testing,” Fullbright added. “From there, Stone here can take a more…what was the word you used?”

“Holistic,” Nathaniel said. “We need to take a holistic view of the station. The example I used was a medical one. Say a man goes to a doctor complaining of a brown discoloration of his gums. By looking only at the gums, the doctor might be inclined to treat simply the same, but a doctor who sees the man as a whole—ˮ

“Knows to treat the gums would be folly,” Holmes said. “Such a discoloration will likely lead instead to a malady of the liver. Yes, I see what you mean. So, once we have confirmed the stabilisers are indeed broken, we take a look at the station as a whole and find what is wrong.”

“Yes.”

Holmes smiled, and his red, cherubic cheeks glowed. “Good show, Stone. Good show indeed.”

“So how did the Juggernaut enjoy this analogy of yours?” Provost asked.

Nathanial chuckled. “Threw me out of his office.”

The group went up in a chorus of laughter.

“This would be all the more hilarious if our illustrious leader wasn’t playing with human life,” Provost said. “How do we make him amenable to a plan he’s already heard and rejected?”

“The idea is simple,” Holmes said. “Give him an alternative he finds more repugnant.”

“Such as?” Provost asked.

“The labs,” Nathanial said, nodding in agreement with Holmes’ plan. “Professor Wren’s laboratory, to be exact. Whatever great secret Peregrine holds, it is there.”

Chapter Twelve

“The Urgency of a Killer”

1.

He didn’t move with the urgency of a killer. Instead, his bearing was much the same as it had been the last time Annabelle had seen him, that of a man who had not a care in the world, strolling with great ease through the Austrian corridors. The dorms, in fact, had not been his destination at all, and now he turned left, and then left again, putting him on the main corridor which ran the length of Heaven. Annabelle reduced her pace and waited a while before following him out into the open. Few men were milling about now, most of them having gone to dinner or down into the workers’ dorms to sleep. A mistake here, and he would discover her presence. Luckily for her, his being on the main corridor gave him few options once he passed into the basilica. She could wait a while before breaking from cover to follow him.

She hoped Loaves would complete his search soon. If he did, she could use him to flank their man should he decide to return to Austrian or even stroll over to British by having Loaves take a side corridor, run ahead, and head off his movement. Unfortunately, there were no real dead ends in the station at all, at least not in Heaven, and not that she had seen. The only exception had to be in British, where Professor Wren’s lab ended in a dead end at Dolan’s fountain. If they could somehow herd the man that way without him disappearing again, they would have him.

The sandy-haired fellow passed into the basilica and thankfully did not tarry. Had he decided then to take in some of the art there, Annabelle would have certainly been in trouble. Instead, he marched straight across, nodding to a fellow workman pulling a cart laden with two suits of plate armour bound for some spot in Austrian. The worker also smiled and nodded at Annabelle as he passed, and took the corner directly behind her.

She stopped at the right-hand corridor just before entering the basilica and looked around for Loaves. The man was nowhere to be seen, nor could she tell if he had crossed over into the left-hand side yet or not.

She turned back to the main corridor with the intent of crossing the basilica when suddenly she gasped. The sandy-haired man was walking toward her. His hands were still in his pockets, and he whistled a merry tune. She slowed down as he passed, keeping her eyes carefully averted, but kept walking forward, hoping her demeanour did not give her away. She strolled over to one of the broad columns in the chamber’s centre and pretended to explore the engravings there.

When she risked a glance behind, he had already disappeared, but she knew where he was heading now. Her initial instinct had been correct; he had been heading for the workers’ dorms when she had caught sight of him. Somehow, he had discovered her, too, and knew she would follow him. Now that he had reversed directions and slipped by her temporarily, he could do as he pleased, knowing she could not risk chasing him directly.

Where is that blasted Loaves? she thought. He’s picked a fine time to wander off and get lost! Loaves could shadow the man a while, and she could run flank.

“Something the matter, miss?”

One of Dolan’s guards―they were being posted near the entrances to British and Austrian now―addressed her. His accent, Bavarian, unless she missed her guess, was thick. She smiled and shook her head.

“You should be in quarters, then.”

“Of course. Thank you, sir.”

The guard nodded his head, and Annabelle hurried back into Austrian.

Mid-corridor, she found a stair to her right, leading down into the dorms. She emerged into a new hallway, which ran the full length of the dormitory, with several open areas off the hall. These open areas resembled what she had seen of a military barracks, with beds lining the walls, and footlockers at the end of each bed for the men’s personal effects. Raucous laughter issued from one of the rooms, but mostly they were dark, filled with sleeping men. With so many workers aboard, there weren’t enough beds, so the men slept in shifts. The bomber could be in any of them.

She made a quick search, being careful to stay away from the room with the laughter, lest unwanted notice should fall on her. A woman down below with the men would be unseemly, and it might suggest more than she intended. These men had been without women for months, and though they had been on their best behaviour around her so far, being caught down here could bring out the worst in them.

Her search of the dormitory yielded nothing, and she went back up the steps to resume her search. He could be anywhere by now, she decided. To go further, she would have to find Loaves and send him in to search among the men. This only had a slight chance of success, as her man was probably using the seclusion of some corner to disappear up one of the air shafts. She was almost at the stop of the steps when a hand grabbed her from behind.

“Don’t run away yet, miss,” said a rough voice in her ear. “We wouldn’t want you to miss me so soon.”

Annabelle had only a split second to realise the identity behind the voice before she was flung backwards to tumble down the steps. It happened so quickly she had no time to cry out. The world went a-whirl, and she landed with a resounding crack on the floor below. Pain shot up her left arm. Again, rather than cry out, she sucked air into her lungs. The sandy-haired man was on her before she could blink.

“So, just who are you, then?” he asked. “Some woman detective, come to sort me? Is that it?” He snatched Annabelle up by her hair. He might have been a short man, but he was very powerful indeed. When he had her in range of his attentions, he gave her a good backhand across the cheek, hissing in pain as one of his knuckles ricocheted off Annabelle’s teeth.

The blow nearly rendered her unconscious, and the pain in her arm was like she had been set ablaze from the inside. Tears ran down her cheeks, and through the inferno of pain she found the wherewithal to be ashamed that she should let this little cretin see her cry.

When the hand snatched at her again, she tried to bite it.

“Oh? So we’ve a fighter, have we? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to take us to some place really quiet, and I’m going to work on you. Oh, yes! I am going to work on you real nice, and they’re going to find pieces of you floating in the stew pot for weeks to come!”

This time she had the presence of mind to scream. Another blow cut it short, but the laughter down the hall suddenly changed to shouts. Men were coming. She looked up to see the bomber’s face twist in alarm.

“Very smart,” he said to her. “Very smart indeed. You win today, miss, but don’t bother looking for me in these corridors again. I’ll certainly find you first.”

Boots thudding on the deck sent small vibrations into the back of Annabelle’s head. The bomber tried to pull away then, but Annabelle cried out “No!” and snatched him with her good arm. She caught the front of his coverall and gripped tightly. It was a good hold, and the man grunted as he tried to pull it away.

“Let go, damn you!” he said, voice hissing like steam.

Annabelle’s eyes squeezed shut with the strain of holding on, but she could sense the bomber’s fear rising as sure as if she could see his face. He gave two sharp tugs, and part of his coverall came free. With that, he was gone, up the steps, and vanishing, no doubt, in the throng of workers. Annabelle gave in, then, and fell unconscious.

Chapter Thirteen

“A Deepening Gloom”

1.

“The laudanum has taken its effect. You should get some rest as well.”

Holmes laid a comforting hand on Nathanial’s shoulder. He was right, after all. There was little left to do except return to his quarters. It was an empty gesture, after all, to stolidly sit by Annabelle’s side until she woke, especially when he had other duties. A new stack of reports awaited him. He could review them before retiring. A strange report had crossed his desk, one he had not mentioned to Holmes and the others earlier. Something was siphoning power from the main generator, and he now had three men searching Heaven and Hell for answers. Perhaps one of them had found something, and he would have a breakthrough.

He needed a breakthrough, and soon.

Sickbay had eight beds, each with a curtained partition. Because she was a woman, Annabelle’s bed would remain partitioned constantly. Nathanial slipped between the curtains and looked around. At the end of the room was the man they had caught trying to steal a cutter the other day, still under sedation. Holmes did not think the man was going to recover, which presented a problem, as they could no longer afford to dose him with ether.

Nathanial was about to leave when he was reminded of the other body, the one at the other end of the room. My God, Holmes thought, it has been a difficult sixteen hours.

2.

They were on their second bottle of wine when word reached Holmes’ quarters about Annabelle. The doctor flew into action, with Nathanial, horrified, stumbling after him. Four men carried her in, using a bed sheet as a makeshift litter. Her elbow was dislocated, and was swollen and purple where subcutaneous bleeding had occurred. Her face was cut, and her left cheekbone was also purple and swollen where something had struck her. Her mouth bled where she had bitten through her lower lip, and the eye on the opposite side of the damaged cheekbone was black.

Holmes ordered everyone out while he saw to her examination. With a pair of shears he cut her dress from her body, and reported to Nathanial that she had also suffered bruised ribs and various scrapes and cuts along her torso and legs, none of which was serious. He tended to the cuts and scrapes with a salve, and the elbow he wrapped with a bandage and secured it with a sling. When questioned later, the men who had found her claimed she was lying at the bottom of the stairs leading down into the workers’ dormitory. It was assumed, then, that she had slipped.

However, when Holmes applied smelling salts and woke her, Annabelle told a much different story. She’d been following a man she had seen a few days earlier, a man she believed was Nathanial’s would-be murderer. The reasoning she gave for this was convoluted, no doubt from the delirium of pain, but Annabelle held a strong conviction she was correct.

This news disconcerted Holmes, and he gave Nathanial a grave look. Later, when they conferred outside sickbay, the doctor told Nathanial that if this were true, she was in grave danger. She had seen the bomber’s face, and the villain would surely want to silence her before she could say anything. A discreet word to Dolan saw guards posted outside both Holmes’ office and quarters, as sickbay could only be accessed through one or the other.

Nathanial, for one, believed her. Annabelle did not tend to employ a strict logic in her affairs, but her women’s intuition in these cases often proved true. And now, with the attack on her person, this had all but confirmed it. When Dolan arrived, Nathanial described Annabelle’s attacker. Dolan confessed he did not know anyone who matched that description himself, which was odd, given that he knew nearly everyone on the station. When Nathanial asked him to begin a search, Dolan could only shake his head.

“Doctor van den Bosch has to agree to let me allocate men to this, Stone. I’m terribly sorry, mate. If I happen on this man meself, I’ll thrash him within an inch of his life for hurting Miss Somerset, but for the rest, me hands are tied.”

If Nathanial believed Annabelle’s story, van den Bosch did not. He arrived with Hague and Salt in tow, and he was full of terrible bluster. He roared at Holmes and Annabelle alike, casting dire predictions about both persons’ futures aboard the station. When Nathanial tried to calm the administrator, van den Bosch whirled on him.

“And just what the hell are you doing here, Stone? Why aren’t you in your quarters, under guard, this very minute? You are supposed to be saving this place from destruction, or haven’t you heard?”

“My friend has been injured, and I have been charged with her care by Doctor Grant himself. What did you think I was going to do? Sit on my hands and wait for one of your lackeys to bring me a report, much like I do with this ridiculous station?”

“I expect you to do as you’ve been instructed. More lives than just that of your friend depend on your success.”

Nathanial refused to leave, even with Hague trying to insert his will upon the argument. Nathanial shoved the little man’s hand away when he tried to steer Nathanial from the room.

“Sir, you will unhand me!” Nathanial cried, and the flash of anger that darted across Hague’s eyes had been quite satisfying, both to Nathanial and the watching Holmes. No more attempts to remove him were made.

Annabelle’s story was dismissed out of hand.

“We employ rough sorts on this station, Miss Somerset,” van den Bosch said. “Doubtless the fellow saw you following him and wanted to know why. If he got rough with you, it’s what you deserve. After all, women have no business running about Peregrine unattended.”

Annabelle, despite being in a furious amount of pain, fought back. “He’s the bomber, I tell you. He threatened to torture me, rip me to pieces.”

“And that makes him nothing more than an angry man, made all the angrier by your harassment.”

Annabelle looked at Holmes and said; “Show him the letter.”

“And what letter would that be?” van den Bosch asked.

Holmes removed from his pocket a piece of paper, cream-colored, folded three times, and handed it to van den Bosch, who wadded the note in one massive hand and tossed it to the floor without reading it.

“You fool!” Annabelle cried. “It’s from him, addressed to you! You know that! I saw him slip one under your door the night he nearly killed Nathanial.”

“You saw nothing!” van den Bosch roared, and he lunged at Annabelle. Nathanial and Holmes both lurched forward, thinking the man was going to strike her, but he stopped inches from her, the brim of his great, green hat shadowing her face. Annabelle looked as though she wanted to recoil, but lying on the bed she had nowhere to go. “What you saw, Miss Somerset, was either a trickster or a harmless madman. I have been receiving such threats since this station was towed here from Earth, and so far, nothing has come of those threats.”

“He’s hardly harmless now,” Annabelle said. She held up her arm as proof.

“Well, you obviously excited him to violence. Any man is capable of murder, given the right circumstances.”

Annabelle sneered. “Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right, then, seeing as it was just this poor, delusional woman he hurt and threatened to murder.”

Van den Bosch stood. “I wish it were that simple, miss.” He nodded to Hague, who disappeared into the corridor outside, only to return a moment later, with six men carrying a new litter. A litter soaked in thick, blackening blood. “But unfortunately, you infected poor Edgar Loaves with your madness, and he paid a terrible price for it.”

“Oh my god,” Annabelle whispered.

Holmes inspected the body. His diagnosis was quick. “The poor man’s had the arteries in both legs cut,” he said. “He would have exsanguinated in seconds.”

“Yes,” van den Bosch said, eyes never leaving Annabelle. “You told Mister Loaves your wild theory and even gave him the man’s description. After he discovered you had been injured, Mister Loaves, in a well-placed desire to bring your attacker to justice, went looking for him. Unfortunately, he found him, cornered him, and the man fought back, only Loaves did not carry a weapon, did he? Oh, no. But your man did. Loaves was dead when the men found him, you know. They said the pool of blood in which he lay was three times as long and twice as wide as the man himself.”

Annabelle began to cry. It was a pitiful thing, and Holmes was aware then that he had never seen her do such a thing. Poor Loaves, he thought.

“I own you now, Miss Somerset,” van den Bosch said. “I own you, and you will make yourself useful. I can’t have you running around this station as you have been, dodging the good men who have been assigned to protect you. You’ll work with Mister Dolan. He has a task in the quartermaster that will no doubt keep you occupied a good many days. Assuming Mister Stone here finds the source of our stabiliser woes, you will complete your task. Afterwards, you will be confined to quarters at all times, taking both meals and baths there as well. You will receive no visitors, nor will you be allowed to visit anyone else. Orders will be cut at that point declaring that if you are seen outside your quarters at all, you are to be considered acting contrary to the interests of this station and put to death.”

“What?” Holmes asked, his voice rising in protest.

“This does not concern you, Doctor,” van den Bosch said, head swivelling as if on a ball joint to face Holmes.

“Whatever you may think of what she’s done or whether or not she’s right about the bomber’s identity,” Holmes said, “she’s given you a description of the man who has been threatening you. Us. The man murdered Loaves, for God’s sake!”

“That will do, Doctor!”

“No, it will not! He’s also threatened another attack in a few days. The note said as much. If Miss Somerset is right, we can prevent this. We must prevent this, for the sake of the others.”

“She knows nothing. Don’t you think I know the name of the man who has been sending me these letters?”

“Then give me his name, so I can match it to the rolls here in my office!”

“Doctor, do you not have enough of a workload, or do you need something else to occupy you? After all, the men down in Hell need assistance with repairs to the outer hull. Can I have them prepare you an environment suit?”

Holmes paled. The threat was plain enough.

“You madman,” Nathanial hissed. “You unbelievable madman! Look around you! You’ve nothing but people trying to help you, and you make threats and tell lies!”

“I’ve just about had enough out of you, Stone. Shall I confine you to quarters as well?”

The question, of course, was rhetorical. Van den Bosch, Hague, and the others left then, and that was that.

3.

Nathanial exited sickbay and passed through Holmes’ quarters, knowing his friend was at work in his office, but not feeling like yet more talk. It seemed like all he did was talk. Talk to someone here, go to dinner and talk, and afterward, scamper off as fast as you can to get to the next round of talk before your place is taken. He wanted to do something.

Jasperse was seated outside, in his usual spot, carbine across his lap, a metal flask ill-concealed in the chest pocket of his coverall. He rose to his feet as smooth as a cat and fell in step with Nathanial walking back to his quarters.

“The kitchen boys and the lads down in the laundry are spooked,” Jasperse said as they entered the main corridor. Nathanial was so weary and detached, it felt like Jasperse was speaking to someone else. “Seems Professor Wren’s ghost has been hanging around the airlocks, dancing a madman’s jig.”

Nathanial did not reply. They walked on in silence until they came to the edge of British, and Nathanial stopped, turned, and faced the long corridor which led to Professor Wren’s old laboratory.

“Seems like a mad thing, a ghost sticking around on a heliograph station,” Jasperse continued. “A house yes, or the soggy moor, where the mists hang low. But nothing such as this, and not so far away from God and the bones of the Earth. It makes no sense to me.” The man took a sip from his flask and offered it to Nathanial, who declined. Finally the man muttered, anguish in his voice, “Poor Loaves. He was a good man. Didn’t deserve this.”

Nathanial stared down the hall. Two workers were there, mopping the floors, washing the walls. It took a moment for Nathanial to realise this was where Loaves had died. He’d given chase, or so van den Bosch’s story had gone, and Annabelle’s man had run down this corridor. Why flee down a corridor when you know there is no way out? The site of the murder was more than two-thirds the corridor’s length, which meant the man must have run all the way down, and then probably come back. What had he been hoping for, to escape through Wren’s lab? Surely, if he was a worker as van den Bosch suggested, he knew the story that everyone else knew, that the lab had been locked.

But what if it wasn’t, and what if the man knew he could escape that way and came back to make sure that Loaves couldn’t follow?

“Come with me, Jasperse.” Nathanial started down the hall toward the two men and the remnants of Loaves’ blood, still clinging to the walls and floor. “You men,” he said when he was near enough, “did you see the body before it was carted off?”

One of the men, a wizened fellow with the bearing of a vulture, looked up from his work. He pushed away a lock of stringy, greying hair and asked, “And who might you be?”

“Professor Nathanial Stone. I’m Professor Wren’s replacement.”

The vulture-man stared hard for a moment, then replied, “Yes, sir. We arrived with the others.”

“Did you see any boot prints in the blood pooled here when you arrived, or perhaps any tracks leading away from the scene of the crime?”

“Plenty of them, once those fools started mucking around in it. Damned hard to clean, too, you mark me!”

“I mean before the men started, as you say, mucking about.”

The vulture-man and his co-worker exchanged looks, then shook their simultaneously.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Nathanial said, turned on his heel and returned to the main corridor.

4.

“What was that about, sir?” Jasperse asked when as they were crossing the basilica.

“No boot prints means the man did not murder Loaves and then flee through the blood. You’ve seen a man with his artery cut, yes?”

“Once or twice,” Jasperse said. “And you’re right. There’s a furious amount of blood, and all of a sudden, too. He would have left boot prints.” He peered hard at Nathanial, half-comprehending the logic. “What next, then?”

They repaired to Nathanial’s quarters, where Nathanial went immediately to the table next to his cot, sat down, and began digging through the blueprints. He found what he was looking for and showed it to the old soldier. He put a finger on Wren’s lab and traced a circle around the block of rooms which made up that section of British.

“There’s no way out of the lab except through that one door,” Nathanial said.

“But that would mean—ˮ

Nathanial smiled. “That means, unless I miss my guess, Annabelle’s mad bomber is still in Professor Wren’s laboratory, and as soon as those two workers are gone, he will flee. Chances are, after that, we’ll never see him again.”

“My God,” Jasperse said.

Nathanial nodded at Jasperse. “Your carbine is loaded?”

“Of course. Always.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Chapter Fourteen

“The Aether Confession”

1.

Nathanial was almost delirious with exhaustion. He had not slept in nearly two days. Jasperse disappeared for a bit and returned from the galley bearing two earthenware cups of steaming hot tea, brewed so strong Nathanial winced with each sip. Still, with no sugar to cut the bitterness, it did its job of keeping him alert.

The workers finished cleaning the blood an hour later. They trundled away with their buckets and brushes, grumbling to themselves and stained to the elbows with soapy gore. Jasperse took up his carbine and followed Nathanial into the hall.

“Clean as a baby’s bottom,” Jasperse remarked as they passed through. “Mind your step, sir. The floor is still wet.”

Jasperse stood watch while Nathanial searched for the mechanism that would open the door. This would all be in vain if he found the door still locked. Part of Nathanial hoped it would be. Then, he could drift back to his quarters and sleep. It would be so nice, so easy, to give up, to fall asleep, and wake with the hope that all had magically righted itself while he slumbered.

The walls here were fixed with a granite façade. Carved into it was a scene Nathanial did not recognise. It was a gathering of men, well-dressed, arranged in a circle with a man in their centre, on his knees, his shirt open, revealing a naked chest. He was blindfolded. Before him stood another well-dressed figure, pressing the tip of a sword against the kneeling man’s breast. A number of symbols adorned the carving, none of which Nathanial knew, either. He felt each part, but found nothing resembling the mechanism. The façade ended a few inches from the floor, protruding slightly. He ran his fingers along the bottom here, and there he felt the catch.

“Ha!” he cried a bit too loudly. The mechanism clacked, and the panel slid open, revealing a dark room.

Inside Jasperse found a palm plate which, when pressed, flooded the room with a normal amount of lighting. Both men took a few moments to let their eyes adjust, and then they began an examination of the room’s contents.

“Place seems smaller than I expected,” Jasperse said immediately.

One look around the room, and they knew Loaves’ killer was no longer here.

“How?” Nathanial asked.

“Maybe he did slip past after he gave Loaves the slice.”

“It just doesn’t seem possible.”

“Possible or not, it is what it is, sir. He’s not here, or he’s doing a magnificent job of hiding.” Jasperse picked through a pile of rubble. “Seems a waste to leave here without something to commemorate the occasion, though, eh?”

Nathanial sighed, disappointed. “I need something to use as leverage against Doctor van den Bosch when I next meet with him,” he said. “To convince him to let me fire the stabilisers, I need to suggest something else that so goes against the grain that he’s forced to choose the lesser of two evils.”

“And if he chooses to deny both of your evils? He’s prone to such things, you know.”

The remains of the lab were burned black along the floor and the walls. Broken rubble, some of it furniture, most of it scientific implements, lay strewn everywhere. Here was a room that had survived a terrible battle. There was no mistaking it.

“Jasperse, the story you told me the other day, about Dolan saving van den Bosch from the lab accident that killed Wren. Did he ever say what caused the accident?”

The older man stopped and scratched a muttonchop. “Not that I recall.”

“Could they have had an argument that escalated into violence?”

Jasperse nodded. “It’s possible, it is. Every worker on this station has a tale of seeing the two of them having a row.” He looked about with a sour cast to his face. “Certainly looks like the case here.”

“Indeed.”

“Will you use that as your leverage, then?”

“No. No, whatever the case may be, Doctor van den Bosch is still an eminent scientist and a well-respected member of the scientific community. I won’t stoop to blackmail, especially when I have no proof of wrongdoing.”

“You could question Dolan. He might tell you what you need to know.”

“I’d rather not. I don’t believe Dolan cares much for me, at any rate. I’d likely waste what precious time I have.”

“I can question him for you.”

Nathanial chuckled. “I don’t want him tortured, Jasperse, but thank you.”

“Torture him with a bloody whiskey bottle, I would. You’d have your answers right quick, and painless for all involved.”

Along the wall were the remains of some machine. This must be what Jasperse had described, Nathanial thought, the experiment Wren was performing concerning the luminiferous aether. It was a wreck, but Nathanial could imagine from its remains what a working model might look like.

“My God, Jasperse, Professor Wren was trying to harness the power of an aether vortex!”

“Sounds very dangerous.”

“Yes, I believe it was. The mishap must have occurred with this machine, though, for it looks like most of the destruction in this room emanated from it. I daresay you were right. The destruction wrought by even a small vortex could likely have caused Doctor van den Bosch’s injuries, no matter how unlikely that seems.”

“But why experiment with such a thing at all? I refer to my original concern on this matter, sir. Why develop such a lab at all when there’s so much to do, and lose, here?”

“I can’t tell you that, but I can say the applications of such a thing are limitless. Power. Lightning in a bottle. With a single vortex of decent size, you could give electricity to all of England. Steam power would cease to exist except in the most extreme cases.”

“Hard to imagine a world without it, sir, if you ask me.”

Nathanial examined the machine one last time. It was damaged beyond repair, and at any rate, it was no longer coupled to any power source. This was not the device that was drawing so much of the station’s power. A brilliant discovery, but this was hardly what was going to sway van den Bosch. He needed something else.

Jasperse found an open safe containing Wren’s papers. They went through them, yet found nothing of any real use. Most of it was just theories, things scribbled in haste. One curiosity existed, though. The notes were written by two different people. The handwriting, often changing abruptly in mid-sentence, occurred on nearly every page.

Strange, Nathanial thought. Someone else must have been working with Wren on this, but who? Was it van den Bosch himself? He peered at the handwriting. No, he had seen the man’s handwriting often enough, his lettering large, flowing, and elegant. Wren’s handwriting was blocked and precise, much as it had been on the station blueprints. These words here, these break-ins, were wild, scrawled, as if by some madman. Strange.

“What’s this?” Jasperse asked. From beneath a stack of the papers he removed a small book, exquisitely made, with a fine, soft leather binding, its pages a heavy cream-coloured vellum.

“It’s a journal of some sort,” Nathanial replied. “Wren’s journal, unless I miss my guess.”

Jasperse gave it over and went to look elsewhere. Nathanial sat on the floor and flipped through. He turned to the middle, chose an entry at random, and began reading. Again, here was Wren’s precise script, though with a touch of strong emotion not present in his notes.

Tuesday, September 6th, 1887:

H has been at me again. He wishes–no, demands–my involvement in this project of his. Again, I have attempted to deny him, but he knows too much. He spoke only a single name today, Le Boeuf, and I knew then that I had no more choice in the matter. He knows too much and will not hesitate to use even the dustiest ancient history to make me a target for scorn and ridicule by our peers. So I will do this thing for him. I’ll give him his Taj Mahal, and I hope that God sees fit to choke him with it.

Le Boeuf. Nathanial did not recognise the name, but van den Bosch’s use of it was clear. He had blackmailed Professor Wren into designing Peregrine Station. That was how he had coaxed the recluse out of his nice, country laboratory in Shropshire. Just as he was blackmailing Nathanial. He wondered if the others, the department heads like Fullbright, who Nathanial knew had a comfortable post with the Navy before arriving here, were in similar straits. Any of them might have sabotaged the stabilisers. He wondered; was he starting in the wrong place? Should he seek out wrongdoing first and find the culprit instead?

“Jasperse, was there ever an inquiry made concerning the stabilisers?”

The soldier was examining the remains of a bookshelf whose books were mostly burnt black. He looked up. “What sort of inquiries, sir?”

“Did Doctor van den Bosch ever rule out sabotage?”

“No. Never.”

“Then why were Dolan and the rest of you made security?”

“To protect the station against, uh…” Jasperse looked upward in thought, took two long, even breaths, and then said, “I’m not really sure.”

Exactly. What was it they were supposed to be protecting? Prior to Wren’s death, there had been no security force. What had happened in the intervening time that had precipitated the need for armed men protecting the station? Had van den Bosch learned of a threat, one he was not sharing with the others?

Nathanial looked down at the journal. He flipped to the final entry, went back a few pages, and began again.

Wednesday, April 3rd, 1889,

The last of the crates arrived by supply ship this morning. Le Boeuf was smuggled in with the shipment, along with his assistant, a rough fellow named Brennan. They are well-hidden now, and work on Torquilstone can begin now that we’re aboard Peregrine. I walk a razor blade now. H, believing the aether machine is mine, has readily agreed to allow its construction. Really, it is wholly of Le Boeuf’s design. Everything is.

This place. I walk its halls, imagining where every statue, every mural, even the fountain outside my laboratory, will someday sit. Peregrine is supposed to be the sum total of my genius, yet it is the product of another’s imagination. It strangles me to think of it, but I cannot allow H to ever believe otherwise. If he knew the truth, he would destroy me, just as I also know that when Torquilstone is complete, he’ll seek to steal it. Let him. I shall remove myself from the conflict and let him have his final confrontation with Le Boeuf, a cataclysm twenty years in the making.

Nathanial read through a few more, but they were mostly amorphous thoughts and of little interest. In frustration he turned to the final entry.

April 15, 1889,

H knows. When he questioned me today about the function of the aether machine, I could not adequately tell him. He has demanded I discontinue my experiments. His suspicions are high. He will dig further, and I cannot stop him. He will learn the whole truth, that Peregrine is not mine, that Torquilstone is a lie, that nothing has ever truly belonged to me. I will be discovered.

That is fine. Time to end this charade. He likes to meet with me every evening, berating me, asking penetrating questions for which there are no answers, and then berate me anew when I cannot answer them, as if he knows the truth and is merely toying with me. I shall tell him, then, before he learns it on his own. He’ll get no satisfaction from me. There will be no victory.

I would ride this station into the depths of Hell if I could.

Nathanial closed the book and pursed his lips.

Curious. What was Professor Wren admitting to? Was he really a charlatan, then, who had taken credit for another’s work? The name Le Boeuf continued to come up, again and again. Was he the secret genius behind Wren’s reputation? Such a thought was too fantastic to even consider, yet here was this stark admission, so powerfully delivered, that it left little room for scepticism. Here was Professor Wren, so tired of living a lie, that he had literally written the confession of his guilt.

Nathanial closed the book and stared at its cover. Professor Wren’s journal. The man had attended university with van den Bosch. Great friends, or so the stories always went. Professor Wren knew van den Bosch as well as any man in the world. He had to know, then, how the man conducted his business. Nathanial’s own journal came to mind. They had read his readily enough and been unapologetic about it. It was reasonable to assume, then, that if van den Bosch had grown suspicious of Professor Wren, he would have stolen the journal and read it to confirm or deny his theory. Such an admission as this was certainly worthy of causing the violence that had obviously occurred here.

Professor Wren had meant van den Bosch to find this, then. He must have known, to some degree, what such an admission would do.

Furthermore, the journal admitted Le Boeuf’s presence on Peregrine Station, something which would apparently cause a “cataclysm” that had been long in coming. So van den Bosch and Le Boeuf knew one another. The journal suggested some animosity between the two men. Their relationship must at least preclude civility, otherwise there would be no clear reason for Le Boeuf to conceal his arrival on Peregrine. Yet, if so, why was Le Boeuf here, building a device on this station, one that van den Bosch was both aware of and of which he might―no, would―take credit?

Nathanial could not answer that part, not yet, but what he could reason was that Doctor van den Bosch was now aware of Le Boeuf’s presence, and if he hated him enough, or wanted to steal his work, he might want to eliminate him, as well. At the least, he might want to find and imprison him, hence the newly-christened security force.

The wreckage here proved something, something that a part of Nathanial already knew, for it had been proven in other ways in the past.

Doctor van den Bosch was capable of atrocity.

Yet, the journal also mentioned that Le Boeuf was in hiding on the station. This meant if van den Bosch wished to destroy Le Boeuf, he had to find him first.

Yes. What better way to find him?

“I think I have our answer,” Nathanial said. He tucked the journal into the pocket of his coverall.

Jasperse, who was perusing a shelf blackened books, looked up, curious. “Well, don’t just stand there, sir. Please indulge me.”

“It’s the Juggernaut himself,” Nathanial said. “I do believe Doctor van den Bosch is responsible for sabotaging the stabilisers.”

Nathanial returned to the broken machine. He knelt before it and ran his hands over its battered surface. The aether machine. Was this Torquilstone? It must be, but why would Professor Wren call it a lie?

Chapter Fifteen

“Pickled Eggs and Secret Doors”

1.

“BLOODY MUTCHERS, I tell ya. All of them.”

Dolan was in a foul mood. Annabelle looked up from the cargo manifest, wondering if this was the beginning of another tirade. The Irishman, sweating from his exertions, climbed the ladder and peered over the top shelf. He slammed a foot down on every rung, and the ladder protested with every step. He held his tongue, however, and found what they were looking for.

His finger danced on the air as he counted. “Ten,” he said.

Annabelle checked the manifest again. The writing was sloppy, nearly illegible, especially in the dim light. Her eyes strained to discern what was written there. “Ten jars, pickled eggs. Large.” It didn’t say if it was the eggs that were large, or the containers which held them. Annabelle decided it was best not to ask.

She was less than twelve hours from her ordeal with the bomber. With her arm injured and in a sling, it was impossible for her to wear a dress, and so she had asked Doctor Holmes to procure for her a coverall like the men wore and a pair of sturdy boots, which he had done. Hague came by later and whisked her off to join Dolan at the quartermaster, like a guard escorting a prisoner to his prison job. By the time she had arrived, the Irishman was roaring drunk, and surly. She ached everywhere, especially her arm, which she was forced to use as a brace for the cargo manifest, and could scarcely tolerate his presence.

Apparently Dolan had not taken on this task of his own free will. The job of finding the ten missing crates, which had apparently been lost months ago and only recently reported by Griggs, the quartermaster, after falling under a threat of inspection by Hague, should also have been Hague’s responsibility. However, given Dolan’s lack of success in finding both the bomber and Annabelle’s attacker (it was still largely believed the two were separate entities) van den Bosch had tasked Dolan with finding the missing crates instead, while giving Hague command of security.

“They’re all bedevilling bloody mutchers, I tell ya,” Dolan said, and climbed down.

“So you keep saying,” Annabelle said with a sigh.

“Your friend is going to get us killed, by the by. He’s useless as tits on a boar; everyone knows it.” Dolan had been attacking everyone at random since she had arrived, starting with van den Bosch and Hague. He had only just turned his attentions onto Nathanial, but him Dolan attacked with zeal.

“Nathanial’s just being thorough, and anyway, what everyone really knows is that your Doctor van den Bosch is doing everything in his power to keep Nathanial from his goal.”

“Thoroughly going to take us to a grave, you mean!”

Just then, as if to punctuate Dolan’s thought, the station hull rumbled. It sounded like plainsong.

“If you’re done with your bellyaching, I’d like for you to finish your ridiculous survey!” This was Griggs, hidden somewhere among the towers of shelves. He, too, was drunk, and of the opinion unruly station workers had made off with his supplies while his attentions were elsewhere.

Annabelle had wanted someone far different as quartermaster. She had expected a small, neatly dressed, pernickety man who fussed over minutiae, another Hague, perhaps. The reality of Griggs was one of a squat man with a florid, seaman’s face, bald-headed, with thick, peppery whiskers. His voice was like gravel, too, every other word was a curse, and he smelled of canned sardines. He was an easily-agitated fellow, made all the more so by Dolan’s incessant complaints. Thus, the day had alternated between Dolan and Griggs occasionally taking up arms against one another, and poring through the mercilessly boring manifests, all in search of ten crates neither man believed they would ever find.

“And I’ve told you it takes as long as it takes!” Dolan yelled back.

“Ten crates, you bastard! Ten crates! Do you think you’re going to find ten bloody crates miscounted? Are you out of your bloody mind, then?”

Spit erupted from Dolan’s lips as he howled in reply. “Well, perhaps you’d like to tell the Juggernaut how you lost them, then? We’ll see how properly you bluster, then, won’t we?”

“Perhaps if ships weren’t allowed to come and go without so much as a by-your-leave, and I didn’t have men in and out of this place shift after bloody shift, I could exercise some sort of control over this warehouse!”

“It was a clerical error, you bastard!”

The argument continued. Annabelle listened a while before boredom overtook her. She put down the manifest then and wandered in the opposite direction of their voices until she could hear little of what was said.

2.

Along the floor, a few inches from the ground, was a large metal grate covering an air duct about twice as wide as she and tall enough you could stack three of her flat and still have room. The breeze from it was cool and dry. She luxuriated in the feel of it on her skin. She had not realised how much she missed the open air of Earth, having spent so much time recently in pressurized, artificial settings. When this adventure was done, and they had escaped this wretched place, she would return to Earth. Enough adventuring for a while, she decided. She wanted to rest and recuperate. She had no illusions about staying on Earth, though. Soon enough, after she had taken her first lazy nap beside a pond or spent the afternoon reading, she would start to feel the itch again. Until then, she promised to devote herself to leisure. After all, she had been pushing her luck as of late. If she was not careful, something terrible would befall her, especially if she kept on as she had been.

Just look at Loaves, she thought, with a sharp pang of regret. Her carelessness had gotten him killed. That would have been her if her luck had not held, and the men had come to investigate her cries. All that blood. The image van den Bosch had painted for her had a veritable sea of it, pooling on the floor and congealing in black lumps. It could have been hers.

She knelt next to the grate and inspected it. Sure enough, here were the tell-tale signs of tampering. Something hard had gouged the metal on the inside of the grate. This gave her an idea. She fetched a pry-bar from where she and Dolan had been working. Dolan was elsewhere, now. The argument was still going, with slurred curses being hurled from each side. She returned and put the pry-bar to use.

The grate popped out of the wall with ease, even with her working one-armed, and made little noise when it fell to the floor.

“Yes,” she said to herself. This is perfect. A perfect way to move about undetected, and a perfect way to transport the missing goods to some new location without anyone being the wiser.

The theory had been rattling about her head, but she had thus far been loathe to consider it, thinking she might be wrong. Yet, it made sense. It would do the bomber little good to move about undetected if he would take every meal in the galley, where he might be noticed. He must have come here, stolen what he needed a little at a time, and used the air ducts to transport his loot to another location, probably a lair of some kind.

She crawled inside, wondering what other secrets these air ducts might hide.

Chapter Sixteen

“A Fine Vintage”

1.

“Do you take me for a fool, Stone?”

Van den Bosch was having none of it. Nathanial had entered their evening insisting to see the inside of Professor Wren’s lab, claiming there might be a power drain somewhere within which could have rendered the stabilisers unable to function. Van den Bosch responded much in the way Nathanial thought he would, with outright refusal. They argued over it for several minutes, until Nathanial could see the administrator becoming frustrated, at which point he once again broached the subject of test firing the stabilisers.

“No, I believe you are quite a capable man, but you must understand, I cannot know what is wrong with our patient without examining it myself.”

“And so you construct this clever ruse. You do me a disservice.”

“You are asking me to ignore method, Doctor!” Nathanial said. “I am asked to take the word of others rather than make direct observation. I get the impression you want me to fail.”

Van den Bosch rumbled with laughter. “You’ve been listening to Miss Somerset, with her rumours of evil conspiracies. What would it benefit me to stifle your work? If Peregrine Station comes to grief, it is my reputation which will be ruined. If anything, I seek to maintain strict secrecy. If that interferes with your direct inquiry, so be it, but you must learn to approach the stabiliser problem from a different direction, one that doesn’t force my hand.”

Nathanial found himself about to roll his eyes, as he often did as a child during one of his father’s interminable lectures. He kept calm, though, and stayed any unnecessary gestures. The ruse, of pretending to argue with van den Bosch, was necessary. The administrator had to believe Nathanial was oblivious to what was happening. To do this, he had to stall with useless conversation. He need only last until dinner, after which he could confer with Holmes and the others. They had to know what Nathanial had discovered. Van den Bosch as saboteur added a different light to the mystery. Nathanial could expect no help from him any longer, nor could he solve the stabiliser problem through official channels. Reluctantly, he would have to employ his new friends, which was likely to place them in both physical and professional danger.

“What question, then, should I ask?”

Van den Bosch spread his hands. “I cannot answer that, for I don’t know. I can tell you this: you are looking in the wrong place with your power depletion theory. Moreover, I think you know that. Your curiosity is getting the better of you, Mister Stone, or rather, you’re letting it drag you in the wrong direction. You want to know the secrets behind this place, as do the others. But you should not mistake that selfish desire for pure investigation.”

“Play Devil’s Advocate a moment, Doctor. Say that I am working from pure motivations. What can you tell me that will allay my suspicions about the station’s power distribution?”

Van den Bosch was pleased. “Ah. Now you are approaching the matter properly, Mister Stone. Professor Wren was performing experiments on Peregrine Station under my orders. When he died, all of his experiments were either destroyed in the fire or were disabled by my staff. Thus, it would be impossible for any of them to be a draw right now.”

“What about an experiment you don’t know about?”

Van den Bosch sneered. “Don’t be absurd. Peregrine is not so large a place as to hide something drawing the kind of power it would take to render the stabilisers inoperative.”

Nathanial pretended to deflate in his chair, much to van den Bosch’s delight. “I don’t know how else to proceed,” he said. A dangerous idea struck him then, and before he could stop himself, Nathanial asked, “What about Professor Wren’s notes? Did he keep a journal? Perhaps a clue might be found there.”

Van den Bosch’s delight vanished with a stiffening of his posture. He cleared his throat and spoke, but his voice was tight. “A journal was found, but it contained nothing pertinent to our current concerns.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Of course. I arrived at the same conclusion when the stabilisers first malfunctioned, but there was nothing to be found in the journal.”

“What about his notes?”

“Again, nothing.”

“Could I see them?”

“Ah. But here you are again, Stone. Surely you must know I can see what you’re doing. From the notes you can discern what experiments were being performed, and those experiments form the cornerstone of the secrets this station contains. Of course you must know that I cannot allow you to see them.”

And so it went, for an hour or more. Nathanial feinted and lunged, while van den Bosch sidestepped or parried each assault. Finally their conversation was interrupted by a steward who entered carrying a bottle of wine. The tall man had a Prussian manner about him. He came to van den Bosch’s desk with the bottle cradled in his arm. He bowed, presented the wine for inspection, and set it on the desk once van den Bosch had approved of it.

“Where’s Sarp?” van den Bosch asked the steward, meaning the fat Turk who normally brought his evening wine.

“Busy at the moment,” the steward said. “Do you need anything else?”

“No. When is dinner?”

“We’ll dine within the hour, sir.”

“Very good. Thank you.”

The steward left as quietly as he had arrived.

The arrival of the wine meant an end to all argument. The only truly civilised characteristic van den Bosch appeared to possess was that he did not like for a conversation to end with animosity. They would instead share a glass of wine and discuss other matters until dinner was served.

The administrator heaved his bulk to his feet and went to rummage in a cabinet for his corkscrew.

“You remind me of Thaddeus,” van den Bosch said, at that same moment finding the corkscrew and snatching it from the drawer, which he closed. “Always so mule-headed.”

“I just wish you would be more forthcoming with what you know,” Nathanial said, half-believing that lie himself. “From my perspective, you’re playing games with other peoples’ lives, and I find it appalling.”

“I hope you never find yourself in so similar a game, Mister Stone.”

What? Nathanial almost leapt from his chair. Is this to be a confession?

“Has it ever occurred to you, that by denying you access to certain knowledge, I am in some way protecting you?” van den Bosch asked.

“Yes, indeed it has, but what is one life, compared to the dozens who will lose theirs if we must evacuate? You’ve said as much yourself; we cannot take everyone.”

Van den Bosch held up a hand. “This is a conversation for another time.”

Nathanial nodded, eager to be done with the whole thing. What he had thought was to be a confession had turned into a cloying display of false affection. He thought of the rumours, of people whose lives had been destroyed because of this monster, of the wreckage in Wren’s lab, of Wren himself, and how he must have screamed as he burned to death. Nathanial had no illusions as to where he stood.

“Good. Shall we drink then?”

The wine bottle proved difficult to open. Van den Bosch, for all his size and obvious strength, strained with the cork. “Wretched thing,” he grunted.

“There will be more wine at dinner tonight,” Nathanial said.

“I’d like a glass now, beforehand.”

“Why don’t they open it for you before bringing it? That way, it could breathe a bit.”

“I like to do things myself.”

“Ah.”

A curious set of events occurred then. Van den Bosch, clearly frustrated with the wine bottle, began to jerk the corkscrew, wrapping a powerful bicep around the bottle to provide a strong grip. One pull proved too hard, and he lost control of the bottle. It slipped from the crook of his arm, and a hand shot out to grab it. The grab missed, and he bobbled the bottle three times before losing it completely. It tumbled upward in the air as van den Bosch gave a cry of alarm, and fell onto the hard deck floor. The bottle then exploded with the crack of a gunshot, as if its contents were under extreme pressure. Van den Bosch cursed mightily.

That was when Nathanial noticed something was terribly, terribly wrong. He smelled it first, but then noticed a thick, noxious gas, tinged slightly green, billowing out of the broken wreckage. Van den Bosch gagged, and, gripping his throat, fell backwards into his chair.

“Poison!” Nathanial cried, and leapt across the desk. Van den Bosch slid from his chair, limp as a rag doll. Nathanial held his breath and began trying to drag the doctor away, but the man’s bulk was too great. “Jasperse! Come quickly!” he yelled with what oxygen he had in his lungs.

The gas cloud continued to spread, filling the room. Nathanial pulled hard on van den Bosch’s jacket sleeves. He still held his breath, and had squeezed his eyes shut for good measure, but his exertions were starting to wear at him. Already his lungs felt like they were on fire, and he’d barely moved the man a foot.

Jasperse burst into the room, carbine at ready. He saw the rapidly expanding green gas and pulled a kerchief from his coverall pocket, quickly tying it over his mouth and nose, and dashed forward to assist Nathanial in dragging the administrator to safety.

2.

Outside, they shut and locked the door. Nathanial fell onto the floor, gulping air.

Jasperse called down the hall. “We have a gas leak on British side, Doctor van den Bosch’s office. We need ventilations systems sealed in this area. Hurry!”

A voice from somewhere replied with an affirmative, but Jasperse was already at Nathanial’s side. “Are you all right, lad?” he asked.

Nathanial could only nod. Jasperse went then to van den Bosch’s prone form. He rolled the man over and placed an ear his chest. Nathanial could see a slight rise and fall in the chest.

“Did he get a snoot full of the stuff?” Jasperse asked.

“I believe so. He certainly choked on some of it,” Nathanial replied.

Men armed with carbines arrived in a few minutes, led by a grim-faced Hague. Salt was with them, but he looked lost, as though he had been caught up in the undertow of men and pulled along with it. Holmes arrived on their heels, black medical bag in hand. He moved to help Nathanial, who waved him off.

“I’m fine. It’s van den Bosch,” he said.

A quick examination confirmed Nathanial’s fear. “Frantic heart rate, and his breathing is laboured. We must get him to sickbay at once.”

“Will he live?” Nathanial asked.

“We won’t know for sure until I can observe him further.”

A litter was arranged, and six men laboured under van den Bosch’s bulk as they carried him away, Mister Salt with them. Hague and two armed men remained. Jasperse was nearby, eyeing everything and everyone. His gun had been left behind in the room, which was now sealed, but Nathanial had no doubt the man remained dangerous.

“How did this happen?” Hague asked.

Nathanial explained what had happened. My God, the steward! Nathanial wanted to scream. Sarp usually served the wine, but tonight, it had been a new man. He had tried to poison us. Van den Bosch had gotten a good look at him, though. If he survived, perhaps he could provide a clue.

“Who delivered the wine?” Hague asked.

“A steward. I’ve never seen him before.”

“A large gentleman? Turkish?”

“I know Sarp, Mister Hague. This was a tall chap, thin.” Nathanial thought hard. “Prussian!”

Hague squinted behind his small, prim spectacles. “Are you sure of this?”

“Yes.”

“That is unfortunate,” Hague replied. “Unfortunate, for there is no one on this station matching your description.” Hague nodded at his men, and they left. He turned back to Nathanial. “Return to your quarters at once. I’ll send word when it is safe.” Hague turned on his heel marched away.

Jasperse, ever dutiful, took Nathanial by the arm and started to lead him away. “Come now, Professor,” he said. “Mister Hague may be right about this. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

Nathanial pulled away. “No,” he said. “We’re not returning to my quarters. We’re going down into Hell.”

“Whatever for, sir?” Jasperse asked.

“I had wanted to confer with the others first, but we may not have a chance like this again. We’ve been speaking to the wrong side in this, Jasperse. Van den Bosch had the stabilisers disabled. He won’t help us.”

“So who will?”

Nathanial clapped the man on the back. “Get yourself armed and go find Provost. We’ll need all the help we can get. We’re about to go in search of Professor Wren’s ghost.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Into the Depths of Hell!”

1.

Hell was blood red and choked with steam. At every turn a shadow moved, as though it were some murderer, ready to spring from the dark and claim a new victim with the flash of a knife’s blade. Moreover, most of the main floor, which was actually three split levels, was all twisting pipes and rumbling machinery. It wasn’t until one emerged into the docking bay where decent lighting or air that wasn’t thick as cotton could be had.

“I say, Stone,” said Provost, who jumped at every disturbance. “I don’t see the logic in all of this. Why bring me along at all?”

“Steady on, Provost,” Nathanial said. Already his head pounded with the tension he felt. Heaven was in an uproar. News of the attack had swept like wildfire among the crew. Security was now guarding the armoury, sickbay, and both Observation Decks. The men wanted answers, or they wanted weapons to protect themselves. Dolan had been removed from his command, and he was nowhere to be found. When Nathanial had questioned Salt, whom he found walking the halls as if in a daze, the man had replied that Hague was now in complete control of all operations, including security.

“Have we any idea in hell where this bloody thing might be?” Provost asked. “Assuming it exists, of course, which I am certain it does not.”

Nathanial ignored him. Let him whine, he thought. Fullbright would be busy in Operations, Holmes was trying to save van den Bosch’s life, and Nathanial needed people he could trust to help him find Le Boeuf. That left only Jasperse, Annabelle, and Provost, and Nathanial could not find Annabelle, either.

A groan passed through the hull, reverberating throughout the station’s iron skeleton. Another warning from the aether vortex.

To answer Provost’s question, one had only to pay attention to the rumours. Professor Wren’s ghost had been seen near a number of airlocks. The most recent sighting had actually been in Heaven, near the airlock by the kitchen, the one used to dispose of refuse. Nathanial could not tell if these sightings were random, or if they were part of some larger message. He could only take the data he had and apply it critically. Sightings of Professor Wren were most recently near airlocks, and so he would check each of the seven in Hell, starting with the one nearest engineering.

The hull groaned again.

“Come on, dear,” Jasperse said, patting a nearby wall. The armoury’s closure had lost him a new carbine, but Jasperse had improvised. Now armed with a pry-bar, a claw hammer, and a knife, he was as prepared as he could be. “Just give us a moment to do our work, and we’ll have you fixed in no time.”

“Don’t make promises we cannot keep, Jasperse,” Provost said.

“I’ve my faith in Professor Stone, here. He’ll see us through.”

“Thank you, Jasperse,” Nathanial said. “We should be passing under Austrian momentarily, gentlemen. That’s where we’ll find what we’re looking for.”

“Good, then,” Jasperse said. “I must say, the heat here reminds me of—ˮ

“Bloody hell!”

Nathanial leapt a foot in the air as Provost cried out in horror. A shower of ice poured down his spine. “What is it, man?” Nathanial hissed. “I nearly caught my death!”

“I saw something!” Provost said. Nathanial found the man in the gloom and searched out his face. Provost was pale, bloodless, like he had seen a ghost.

“How did you see anything in all this steam?” Jasperse asked.

Provost pointed to his right. “I saw him as clear as day. He’s headed toward British. What’s more, Stone, I believe it was that man Miss Somerset was on about.”

Nathanial jerked his head in the direction Provost was pointing. “The bomber?” he asked.

“The same. Short, sandy-haired fellow. He was running like the Devil was chasing him!”

“Running? Why?”

There came a grumbling overhead. The air itself seemed to shimmer as the entire station shook, and then a groan as if the hull itself was being torn asunder.

“That wasn’t the vortex,” Jasperse said.

“It sounded more like an explosion,” Nathanial replied.

“Good Lord,” Provost whispered.

Nathanial grabbed Provost without thinking and twisted him toward the direction the botanist had been pointing a moment earlier.

“Wait! What are you doing?” Provost cried.

“After that man!” Nathanial shouted. “We can’t let him escape a third time!”

Chapter Eighteen

“Doom Under Glass”

1.

“Miss Somerset! Annabelle! Where are you?”

Annabelle scrambled out of the air duct and replaced the grate. Dolan’s voice was near, but it was clear he had not discovered her yet. She didn’t want him coming about when she had so soon made her discovery.

“I’m here! Where are you?”

“Where you’re supposed to be, woman! Come a-running!”

Annabelle made her way back to where she had been working. Dolan was there waiting for her, face stricken.

“We’ve run into something, girl.”

Annabelle was worried. Dolan wasn’t a man who took anything too seriously. Whatever had him so frightened, she could not help but worry. “What is it?” she asked.

“Doctor van den Bosch. Someone tried to poison him and your man, Stone, in the good doctor’s study, no less.”

“Poison?”

“Yes.”

“Is Nathanial―?” It was the bomber, it had to be. If that monster had harmed Nathanial, she would tear him apart.

“Stone’s fine.”

Relief flooded her.

“Then you’ve got to get your men together and start a search! Check the air ducts, Dolan! That’s how he moves about!”

Dolan became rigid. His concern vanished; he stared hard at her for a moment. “How do you know that?” he asked.

“That’s irrelevant. Get your men, Dolan!”

The Irishman shook his head. “They ain’t me men anymore. Hague’s in charge, now.”

“Then we have to talk to him!”

Dolan caught her arm as she tried to push past him. “It won’t do you any good. If you thought Doctor van den Bosch was a son-of-a-bitch, wait until you’ve dealt with Hague. The Devil and the Devil’s misbegotten nephew, that’s them two.”

“Well, what do we do, Dolan? Surely you don’t expect me to sit here and count cans of peaches with you?”

“I should get you somewhere safe,” he said.

“Perish the thought!”

“They just found van den Bosch’s steward in a broom closet with his throat cut! Are you daft? Do you think he won’t come for you, as well? You’ve seen his face, after all!”

Annabelle stabbed an accusatory finger into Dolan’s chest. “So you do believe me!”

Dolan looked away, clearly ashamed. “On my life, woman, I do.”

“Then you also know I can find him. The air ducts, Dolan.”

“I need to get you safe, Miss Annabelle. You don’t know what this fellow is capable of.”

“I know better than you—ˮ

A roaring explosion stopped their conversation dead.

“What was that?” Annabelle asked, already knowing the answer. “An explosion…?”

But Dolan wasn’t hearing her. He stared upward, as if the answer to everything were written on the ceiling. “My God,” he whispered, breath blowing out the wispy strands of his moustache. “We’re under siege.”

Chapter Nineteen

“The Ghost of Professor Wren”

1.

“You there! In the name of the Queen, stop!” Jasperse cried.

The bomber threw a brief glance over his shoulder, crying out in alarm, but that was all the respite he took before breaking into a mad dash. Jasperse sprinted after him, bellowing at him some formal, yet wildly unintelligible speech about duty before the Crown. There was an oath in it for Queen Victoria, but it, too, could not be deciphered. Spittle flew from the soldier’s lips as he charged past Nathanial.

“Come on!” Nathanial said, grabbing a dumbfounded and winded Provost and pulling him along a side path. With any luck, he thought, the man will get lost in this maze, or his path will cross ours. Then, we shall have him!

The light was terrible, and the steam made negotiating abrupt turns difficult. He was glad for the inexplicable gravity on the station; it made the chase all the more easy on his long legs. Thoughts of the gravity reminded Nathanial remembered of his first day aboard Sovereign, when he had thoughtlessly burned his hand on the boiler. He was careful now, more so than perhaps was necessary, but doing so mostly because he had Provost in tow, as well, and the man seemed so helpless, of a sudden.

“Come now, Provost!” he yelled at the botanist. “Do keep up. We’ve got to have this man, and have him now!”

Their path made a sharp turn left, and Nathanial nearly collided with a piece of pipe jutting outwards. He stopped mere inches before it struck his forehead. If he had not noticed it in time, surely it would have given him a grievous injury.

“Careful of that,” he said to Provost needlessly, as the man was a good head shorter than he, and they were off again.

The way twisted and turned until they ended up with a wall before them. A hallway ran left and right. They chose right, as that would take them in the direction where they had last seen the bomber running. Jasperse’s bellows were far away, but becoming closer.

“There he is!” Provost cried.

Directly ahead, the bomber broke from the maze and dashed down a hallway. He did not even stop to look when the botanist yelled at him. Nathanial wished he had something just then, a knife, a pistol, anything. It was looking to be close quarters with this man if they caught up with him, and Jasperse was the only one who was armed.

2.

They met Jasperse at the junction. Nathanial dodged aside at the last instant, just as the soldier was about to dash him with the pry-bar.

“This way!” Nathanial ordered, and the soldier tore off down the hall.

The hallway was a short one, which ended in another two-way turn. Directly in front of them was a stout metal door, standing slightly ajar.

“The cold storage!” Nathanial cried, realising now where they were. “He’s gone in there, Jasperse.”

“I’ll have him, sir!”

Jasperse came thundering to a stop, tossing the pry-bar into his right hand so his left might grab the cold storage door and pull it open. The room beyond was dark. Nathanial was still twenty paces behind and could see nothing with Jasperse filling the doorway.

A shadow near Jasperse flickered, coming from the hallway to the right.

“Look out!” Provost cried before Nathanial could, but it was too late.

Events slowed to a crawl. The bomber came out in a dash, grabbed Jasperse from the doorway and spun him about. It was then that Nathanial noticed the blade in the bomber’s hand, probably the same one that had done in Loaves. The light was too poor for the blade to flash, but there seemed to Nathanial a quality to it that seemed brighter and shinier than anything else he had ever seen before. But see it he did only for an instant, for, a blink later, the knife was embedded hilt-deep in Jasperse’s chest.

“Villain!” Nathanial cried, and charged.

The bomber peered in their direction and, seeing two men bearing down on him, turned to his right and fled in the opposite direction he had come.

Nathanial reached Jasperse and fell to his knees beside the man. Jasperse was still awake, his face scrunched in agony.

“A beauty of a wound, this,” he grunted.

The blade had entered slightly to the side of him, just above the stomach. It must have passed between the ribs and into the chest, for it now rested somewhere near the heart, so close, in fact, that the handle jumped with each of heartbeat.

“My God, Jasperse. Here let me—ˮ

“No!” Provost cried. “If you pull that blade, Stone, he’s surely a dead man.”

“’S true, lad,” Jasperse whispered. “I’ll be fine here, for a while, anyway. Get that bastard before he gets away. I want a chance to reciprocate his gift.”

Behind them came the far away cacophony of a dozen rifles firing at one time.

“What was that?” Provost asked.

“No time to consider it now,” Nathanial said. He grabbed the pry-bar, handing the hammer to Provost, who took the weapon like he had been given a badger. They raced after the bomber.

3.

They’d taken no more than a few steps before they heard a bloodcurdling scream ahead. The narrow hallway led to a custodial room. Across the way, the pneumatic dumbwaiter sat. Clearly, the bomber had been trying to use it to return to Heaven so he could find a proper hiding place. However, that plan had been cut short. Now, he lay crumpled on the floor, arms and legs akimbo.

Crouched over him, in his ghostly rags, was Professor Wren.

Provost stopped in his tracks, jaw slack. “Professor Wren!” he whispered. “Stone, it’s his ghost!”

The chalk white face turned in their direction. Bloodshot eyes watched them, yellowing teeth smiled like a child playing at a devilish game.

“Wait! I need to speak with you.” Nathanial said.

Wren stood and danced a pirouette in answer. Then a slow, raspy laugh issued from him, and without further ado, he leapt atop a nearby crate and disappeared into the darkness overhead.

“After him, Provost,” Nathanial said, dropping to the bomber’s side.

“Surely you jest,” Provost said. “I’ll live the rest of my days in infamy before I chase after a bloody ghost.”

“It’s not a ghost, you fool,” Nathanial said. “It is the one man who knows how to fix the stabilisers. Le Boeuf!”

Nathanial turned the bomber over. The man was dead. His face was contorted in its final expression, one of both terror and agonising pain. Nathanial searched, yet he could not find a wound. He tugged open the coverall, and there he found it. On the man’s undershirt, between the fourth and fifth rib, was a small blossom of blood. Death had been administered by a thin object, probably a needle. Poison, then. Death had been nearly instantaneous, probably stopping the heart with a paralytic of some kind.

“A fitting end, I should say,” Provost said.

Nathanial agreed. “Let’s see to Jasperse,” he said.

Chapter Twenty

“Purest Bedlam”

1.

It didn’t take Annabelle long to lose Dolan in the crowd. The scene that greeted them as they fled the quartermaster was purest bedlam. Men were running about, screaming, shouting. An older, balding gent, stood in the centre of a teeming mass, reading a Bible in an outstretched hand. The acrid scent of smoke and burning gases hung in the air.

“The greenhouses!” Annabelle shouted, and Dolan bolted away before she could say more.

A fire brigade of sorts had started at Dolan’s fountain and was stretching around a corner. Where they were headed, Annabelle could only guess. If it was the green houses, as she had surmised, they were located on the uppermost part of the station, in domes above Heaven.

Dolan was gone, but soon Salt appeared at her side. He was sweating profusely, and there was soot staining his coverall. “They’ve struck again!” he cried. “It’s panic for sure, now!”

“We know for sure?” Annabelle asked. “It wasn’t something to do with the vortex?”

Salt shook his head. “The glass of Greenhouse Two has been blown out. We’ve lost all of the atmosphere there, but there’s fire and smoke pouring down out of the ducts. Something is still on fire.”

Men were pouring en masse toward the lifts that would take them down into Hell. Someone nearby was yelling for all hands to abandon ship.

“Has Mister Hague given such an order?” she asked Salt, who shook his head.

“None. We’ll get this under control soon enough, but I had better help stop this madness before it gets someone killed.” He raced off toward the lifts, shouting at the men to stand down.

2.

Annabelle returned to the air duct in the quartermaster. There would never be a better moment, she decided. The bomber had to have a lair, somewhere he could hide if searched for. She wasn’t sure how well she could traverse these passages with an injured arm, but she had to try. And if she happened to run across the bomber himself, she was prepared. She patted her pocket. Her derringer rested there. If the blackguard wanted to use a knife, she thought, she would use a firearm.

She grabbed the pry-bar she had used earlier and pulled the grate from the wall. It fell to the floor with a clank.

In a nearby crate she found a bulls-eye lantern, packed in straw. She pulled it free, cleaned it off, and filled it with oil. A box of lucifers was on Griggs’ desk, near the exit. Like many of the men, he smoked an illicit pipe of tobacco when no one was around, something clearly against station clean air regulations. She’d smelled the sweet scent when she’d arrived to work earlier.

Back at the air duct, she set the lantern inside and pushed it forward. She knelt and crawled back inside, same as before. She slid forward until she was near the lantern, used her bandaged arm to nudge it forward, and followed it. It would be slow going, but she would eventually find her way. She paused a moment and removed her father’s watch from a pocket by her breast. Barely visible in the gloom, she nevertheless felt the comfort in having it with her. She wound it tight and gave it a gentle kiss.

“You’re always with me, Father, no matter what,” she whispered.

The words were like a proof against the dark, just as it always had been. She replaced the watch in her pocket and started forward, feeling like nothing could stop her.

Chapter Twenty-One

“A Shadow’s Lair”

1.

Who would have thought that there would be a room?

Wandering aimlessly through the air ducts for an hour or more, Annabelle had been surprised when the narrow tunnel opened into a larger room, a sort of central access chamber. From this room were five shafts―four horizontally deployed, one vertical―that led to other parts of the station. Where they went, she wasn’t sure. More important, though, were not the shafts themselves, but the room into which they fed.

Piled wherever the meagre space would allow was what Annabelle could only assume were the missing ten crates of goods. Cans of American corn, carrots, sugar beets, peas, beans, and other varieties of fruits and vegetables were there to be had. Dried beef as well, tins of biscuits, coffee, and jugs of potable water were stacked haphazardly in corners, stuffed into the shafts, or merely strewn about the room as if an angry child had thrown a tantrum here. On the floor were three sleeping pallets piled with soiled coveralls and socks. Several clean pairs were folded neatly and sitting atop a mouldering block of cheese about the size of Annabelle’s torso, which had chunks of it cut away by knives.

By one of the pallets were the makings of another bomb, half-finished, with a small tool chest nearby left open. Annabelle inspected the bomb further and found two small vials in a wooden box, packed with cotton. Nitro-glycerine. Annabelle did not touch the box nor attempt to pull the vials from it. She was amazed, in fact, that they had managed to bring the compound from Earth, given the jostling that occurred leaving a planetary atmosphere.

This discovery couldn’t be more pleasing, she decided. She had found their lair, and so soon. They! It had turned out not to be a single man, but apparently a conspiracy of at least three, if the number of pallets on the floor were any indication. She could not wait to see the look on van den Bosch’s face when she returned.

Annabelle was about to leave when she caught a glimpse of movement. She peered down the long expanse of air shaft directly in front of her. Strange.

Taking up her lantern, she trained the light down the shaft, but could see nothing. If it was someone, they had to be as quiet as a ghost, she thought, for she had not heard them pass.

Her pulse quickened. Unless Dolan had done as she’d asked and sent men into the air ducts (which was not likely) only one type of person would be lurking here besides her. If one of them had passed by, it would be impossible to think that he would have missed the lantern’s light. That meant she had been discovered, and now she was in danger.

2.

A more prudent person would surely have chosen a different shaft and fled. Instead Annabelle plunged straight ahead after her quarry, using her bandaged arm to push the lantern ahead while bracing herself with the other.

She reached a t-section and turned right, the direction she assumed the shadow had gone, and followed it for some time.

At another four-way, Annabelle saw a bright, white light coming from her left. Having spent so long in Peregrine’s gloom, she did not quite comprehend at first what she was seeing, but she quickly recovered and turned in its direction. The further along she went, the brighter the light got.

Ahead, a room beyond the grate offered enticing possibilities. What sort of place was this that its lighting was brighter than everywhere else on the station?

She was soon rewarded. At a dead end, the grate popped easily from its housing, suggesting that perhaps it had been used a number of times. Where she found herself was a small alcove that formed part of a larger room. Beyond was brightly lit, and from the moment she crawled from the air duct she felt a strange buzzing just inside her head, as if a hive of bees had taken up residence there. The air seemed to shimmer with a strange energy.

Leaving the alcove she was greeted with an awesome sight. On a platform approximately twenty feet by forty feet, was an impressive machine. It was from here the strange sensations emanated.

It hummed with a ferocious vigour. Above it was a field of some kind, emanating from four metal posts, one at each corner of the machine, through which a strange, crackling energy coursed. And suspended above the machine was a swirling mass like nothing Annabelle had ever seen before. It was as though the mass was both transparent and black at the same time, for she could see through to the other side, though the light reflecting from the mass was much darker than in the rest of the room. As if the mass was also trying to devour the light, which was fighting back and glowing brighter because of it.

Awed by the scene, and uncaring if close proximity would endanger her, Annabelle drifted forward to get a better look. Being around Uncle Cyrus, she had witnessed many strange sights, but never had she seen something so forceful, so primal, as this. It was as if the mass was a living thing, an animal trapped in a cage, and in its violent revolutions within the field it demonstrated its lonely need to be free. A slight change in the field made the mass suddenly sparkle with purplish energy. Annabelle was overwhelmed with its beauty.

Something moved to her right. Too late, she recalled why she had come here in the first place, to find the bomber or one of his compatriots. Her body jerked left to run, but just as it did something crashed down across the back of her head. A bright flash of light erupted across her vision. Her legs buckled, and she dropped to the floor.

3.

She lay on the ground, not quite unconscious, yet sliding in that direction. Her eyes were sealed shut, and she was too weak then to even think of opening them. What she had, then, were her other senses, and the feeling of someone, or several someones, drawing near.

The voices she heard then were unfamiliar.

“Brennan is dead.”

“Jesus be praised. He’s blown Greenhouse Two to Hell and back, so you know.”

“I’m aware of that, thank you. I’m also aware that you were told to find and neutralise him before something like this occurred. The damage he has caused might be insurmountable, and what is worse, he nearly sat down in Stone’s lap. If I hadn’t dealt with him when I did, he might have doomed us all.”

“Sorry, sir. Should I eliminate Stone as well?”

“No! At least not yet. I want some sense of normalcy to return. Stone is aware of us now, but he is not hostile. We’ll discreetly steer him to the correct conclusion and let him repair the stabilisers for us. Only then, once his usefulness is done will we arrange an accident. Until then, we are ghosts.”

“And Miss Somerset, sir?”

“Dispose of her. She knows too much.”

“Yes, sir. Right at once, sir.”

Annabelle closed her eyes, and everything slipped away.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Ode to a Juggernaut”

1.

EXCERPT 39.

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

Sunday September 8th 1889.

Nine days have passed since I first arrived on Peregrine Station. Three days now since the explosion in Greenhouse Two has deprived us of one-third of our breathable oxygen.

Three days since I was nearly killed by an assassin. Three days since the mad attempt to find answers dissolved into an even madder attempt to apprehend Annabelle’s bomber, only for him to fall to this “apparition” who haunts Peregrine.

Three days since that self-same bomber stabbed Jasperse, the man charged with protecting me.

Jasperse, consequently, died this morning of his wounds. There is little to say to that. We’d thought the knife had missed the heart altogether, but apparently it had nicked the left ventricle. Another day spent at a friend’s bedside, all for naught. Another day lost.

The gunshots Provost and I heard just before the bomber was killed were the start of a massacre. Workers attempting to flee the station via the cutters were fired upon by direct order from Hague. Fourteen men were killed. Nine more were injured.

Hague has been relieved of his command following the incident, and though I don’t know how, word of van den Bosch’s involvement in damaging the stabilisers has circulated among the workers, causing a near-revolt. Fullbright has assumed command, and that has quieted the unrest somewhat, but there are many who are calling for the two men’s heads.

No longer needing to fear his wrath, I have confronted van den Bosch. He denies culpability in Professor Wren’s death despite evidence of a struggle prior to the fire. When I mention the name Le Boeuf, he flies into an uncontrollable rage. Were he not under constant guard, and in a weakened state from his brush with death, I fear he might have attacked me, such is his anger. He believes Le Boeuf has come to Peregrine Station with the sole purpose of destroying him, the reasons of which the doctor refuses to reveal. So far, he also refuses to tell how the stabilisers might be repaired, taking a maniacal glee in this, nor will he discuss the aether machine, Torquilstone. Furthermore, he continues to deny there is a power drain occurring on the station.

Thus, I am no closer to saving Peregrine Station from the vortex than I was when I first arrived. If I cannot find an answer within three days, we will be forced to abandon the station. In the meantime, Fullbright has announced a partial evacuation will occur, regardless. The destruction of Greenhouse Two has rendered our current situation untenable. We must shed all non-essential workers soon, or the very air we breathe will become toxic.

And worse, I cannot find Annabelle anywhere. She was not killed in the riots which followed the greenhouse’s destruction, nor was she among the dead who tried to commandeer the flyers. I have asked Dolan to assemble a team to scour the station for her, which he has done, but he has found no sign of her yet. I fear for her so much I cannot sleep. If I were to lose her, after all that has gone on, I don’t think—No, I will find her. And then we shall leave this Godforsaken place once and for all. But until then, I can’t sleep, and my mind, I know, suffers for it.

2.

DOCTOR Holmes emerged, wiping his hands on a damp cloth. His heavily-jowled face was lined with weariness. His gray hair was mussed, like a man who had just woken from a tumultuous sleep. The white apron he wore was stained with blood.

Nathanial offered Holmes a glass of wine when the squat, little man plopped down into his chair. Holmes shook his head at the offer, his jowls quivering. “Three more this morning,” he said. “Theories on the curative properties of the aether abound, but they don’t allow for a recovery once the wound suppurates.” He sighed, then stuck out his hand. “Better give me that wine, son, now there’s a good fellow.” Nathanial noticed as Holmes took the glass his hands shook, from exertion or an emergent nervousness, it could not be said.

Provost and Fullbright sat nearby. Provost had not recovered from their adventures in Hell. The sights of the bomber dying, Professor Wren’s ghost, and poor Jasperse succumbing to his wounds were bad enough. What was worse, when they had returned from their adventure, carrying their wounded friend between them, Provost had learned about Greenhouse Two.

He spoke of it later, when the chaos had subsided, and his voice had quivered. “I was supposed to be there this cycle. One of the men thought he had seen evidence of a blight, and I was going to see so for myself. I should have been there.” Five men had died tending the place. Provost had not spent a sober moment since.

Fullbright, on the other hand, was like a changed man. Authority agreed with him. Since the bloodless coup that had occurred hours after the massacre in the docking bay, Fullbright had been named de facto administrator. Gone now were the dark criticisms he had once voiced, replaced by a man who was quite serious about doing his job.

He had also made it his job to keep his friend Provost inebriated, and he did so now, coaxing a wineglass into the botanist’s hands.

“Here you go, old boy,” he said. “For your nerves.” A roguish smile played across his lips. “And for your liver. And for your head in the morning when it wakes and needs a good stabbing pain to occupy it.”

No one had the energy to play along with Fullbright’s quips, and he soon ceased speaking.

Nathanial finished his glass and prepared to leave. Fullbright stopped him.

“A moment, Stone,” he said. “You know, of course, that a memorial service is being organised. Regardless of the, ah, outcome, it’s only fitting we have some sort of moment of prayer for those who’ve lost their lives recently.”

“Of course,” Nathanial said. “What would you like me to do?”

Fullbright raised his hands. “Oh! No, no. Your energies are required elsewhere. Holmes and Salt are organising. What I mean to say is, would you like us to include mention of Miss Somerset in the proceedings?”

“Give off, Fullbright,” Holmes said with a roll of his eyes. “The lad has more than enough on his mind without this.”

“No, I understand,” Nathanial replied. “Yes, George, that would be fine. Please include her. If she hasn’t returned or been found before then, we must conclude the worst.”

Fullbright grunted. Provost stirred from his daze to say, “I’m heartbroken for you, Stone. Truly I am.”

“Thank you. Thank you all.”

3.

British was alive with workers scrambling to finish the final touches to Peregrine’s interior. Additionally, Fullbright had ordered electricians and the Operations staff to engage the heliograph, which van den Bosch had previously demanded remain inoperative until the station was ready to begin transmitting.

“Bloody shame if this place should be destroyed without ever sending a single message,” Fullbright had said. “Besides, we’ll need to flash Mars to inform them we’re sending evacuees. What terrible house guests we’d make, after all, showing up with our luggage and not so much as a word of our impending arrival. Especially after the trouble our people had at Alclyon recently.”

Nathanial knew little of recent Martian politics, and so he went to look in on van den Bosch. The administrator had been moved to his private quarters to recover following the massacre in the docking bay. He was under guard at all times, more as a protection for him than a fear van den Bosch would escape. When Nathanial arrived, the doctor was awake and alert.

The bandages had been removed from his face and hands, revealing a madman’s caricature of a human. His hands were gnarled and twisted, though still very capable of use, but now they looked like the roots of some old, stunted tree. His skin was pasty, and no hair at all grew on his body. Yet, it was his face that was most affected. Nathanial had seen curiosities and exhibitions in his time in London. One such place had a house filled with mirrors that would distort a person’s image, much to everyone’s dismay and delight. Van den Bosch looked like a man who had stood in front of one such mirror and had it alter his appearance permanently as a result. It resembled wax that had been allowed to grow soft, only to have it pulled, squashed, and smeared in the most chaotic way. Despite himself, Nathanial could not help but feel pity. Van den Bosch no doubt lived in terrible pain.

“Come to look upon horror one more time, have you?” van den Bosch asked. His voice was no longer booming, nor threatening, just tired and raspy.

“I thought we might speak again.”

“You’ve got everything from me, Stone. What else is there?”

“The truth, perhaps?”

Eyes rolled to glare at Nathanial. There was such terrible hate in them. “You’re a babe, crying in the dark,” he said. “I could tell you the stars were lighthouses manned by far-off ancient fishermen, and you would believe me. What do you know of truth?”

“Tell me about Torquilstone. Or Le Boeuf.”

This time there were no splutterings, no howls of fury, or paranoid proclamations. Van den Bosch gave a cold, hard smile instead. “He’s the Devil, but you’ll learn that soon enough. Not today, and perhaps not even tomorrow, but one day he’ll come for you. When he does, he will destroy you. Oh, you’re just his sort, let me tell you. He likes to toy with fools like you. Like Thaddeus.”

“What did he do to Professor Wren?”

“Everything. You’ll never believe me, I’m sure, but Thaddeus Wren was my friend. Certainly, we were rivals, and we argued constantly. A better man, though, you would never find. There were rumours about him, of course, indecent things said behind his back. And when it was said he had killed his wife, most believed those rumours confirmed. Only I knew better. I knew it was Guillaume Le Boeuf. Knew it in my very soul. If you can dream of an atrocity, his heart is black enough to carry it out.”

The news rocked Nathanial back on his heels. “What happened?” he asked.

Van den Bosch did not seem to hear him. Instead, he continued with his disjointed narrative. “The worst betrayal of all was that I never knew. Never knew the truth. How could I, after all? Every paper at university, every printed word in his career, all of it. All a sham. I had thought the man a genius, but he had been a shadow. Oh, perhaps he had possessed some talent, but the real talent…”

“Was Le Boeuf.”

A horrible light lit van den Bosch’s eyes. Nathanial thought the man would become apoplectic, the way he had earlier, when Nathanial had first interviewed him, but he wrestled control of his emotions, and uttered his answer in pained whispers. “Damn him. Everything. Everything here is tainted with his filth!”

Van den Bosch’s voice trailed off, and he looked away, toward the opposite wall.

“That’s why you did it,” Nathanial said. “The accident in the lab. You fought there, didn’t you? You discovered the truth, and you became so enraged you attacked Professor Wren.”

“Yes.”

“And then the accident happened, only it wasn’t an accident.”

“Yes!”

“Your hatred of Le Boeuf made you kill your only friend, and then, when you had regained your senses, you decided you would have your revenge. You would force Le Boeuf to come forward to save his creations, and you would destroy him, wipe out all trace of him, and your friend’s legacy would be intact.”

Tears rolled down the awful, ruined face. “Yes.”

Nathanial grabbed van den Bosch’s hand and held. He squeezed the ruined fingers until his own hand ached. “Then let me help you. I can still find him, perhaps capture him, and then he can stand trial for what he’s done.”

“No jury would ever convict him. He’s ‘done’ nothing. That is his finest and most insidious game.” A grunt and a heave, and Doctor van den Bosch turned over on his side. “I wish to sleep, now.”

Nathanial would not relent. He grabbed at van den Bosch again, only this time he was rebuffed. “Tell me how to fix the stabilisers,” he pleaded. “Let me at least save this place.”

There was a long silence, then a simple word. “Why?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“The Hidden Prison”

1.

Her mouth was dry, and she had soiled herself, but she was alive. That much she knew. There was no possible way at all for death to hurt so. Annabelle lay in darkness, total darkness, as it were, trussed up like a hog, her injured arm throbbing with a red ache. The back of her head similarly pounded from the blow she had taken. Her scalp felt tight and strange, probably from dried blood. A front tooth was also chipped, a reflex gnashing no doubt when the blow came. Annabelle spat in an un-lady like fashion.

“Hello?” she called. There was no answer. She had not expected one.

She wriggled her fingers. She still had feeling in her hands, which meant one of two things, either she had not been tied up long, or the bonds were not tight. She tried them. There was room to move.

When the Chiricahua had first taken her to their camp, they had tied her outside the lodge of their chief. They bound her hands and feet with strips of deer leather and left her there. Under the summer sun, she soon grew thirsty. Food and water were left for her, several feet away, but in her condition she could not reach it. After a while, someone would come along and collect the food and water, and it was given to another, usually an elder, one of the infirm, or a child. She cried herself to sleep for two nights in frustration, and when she could take no more of what she believed was their cruel tricks, Annabelle struggled out of her bonds. She struggled until her wrists bled, and the slickness of the blood gave her the advantage she needed. When she was free, a woman ambled over with a bowl of dried venison and mesquite beans. Annabelle ate, and she was given as much water as she could drink.

That was how they taught you so you would never forget. Escaping from bonds like this was second nature to her, now.

“Hello?” she called out again, and again, there was no answer.

She tried to sit up, but found she could not, at least not without some help. Instead, she tried rolling about, testing the limits of her cage. She did not roll far before her face struck something hard and rough. She winced as the material bit into her cheek. It stung enough that she was sure she had drawn blood. She squirmed back and rolled over so she could feel the surface with her hand. Wood.

A more thorough inspection told her she was in a medium-sized room, probably some random supply closet. She was surrounded by wooden crates, there to muffle the sounds of her cries, if need be. Whoever her captor might be, he planned to keep her here.

Annabelle was starting to sweat, having rolled about and struggled to sit for as long as she had. The stink of her was terrible. It was plausible, then, that she had been here a while. As thirsty as she was, the fact she had been left to sit in her own filth, and the dried blood on the back of her head, supported this.

What if I’ve been left here to die? But no, that didn’t make sense. If they had wanted her dead, she would never have woken. She would have been pushed out an airlock, or had her throat slashed.

Something in her counselled patience. Her captor would return soon, and she would learn what was in store for her. Knowing something of her predicament would tell her also what she needed to escape. In the meantime, she had to keep her mind sharp, and when the moment arrived, she needed to remember every detail she could, about her captor’s identity, her predicament, everything. More importantly, she had to remain calm. As dangers went, even if she had been left to die in this room, it was not the worst she had ever seen.

If anything, she was worried for Nathanial. Did he know she was missing? If he did, he was no doubt worried for her safety. With the bomber still on the loose, that placed him in considerable danger, as he would no doubt look for her.

“Hello?”

This time, a door panel slid open. The thin beam of a bulls-eye lantern played off the crates, sweeping across her face and blinding her.

“Hello?” she called again.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

And just like that, Annabelle recognised the voice.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“New Horrors”

1.

The viewport in Sunward Observation, despite its description, looked out into the aether. It was named such because the station was angled at thirty-two degrees, with Sunward being the side pointing slightly toward the system’s centre; vestiges of the sun’s corona could just be seen from the corner. Here, the lighting was better than other parts of the station. A worker could see the man next to him and could discern his facial features without straining eyes to do so. A minimum number of oil lamps were employed, for workers could perform most of their duties without them.

A great brass telescope, twice the height of an average man, and with a twelve-foot base, crowded the view, much as the similar one did in Starward Observation. One day, it would train its eye on either Earth or Mars, where it would receive communications from one of the orbiting heliograph stations, only to relay that information to the other. For now, it was fixed to a point into the inky blackness of the aether, peering hard at what was out there.

Nathanial stood beneath the telescope, staring out the port, the cup of hot tea all but forgotten in his hand. One no longer needed a telescope to see the aether vortex. One had but to wait for some kind of matter, a small piece of an errant asteroid, airlock refuse from Peregrine, or whatever else might be in the vicinity to pass its outer edge, and the vortex destroyed whatever matter passed too close. Larger pieces were torn apart with such violence that energy was actually released, energy which looked like purplish flashes of lightning. In these flashes one could catch a glimpse of the vortex, wavering before the eyes like a mirage.

“Bloody hell,” Fullbright said. He stood at station on the telescope, hunched over slightly, one eye squinted as he stared at the vortex through the lens. He cranked the x-axis wheel, and the telescope swivelled on its base, turning to the right, smoothly and quietly. “What a monster, eh? Really my first glimpse of the bastard,” he said. “Doctor van den Bosch forbade everyone from looking at it once it was found. The logic of this, I’m sure, was to quell panic. I can’t say I disagree with him. Damn thing covers the horizon.”

“Have you ever seen one so large?” Nathanial asked.

“Well, I’m hardly a connoisseur of aetheric anomalies, but I’ve also talked at length with men who have seen their share. I don’t recall any of them mentioning one of this size.” Then, Fullbright added grimly. “Or this bloody violent.”

“It does take one aback,” Nathanial said. The words were coming out of his mouth with hardly any thought to them. He was making conversation only, purely out of habit. His father would be proud, after all, to see him master polite conversation to the degree that he no longer had to think to say the words that his party expected to hear. Such a skill would have made him a fine clergyman.

Fullbright hopped down from his perch. “Tell me you have some sort of idea,” he said. “We need a solution, or we’re in the same boat as before: too many people, not enough room on the cutters.”

“We’ve slightly less now than we had, thanks to Hague.”

Fullbright made an alarmed gesture. “Enough of that,” he hissed. “Have you heard the grumblings? There are some particularly loud voices that would have the little scoundrel tossed out an airlock for ordering those shootings, and the men who fired those carbines following at his boot heels.”

“I understand, and I only speak in jest.” Nathanial remembered the cup and took a drink of lukewarm tea. It was weak and overly sweet. “At any rate, I haven’t any solutions to the stabiliser problem.”

“Come now!” Fullbright whispered. “You’ve got to put your full energies behind it, Stone. We’re at the edge of a disaster here, I don’t have to tell you. Right now, each man believes he’s one of the Chosen who will get a berth off this station. Soon, each will start to see himself dying in this place, his world engulfed in hellfire, and when that happens, we’re likely to see another coup, only this time, you and I will find ourselves being deposed, and who knows whether they’ll decide to do it with or without bloodshed.”

“I cannot create something out of nothing,” Nathanial said. “I have ruled out every possibility within this station, and all attempts at coaxing an answer out of Doctor van den Bosch have failed.”

“What about Hague?”

“I’ve not consulted with him. Do you think he would be amenable?”

“If we let him know the men are lusting after his blood, he might be willing to let slip some secret to which he’s privy in exchange for our continued protection.”

Nathanial was appalled. “What a monstrous idea,” he said. “No, I won’t be any party to that sort of heavy-handed thuggery. More than enough of that has been visited on this staff already, by both Hague and van den Bosch. If we’re to have any sort of moral high ground, we mustn’t stoop to their level of discourse.”

“Stoop?” Fullbright laughed so loud the men at their stations stopped to look. “We don’t have the luxury of the moral high ground, Stone. If we fail to save this station, men will die, and millions of British pounds will have been spent for nothing. When we return to England, our very careers will be in tatters. Think of that!”

Nathanial sighed. “I have, but my decision remains. I’ll speak to him if you think it will do any good, but I will not resort to your proposed methods.”

Just then, Dolan entered. He stood at the entrance, looking about, until Nathanial waved him over. Fullbright rolled his eyes in disgust when he saw the man and decided he had more pressing matters elsewhere.

“Any news, then?” Nathanial asked.

Dolan gave a rueful shaking of the head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “We’ve completed a search of Hell, as a matter of fact, and we’ve found no trace of Annabelle. We even had our men search the cutters.” The Irishman gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry, Stone. She’s simply not here.”

“There is one other option.”

Dolan’s eyebrows lifted toward his hairline. “I’d be interested to hear it.”

“The air ducts. I deduced from the questions she asked of me recently that she was looking for evidence of our bomber. She wanted to know if the station had any secret rooms, and I―” Nathanial stopped.

Dolan cocked his head to the side, blond hair obscuring one side of his face. “Is something the matter?”

“No! No. Check the air ducts.”

Dolan stared for a moment. “You really can’t be serious. Stone, I can’t have my men crawling between the walls like a pack of blessed rats. They’re stretched thin as is. Now, I myself enjoyed Annabelle’s company, but we must let this go.”

“Just Heaven, Dolan. Please.”

The Irishman sighed. “I’ll have a few men give search, but if we uncover nothing, this is the end, do you hear?”

Nathanial nodded, and looked back out the window. Something large crashed into the vortex. A semi-brilliant burst of purplish lightning arced across its horizon. Nathanial caught for a moment what appeared to be a smiling motion within the storm, rather like watching a water spout or a whirlpool in the ocean.

Dolan returned to the previous matter, and his voice was full of sympathy. “The time is coming, you know,” he said. “They’ll want to finalise the names for the memorial.”

“Fullbright’s already mentioned it.”

“There’s something else he may not have told you. We’re to give you another cycle-and-a-half, and then we declare a time for the evacuation.”

“Why? Why not do as originally planned, and call for the evacuation at the memorial’s end?”

“Haven’t you heard? We’re not just memorialising the dead anymore. Oh, no. It’s gone much further than that. We’re memorialising the living, too. The ones who are to stay behind. Once the call for evacuation is made, we’ll have the reckoning. The men who are to stay will be known by the memorial service and given a place of honour. Imagine that,” he said with a bleak smile, “being able to give a eulogy at your own funeral.” He shook his head. “It’s a horror.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Torquilstone”

1.

The wall panel in Professor Wren’s lab slid aside, revealing a room beyond. Harsh light poured from it, and there was a strange buzzing feeling in Nathanial’s ears.

“My God, Stone, you were right,” Fullbright said. “A secret room! I would have never guessed, not in my wildest imaginings.”

“Something in my conversation with Dolan made me think of it,” Nathanial replied. “Jasperse had said, when we came here the first time, that the room seemed smaller than he would have imagined. I did not think of it then, but he was right. So, I checked the plans just before I told you about it, and the answer was there. The laboratory is smaller by half, than it is listed on the blueprints. I cannot say with certainty, but I would wager that if you measured the other rooms on this block, they, too, are of a different measurement than the ones shown here.”

“Damned sly, if you ask me.”

“Yes, it also means a different set of blueprints were provided to van den Bosch, allowing the ruse to continue.”

“But toward what ends?”

Nathanial held out a hand, indicating they should enter. “That’s what we’re here to see.”

They pushed on into the room, and there they came under the awesome presence of Torquilstone, the real Torquilstone, not the one that lay in ruins back in Professor Wren’s lab. Here was what Le Boeuf had come to Peregrine Station to build, in the privacy of his lab, and here he could run his experiments without fear of van den Bosch’s involvement, courtesy of a cleverly edited blueprint.

Fullbright’s mouth hanged open as he circled Torquilstone’s base, his eyes never leaving the swirling mass of dark held in check within its magnetic field. Nathanial, knowing what they were likely to find, held his spot, nodding with approval.

“What the hell?” Fullbright asked.

“It’s an aether machine,” Nathanial replied, and briefly explained its construction. Fullbright, an excellent engineer in his own right, was quick to understand. If anything, understanding Torquilstone increased his awe.

“Do you have any idea the implications of such a machine, Stone?”

Nathanial grinned. “Of course. Or rather, I can grasp only a handful of possibilities, but really, it has limitless applications. It’s a self-perpetuating energy source. That alone is enough for me to be struck dumb.”

“So, this is what van den Bosch was hiding?” Fullbright asked.

“I can only assume; the doctor isn’t telling, after all. He must have known if Le Boeuf was here, he wasn’t going to allow his machine to be so openly on display. Thus the smaller machine in Professor Wren’s laboratory. Since he could not find the machine himself, van den Bosch decided to sabotage the stabilisers to draw Le Boeuf out of hiding, believing the man would never allow this station or Torquilstone―his twin masterpieces―to be destroyed.”

Fullbright grunted. “It would appear this Le Boeuf called the Juggernaut’s bluff. Listen, Stone, I don’t mean to belabour the point, but we must find a solution to our stabilisers soon. We mustn’t allow this to be destroyed. It’s far too important.”

“Agreed.”

“I can’t wait to show Provost.”

“I would advise against it,” Nathanial said. “This machine is a secret worth killing over, Fullbright. Van den Bosch murdered Professor Wren. Le Boeuf has proven himself a casual killer, as well. The manner in which he dispatched the bomber proves forethought and intent, unless he’s the sort of fellow who travels around with a poisoned needle on his person. It was as though he was killing the bomber before we had a chance to apprehend him. Now, why is that?”

Fullbright became nervous, and turned away from the machine, glancing all around him. “Should we be here?” he asked. “What if he’s about somewhere, watching us?”

“He might be, at that,” Nathanial said. “But he won’t. For whatever reason, he can’t repair the stabilisers. He needs me to do that. You’re as safe with me right now as you will ever be.”

“I’ve got to get the heliograph in working order. We’ve got to flash word to Earth.”

“That seems a prudent move. Whatever the case, they should know of what is transpiring here. How long will that take?”

“Assuming you get the stabilisers back in order?”

“Of course.”

“A week perhaps.”

Nathanial furrowed his brow. “Why so long?”

“Hague, damn his eyes. Five of the men who found themselves on the end of his little massacre were my heliograph operatives. I’ve only got two left.”

“Can anyone be trained to assist?”

“Possibly. I don’t know.”

Nathanial clapped his hands together. “Right, then. I suppose I should get back to work, then.”

“What will you do now?”

“I’ll think of something, Fullbright. When I do, I’ll let you know.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“The Hague Revelation”

1.

The answer came to him as he was eating his breakfast in the galley.

Nathanial’s meeting with Hague had been less than productive. They’d met in the little man’s quarters, where Hague had been stiffly cordial. He offered Nathanial a chair by the door, and gently lowered himself onto the edge of his cot, folding his hands neatly into his lap and waiting for Nathanial to begin. His manner was neither threatening nor gloating, as van den Bosch had been. Merely calm. To Nathanial, it was like watching an undertaker ply his trade.

“Do you know what is wrong with the stabilisers, Hague?”

“Yes.”

“Will you help me, then? I think you’ll agree we need to save Peregrine Station.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Are you going to put your dogs on me?” The smile was small. A tiny white glimmer of teeth showed between the thin lips. “Is there to be a lynch mob for what I have done?”

“I can’t say there won’t be, Hague, but no, I certainly won’t have any part of it. I want everyone to survive this. You are no different than the others.”

“Why?”

“That is irrelevant. Please, Hague. You know that when we return to Earth, there will be a trial. If you help me now, that will work to your advantage later.”

Hague reached for a jug of water on his bedside table. He filled a glass, drank from it, and set the glass next to the pitcher. “I’m amused at you, Stone. You’ve considered every possibility inside this station, yet you haven’t found the answer. But despite this, you continue to bash your head against Peregrine’s insides as if you hope an answer will come to you. Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘like trying to draw blood from a stone’? I believe it originated with your people, so you should have. Ah, the time is coming. You should simply capitulate. Let the inevitable have its way. Entropy, Stone. Entropy.”

And so it had went. Nathanial had left soon afterward, no more frustrated than he had been before. After all, Hague was entirely loyal to van den Bosch; he would as soon die and take the station with him as betray his employer. Even now, secrecy was being maintained.

2.

His stomach growling, Nathanial then went to the galley, which was serving a ploughman’s lunch to all comers. The meal was filling, though the pickled onions were very strong. Nathanial finished eating and pushed it aside, taking up the mug of ale that had come with the meal.

He took a sip, and that was when it happened. He had been thinking on all of the conversations of the past cycle, struggling with some bits, as his mind was still so tired that he had trouble even accessing the most recent memories.

“You’ve considered every possibility inside this station, yet you haven’t found the answer. But despite this, you continue to bash your head against Peregrine’s insides as if you hope an answer will come to you.”

Nathanial stiffened in his seat, and he almost dropped his mug. “My God!” he said. Several workers nearby glanced at him and began to chuckle.

“Forget something back on Earth, sir?” one asked, and the men broke up into gales of laughter.

Nathanial stood. “Yes,” he said. “My common sense.”

This brought more laughter.

“Rotten thing to leave in a box somewhere, innit?”

Nathanial broke into a run as he left the galley, and he was breathing hard by the time he arrived at Wren’s laboratory.

3.

Nathanial went immediately to Holmes’ quarters and banged his fist on the door panel. A moment later Holmes opened the door, bleary-eyed from being awoken from a deep sleep.

“Stone,” he grunted. “You look a fright, lad. Come in.”

Holmes directed Nathanial to his office, on the opposite end of sickbay. Nathanial thought briefly about stopping and speaking with Doctor van den Bosch, but did not. Time, after all, was of the essence.

“Now, what’s the matter, lad?” Holmes said when Nathanial had seated.

Barely awake two minutes, and Holmes was already reaching for a clean glass for his brandy. Not for the first time since arriving on the station, Nathanial found himself missing Arnaud. He could do with some of the Frenchman’s wit about now. Holmes offered some brandy to Nathanial, who declined.

“Have you had any sleep lately?” Holmes asked.

“I’ve found the answer,” Nathanial said without preamble.

Holmes’ eyes widened. “You have? What is it?”

Nathanial was on his feet, and pacing. He was too excited to sit.

“What is it? A pack of Martians outside the station, chewing on power cables?”

Nathanial cackled with laughter. “You’re so very close to the answer, it’s going to kill you when I tell you.”

“I daresay it’s going to kill me if you don’t stop babbling and get on with it.”

“Inside!”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve checked everything inside this station, and there are no clues as to why the stabilisers won’t fire. But the one place I haven’t looked, or even thought to look―”

Holmes’ mouth fell open. “Is outside. My dear boy, I do believe you’ve solved it.”

“I have!”

“Well, let’s not be hasty. Fullbright needs to hear of this, and we’ll need Provost, too.”

“For what?”

“For what?” Holmes asked mockingly. “For bloody what? For attending to the problem, that’s what. We’re going to step outside for a bit lad, and see what’s what. The walk will do us some good, I think. We’ve all been cooped up inside this monastery for so long, it’s a wonder we’re not all stricken with cabin fever!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“An Hour”

1.

Annabelle had an hour, at best. The first task was to free herself from her bonds. They were newly-tied, unfortunately, and a little tighter than the previous ones. Small matter, really; more of an inconvenience than anything else. She relaxed the muscles in her shoulders, allowing the tension to flow into her stomach, where it tightened into a knot. Her hands began to work.

Still, she could feel his eyes slithering over her. He had brought her a bucket of hot water, soap, and a fresh coverall, but he had given her no privacy with which to clean herself. The mortification she’d felt as he watched her peel the filthy coverall from her body was nothing compared to the oily sickness in her stomach as she washed the urine and faeces away. Only the dim light of the lantern saved her from being completely exposed. She had to take comfort in knowing that, if he took in her naked form, he only caught it in glimpses.

And all the while, he had talked.

He’d told her of England’s corruption, and how he wanted to send the whole island burning into the sea, like Atlantis, but he did so with a smile and a chuckle, like he was telling a folk tale around a campfire. The world had to be free of the Crown’s filthy talons, he’d said, and it would take the hard work of a small few patriots―patriots to the cause of freedom, not to a single country―to see Victoria and her subjects broken and howling for mercy.

Her right hand slipped free of the rope. The wrist was rubbed painfully raw and might even be bleeding, but she did not care. She stowed the rope behind one of the crates, feeling her way around, as he had left her with no light by which to see.

“And don’t bother screaming,” he’d said. “These rooms were meant to conceal. You’ll only make yourself hoarse, and we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

And then of course, there was the plan. He was most proud of this. Much of it did not make sense at first, but she had kept her patience, knowing it would be important later. Nathanial would need to know everything she could remember. If he had not yet pieced together all of the clues he would have to know the truth, and the truth was, he was walking directly into danger. Annabelle had been informed of that, on more than one occasion.

“It’s like watching a mouse that smells a hunk of cheese. Now, a mouse is most clever, the cleverest of all God’s creatures, even more so than man. But all that cleverness is for naught, for when they smell the cheese, their fate is no longer in question. They must have it, even after they recognise the trap that’s been laid for them. Your Nathanial Stone is damned clever. He knows something is wrong, but he is walking into danger anyway because the cheese that’s been laid out for him is just too enticing. He’ll look up, see the jaws that are waiting to snap shut on him, to break his back, and he’ll reach out anyway. His curiosity will be the death of him. And when he’s gone, everyone who knows will be gone. And then, we’ll be alone, won’t we?”

She crawled about, on hands and knees, probing the limits of the room, feeling for anything small enough that could be concealed, yet used for a weapon. Her derringer was gone, probably before she had ever woken here, but certainly after her bath and change of clothes. There had been no chance to look for it; he had kept his eyes on her all the time.

“You were supposed to be dead, you know. You were never supposed to wake, but I brought you here. I still don’t know why.” For a moment he had looked like a shy boy. “Perhaps I want a friend. I haven’t had one in a long while. Or perhaps I want someone to know. What good is this plan, if the only people who know about it are the ones who executed it? Shouldn’t the world know? A plot within a plot within a plot. You would have stumbled through the dark for years if there hadn’t been people tugging you along, all the way.”

“So was Brennan part of the plot?” she had asked. “Was his going insane and killing people part of your beautiful master plan?”

“Brennan was always a bit dodgy. Most demolitionists are. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know, and we needed men for this job and couldn’t refuse any help if it was offered. We tried to keep Brennan away from the others, but he just kept slipping away.”

“So why couldn’t you hold onto him?”

“Because I was busy.”

“And your employer?”

“He was busy, too.”

“Sounds to me like you’re lucky any of your plan came to fruition, if all he employs are idiots like you and madmen like Brennan.”

And he’d become angry, then, and his shoulders had seized up around his ears. “What do you know of it? You’re just some trull, flouncing from place to place. What do you know?”

“I know you’re a fool, and you work for a bigger one.”

Annabelle knew she had stepped too far a moment before the backhand smashed into her teeth. The back of her head had careened off the crate holding her up, and she had slid over into a foetal position on the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, but she had still seen through her eyelids the light of the lantern go out and he stepped between her and it.

“You miserable creature!” he had hissed, and he was on his knees, face inches from hers, the stink of alcohol and foul breath roaring up her nose. “Utter another word, and I’ll make you wish you were dead.”

He had gripped her neck and squeezed, just hard enough that she had felt the airway constrict, and then he’d let go. The message was clear: I can do whatever to you, whenever I like, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.

“I’m sorry,” she had whispered. Blood mixed with saliva had trickled out of her mouth. Tears of pain had flooded her eyes. She had hoped he would take them as fear, but all she could think of at that moment was how nice it would feel to plunge her Bowie knife into his belly and walk around. But, no. She had to keep her wits.

“Please don’t hurt me anymore. I promise, I won’t anger you again.”

The fetid breathing had continued until he was satisfied he had cowed her enough. “You shouldn’t worry your pretty, little head over such things as my employer, Annabelle. Let me tell you about Torquilstone instead. That will show you who you’re dealing with.”

Annabelle had nodded and lay still for a time, letting him talk.

There was no weapon to be found, so she found a crate that had been opened already. Feeling over it, she found a piece that had cracked slightly. She ran her fingers over the fissure just to be sure. A piece of it protruded. She wrapped her fingers around it and pulled. It took three hard tugs before it came away. The piece was too long, though, and she broke it beneath her boot until she was left with a nice sliver of wood, sharp on both ends, about half the length of her forearm. She slid the sliver up her sleeve and disposed of the broken pieces behind the crate. She sat down.

Half an hour, she thought. I have half an hour before he returns.

And so she waited.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Stepping Out”

1.

Holmes was having some difficulty finding an atmosphere suit to fit him. He stood in the middle of the room as the others, Nathanial, Provost, and Fullbright, lugged the heavy things from their hooks and held them up in front of him in comparison.

“Apparently they haven’t found a suit to fit someone with such robust energies as myself,” Holmes said.

“Or someone as fond of grouse and potatoes,” Nathanial said.

That should have been Provost’s jest, but the man was still in a deep melancholy, and he stank still of last cycle’s drunk. Nathanial would not even have had the man along, but he needed all the help he could get. And anyway, Holmes had taken it upon himself to organise this “grand adventure”, as he called it, out into the great unknown without consulting Nathanial first. Holmes had missed their “first brush with glory”, the foray into Hell that had gotten Jasperse killed, and Holmes had decided he would be damned before he would miss another.

“Here we are, old man,” Fullbright said, holding up a suit that approximated Holmes’ short, rotund stature.

“Ah, the Glorious Twelfth!” Holmes cried. “Now there is a day of days! I’ve a coat just for that day. Large pockets lined with rubbers so I can carry my catch without having to lug a sack about. My father’s shotgun. A breech load―”

“Just get in the suit, Holmes. Hell,” Fullbright said, annoyed.

He helped the doctor squeeze into the suit, which bound in all the wrong places, so Holmes said, but he waved off any help removing it. “No, this will do,” Holmes said, “and anyway, one wants a tight fit with these things, I would imagine.”

“Yes,” Nathanial said. “It aids pressurisation.”

The men were about to enter the airlock when Dolan swung down into the chamber.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Fullbright asked.

The big Irishman grinned. “The scuttlebutt has you gents off into the aether to fix the stabilisers,” he said. “I thought since I had some experience in these areas that I’d come along.”

“Since when were you rated for such manoeuvres?” Fullbright asked.

“You need to be in Heaven, directing a search of the air ducts, Dolan,” Nathanial said.

“Or overseeing the loading of the cutters in Hell,” Fullbright said. “Or any number of the other tasks that have been assigned to you.”

Dolan chuckled. “Oh, and don’t think I don’t sincerely appreciate being given the lion’s share of the duties where the evacuation is concerned, Fullbright. Sir,” he said. “But do any of you actually know where to look?”

“I’ve an idea,” said Nathanial. “There really is only one place.”

“But you don’t know, specifically.”

The men glanced at one another.

“No,” Nathanial replied.

“Then you need all the help you can get.”

Dolan sat down and began pulling off his heavy boots.

“Well, if Dolan’s along, then you don’t need me,” Provost said, but before he could begin to wriggle out of his suit, Nathanial stopped him with a hand on the chest.

“No, Dolan’s right. We need as many men as we can get. My apologies, Provost. I know you don’t fancy this, but it is your duty to help.”

“Queen and Country, old man,” Fullbright said, clapping Provost on the back. The botanist gave a wan smile. That, too, should have been his jest, only with a touch of irony to it. Coming from Fullbright, it merely sounded patriotic.

2.

When Dolan was finally in his suit, the men entered the airlock and closed it behind them. They broke the seals on their air tanks, and oxygen flooded in. The air was cold, and it made Nathanial’s face hurt for a moment until he acclimated himself to it. He remembered watching the rescue team on the lunar surface safe from his vantage point in Sovereign, such a long time ago it seemed, and he recalled how he had wished to go with them. He also remembered his concerns about the vacuum of space being so close by. How things had changed!

The outer door opened, and there was a sense of vertigo that made Nathanial’s stomach twist. In the aether the concepts of up and down no longer had meaning. There was a brief moment where he felt like he was falling out of the door, and he scrambled for a bit, fear seizing him, before a hand grabbed him and pulled him close to the station’s outer hull. It was Dolan, and he was grinning his usual grin.

“Careful, Stone. We can’t afford to have you go traipsing off into the cosmos, now, can we?”

That was the last that could be heard. After Dolan uttered these words, the world went silent as they floated out into the abyss.

Dolan tugged Nathanial to a handrail affixed to the station’s side. Each atmosphere suit had a utility belt which was affixed with a length of wire cable that could extend to fifty feet, and which ended with a metal clasp that could be hooked onto the handrail to anchor a worker so he did not float away. The men secured themselves and began working themselves, hand over hand, along the rail.

Nathanial recalled some advice he had heard while aboard Sovereign, and that was if you had to work in a gravity-free environment, it was best to keep your eyes focused on the nearest large object. By staring at that, you could keep focused on what you were doing and not worrying about the fact that you now had no world to hold you close. Getting a first-hand lesson in stepping off the world, he understood the wisdom of it and did as instructed.

It was slow going, but eventually they came to a junction where their handrail ended and a wide gulf stood between them and the next. Another handrail came off the station’s side next to theirs, but it went up. They needed the one that lay far away. Fullbright, who apparently had some experience in these matters as well, demonstrated. He unhooked himself from the rail and pushed himself, gently and evenly, left. He floated along the hull without colliding with it or without accidentally pushing himself away. That was the crux of it, Nathanial imagined, making an even and level push.

Holmes was next and showed surprising acumen. He arrived without incident, and the two looked expectantly at Provost, who was next. Nathanial became apprehensive at this juncture. He was sure he could manage to do as Fullbright had done, but Provost was in no condition for this sort of activity. He turned and looked at Dolan, but got no help there. The big Irishman only smiled. There was too much animosity between Dolan and Provost and Fullbright, and it had come to its head here.

Nathanial tapped the botanist on the shoulder before he could push off. Provost looked at him, eyes wide with fear. Nathanial pantomimed his plan. Provost looked confused and a little ashamed, but he nodded finally. Better to feel the shame of needing help than to die out here when people needed him, Nathanial supposed. Whatever one could say about the botanist, his compassion for others was always evident.

Nathanial removed his clasp. With his left arm, he hugged Provost close to him, and pushed off with his right, ever so gently. Their arc was maddeningly slow, but within two minutes they had arrived at their destination. Nathanial was relieved. He clasped himself to the new handrail, and as they pushed on, Dolan was already crossing over. Nathanial would have a talk with the man once they had returned to Peregrine. Such behaviour as he had just shown was unacceptable.

They journeyed only a short way before they tied on to a new rail, one that would take them down towards the bottom of the station. Here the main stabilisers were affixed. The power couplings could also be accessed. It was here that Nathanial knew the problem must lie. There could be no other answer.

They passed over an oblong-shaped part of the hull. This was where the planetary should be, Nathanial thought. The other heliograph stations had them, one large mirror fixed atop the station to communicate between great distances, called the interplanetary, and a smaller mirror, fixed at a downward angle, called the planetary, which allowed for a relay of information to the planet below. Peregrine, since it only communicated between planets, had no need for such a mirror, but Professor Wren (no, Le Boeuf) had designed the outer hull’s shape based on Harbinger’s, mimicking the station’s underbelly instinctively.

It took about fifteen minutes for them to reach the bottom. Since they would need fifteen minutes to return, that gave them only a half-hour to repair the stabilisers. Nathanial tried not to think about what would happen if they failed to find the source of the problem. Instead, he followed Fullbright to a fixed point near the bottom, an outcropping with a circular handrail that would allow them to move freely in ever-widening circles without having to constantly attach and reattach to various points. Nathanial motioned the men to begin their search.

3.

The men spread out. Nathanial quickly located three of the seven aether propellers. He checked them out of mere obligation. They were undamaged. He had not expected anything otherwise. It had to be something easily repaired, something central, that could affect all the propellers at one time. The intent, after all, had been to temporarily disable, not destroy.

Nathanial returned to the aether propeller he had just inspected. He looked at the hull surrounding it. A small access panel ran back to something near the outcropping where the men had tied on. He gave a tug on his line and pulled himself back up. Beyond the outcropping he could see a number of similar access panels running from the other propellers, all converging in a point just over his horizon. He pushed off from the outcropping and floated upward.

Beneath a panel just over the horizon was a central coupling. His heart raced as he removed four bolts from the panel. Pulling it away, he found what he had come to find. The couplings had been separated and left to sit. Gently, he grasped the live section and affixed it the other, securing it in place with a brass clamp.

And just like that, his ordeal was over.

Nathanial let out a deep breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. So simple, yet this one seemingly insignificant length of cable had had the potential to destroy everything. Already its mystery had cost more than two dozen lives and left every living soul aboard Peregrine awash in a sea of paranoia, fear, and deception.

He spun and went back to the outcropping. Provost and Holmes noticed when he began waving wildly, and they stopped what they were doing and returned to the outcropping. He had to tap on Fullbright. Back at the outcropping he gestured to them that everything was fine, that he had fixed the problem. Barring further sabotage, which was unlikely, they had done what they had set out to do. By his estimation, they had done so with just enough oxygen to return.

A round of back-patting and handshaking passed, and they were about to begin their ascent when Provost stopped Nathanial with a hand to the shoulder. Nathanial turned and watched as Provost counted off four fingers. Nathanial understood what he meant immediately.

There had been five of them. Where was Dolan? Nathanial gestured that they split up and look for him. The clasp tying the Irishman to the outcropping was gone, as was any trace of his wire cord. Dolan was nowhere to be seen.

Nathanial went to where he had last seen the man, going all the way to the end of his line and peering hard over the horizon. The man had apparently trained in such an environment before. Perhaps he had detached and gone elsewhere, feeling an obligation to forge ahead into areas that would be dangerous to the others, given that they were mostly inexperienced in moving about in the aether. That hardly sounded like Dolan, but perhaps Nathanial had judged the man wrong. Here he was, after all, placing his life in danger to help save the station from destruction.

Briefly Nathanial considered detaching the line from his utility belt and going elsewhere, but decided against it. If Dolan had somehow fallen away from the station, there was nothing he could do about it. He would be risking his own life needlessly, then. The reality of it was, they could wait no longer.

Someone tugged at his cord. He turned and saw Holmes waving him. The others had returned to the outcropping. Fullbright was pointing upward. Did he want to return to the station? No. There was something he wanted Nathanial to see.

At first, Nathanial could not see what Fullbright was pointing at, but then something metallic glinted, catching his eye. It was Dolan, scaling the station’s side, headed back the way they had come. He had already cleared the first handrail and was sliding along the horizontal one, nearly out of sight as he cleared the horizon. He was halfway to the third and final rail, the one that would take him back to the airlock. Nathanial indicated they should follow, and the men complied.

What could be the matter? Nathanial wondered. Did his suit malfunction in some way? Dolan seemed almost frantic. Fullbright, easily the most adept of the lot, rocketed up the handrail, arriving at the first junction while the others were still halfway through their climb. He detached, pushed over to the second handrail, and continued onward.

Soon, both Fullbright and Dolan were out of eyesight, and so Nathanial concerned himself with safely traversing the terrain. Holmes and Provost were having little trouble with the climb, but he could not help but wonder what must be going on in their heads as well. No love was lost between Dolan and Provost, but it was doubtful any of the men wished the Irishman ill will, not to that degree. Nathanial could not help but wonder if they were seeing in Dolan how easily one could get into trouble out in the aether. Such worries could cause them to make a mistake.

4.

They arrived at the top of the first handrail and were about to begin filing over to the second when Fullbright came flying around the corner. He was waving his arms wildly, indicating they should hold their positions. He disconnected and leapt to where the three of them sat. He nearly missed his jump, but Nathanial reached out and grabbed his cord, pulling him in and cinching him to their handrail.

Fullbright grabbed Nathanial’s helmet as soon as he was stable, and their eyes locked. Fullbright was terrified. He began to speak. Of course, Nathanial could not hear him, but the words forming on his lips were clear.

“Dolan’s betrayed us. He’s sealed the airlock. We can’t get back inside.”

Provost panicked and began flailing about. Holmes pinned Provost’s arms to his side before the man could do any damage, to himself or the others. Nathanial’s mind raced. They only had ten minutes’ worth of oxygen left, at best. He was, of course, just estimating, having no way to tell the time. That meant they had to formulate a plan, and soon, and then begin executing it. They could not wait for a rescue.

Nathanial ruled out the possibility of trying that at any of the other airlocks. The airlocks could be sealed from the inside, and a standing order from van den Bosch had everyone do so after use. Only an airlock that was in use was left unsealed, and even then, a person was generally kept on hand to watch out for anyone outside on manoeuvres. They had left no one.

Nathanial grunted in frustration. Provost had not wanted to come along. They should have left him.

“Damn!” he shouted into his helmet. “How could I be so foolish?”

He considered his options. There were no other ways of getting into the station. They could try to crawl up to the viewports on either Sunward or Starward Observation and hope someone noticed them, but that involved some risk. It would also take time to do so, even for a skilled fellow like Fullbright, and even then, how would those inside know which airlock to open? The station had seven. Any time lost in miscommunication would be crucial time that could be used in other ways. What they needed was someplace to sit for a while and let Nathanial create a plan, but where would they find that?

He grabbed Fullbright and spun him around so they were facing.

“Follow me,” he said.

Fullbright read his lips and nodded.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Dolan’s Home”

1.

The door opened, and light flooded the room. He stood there, lantern in hand, breathing heavily, like he had just run a great distance. Annabelle averted her eyes to shield herself from the bright light of the room beyond. She hoped he would take that as submissiveness.

“Well, well,” he said. It was still difficult, getting used to his real accent. He wasn’t Irish. That is, he wasn’t born in Ireland. He was American, born to Irish immigrants, but he’d travelled to Ireland to live with family there when he was twelve. His father had been a dissident, and had had to flee the country, or so the story had gone. He’d picked up the accent while there, he’d said, adding, “There’s something to how they speak over there, that makes you want to do likewise. The words almost welcome you, like a lover.”

His real accent was that of Boston, Massachusetts, slurred and irritating.

He pushed into the ring of crates he’d erected as her makeshift prison cell and crouched a few feet away, staring at her. His shoulders continued to heave. She tried to keep her eyes averted. She was sitting on the floor, hands behind her back as if still tied, and in her left hand was her sliver of wood, feeling like rough salvation.

She flinched as Dolan lunged at her. Her first instinct was to pull up her arms to shield herself, but she turned her face away instead. Dolan was very close, his hot breath in her face.

He kissed her, hard, breathing heavily through his nose. The pressure against her mouth was painful.

Dolan pulled away. “You’ll never believe what I just did,” he said. “Your―”

Annabelle drew the sliver and jammed it just under Dolan’s chin, pushing with all of her strength.

His eyes bugged, and he jerked away. He fell to the floor, flailing about like a fish that had pulled from the ocean and left to flop in the bottom of a boat.

Annabelle dove onto Dolan. Her hands roamed the pockets of his coveralls for a weapon of some kind. She came away with a knife, short of blade, but sharp. It was this she used to finish the job of killing Dolan. She did this with none of the rage she was sure she would feel, but with the coldness of a bookkeeper marking an expense into a ledger. Her calm, ironically, frightened her.

Chapter Thirty

“The Narrow Escape”

1.

They pushed in through the airlock door and onto the deck of Esmeralda, pulling off their helmets and gulping the air.

“Made it,” Fullbright grunted.

“Barely,” Holmes said. He was red-cheeked and drenched in sweat.

“Damned fine idea, Stone,” Fullbright said. “You’ve saved us.”

“I’m just glad it’s capable of retaining an atmosphere,” Nathanial said. “I’m afraid it won’t be good for much else.”

“It’ll serve our purposes,” Fullbright said.

Provost stood and dusted himself off. He pushed off from the entry platform onto the main deck and floated over to the viewport. He peered outside. “What now?” he asked.

“We wait a while and think,” Nathanial said.

Fullbright heaved himself to his feet. “All we’ve had is a secondary boiler to power the greenhouse. I’ll go stoke the main generators.”

“Excellent idea, Fullbright,” Holmes said. “I’ll see to galley. A nice cup of tea would settle our nerves.”

Nathanial went to stand with Provost near the window. He sat on the window seat and thought about Dolan. Had the man ever bothered to search for Annabelle, he thought, or had he something to do with her disappearance? He’d been hesitant to check the air ducts. Perhaps she was there. Alive or dead, Nathanial was going to find her. Now that the stabilisers were repaired, Peregrine could correct its course. The loss of Greenhouse Two would still force a partial evacuation, but that could be done in an orderly fashion. At any rate, Fullbright and the others could handle station operations. His work was done where the station was concerned.

“Do we have candles?” Provost asked suddenly.

Nathanial looked up. The botanist was staring upward toward Sunward Observation. Nathanial gestured about the room. The place was still more or less as they had left it, nearly two weeks before. Candles were everywhere. Provost hadn’t noticed them. “Yes. We’ve plenty of them, Uriah.”

“Good. I was thinking we might use your heliograph to flash Sunward Observation. What do you think?”

“That’s a capital idea!”

“I thought so. The flyer is too large to enter the docking bay, but I’m sure they could send out men with fresh oxygen tanks to get us inside.”

The men organised and drank their tea. A little respite was needed, following their harrowing journey across the station’s underside, but they could not wait long. Dolan was still on the loose, and he’d had half an hour at least to do whatever he had planned, whether it was seize control of the station for himself, free van den Bosch and Hague, or something else.

“I’ll have him in shackles,” Fullbright said. “The drunken fool! No doubt he’s working for van den Bosch, even now!”

“How could he try and murder us?” Holmes said. “What game is he at, do you think, and who does he work for?”

“It’s van den Bosch, I tell you!” Fullbright said.

“I’m not so certain of that, Fullbright,” Nathanial replied. Briefly he told them what he knew about the stabiliser mystery, about van den Bosch and Le Boeuf, Torquilstone, and Professor Wren’s death. Provost and Holmes were stunned to hear that such a struggle had been going on, under everyone’s noses, for several months. Years, if one counted the time before Peregrine Station was constructed in the aether.

“So that’s why we were in Hell the day of the explosion in the greenhouse,” Provost said. “You never really explained.” Nathanial thought he saw a look of relief flash behind the botanist’s eyes, as if to say he understood now that he was not merely larking about that day but working toward a key point in the mystery.

“And you believe Dolan could be working for Le Boeuf?” Fullbright asked.

“It’s possible,” Nathanial said. “I’ve been thinking about the entries in Wren’s journal. He says that Le Boeuf and his assistant, a fellow named Brennan, were smuggled aboard after the last resupply ship left. The timeline shows that they arrived before the station had been pressurised. As you know, the threatening notes began arriving around this time. I believe the notes were from Brennan, just as I believe it was Brennan who was causing the havoc aboard the station. I don’t believe it was part of Le Boeuf’s plan, and he killed Brennan before the man could cause any more destruction. Or, before we captured him.

“Now, someone had to have smuggled these two aboard, initially. True, Professor Wren might have done so, but it’s doubtful he could do it alone. He would need help. I say this could be Dolan, who, like Le Boeuf, has proven he’s willing to kill.”

“Yes, but towards what ends?”

“Torquilstone, of course. I don’t believe van den Bosch when he says Le Boeuf is here to destroy him. I believe Le Boeuf needed to be near the aether for some reason to perfect his machine, a machine that could have limitless possibilities. If Dolan is in league with him, they may have wanted us dead. Fullbright and I knew about Torquilstone, after all, and once we had found and repaired the stabilisers, it was safer for them that we die.”

“Then by what you’re saying, we won’t face Dolan at all when we return to Peregrine,” Provost said. He went to the heliograph, lit two candles and slid them into the cabinet below the mirror. Here, a series of mirrors would reflect the candlelight onto the heliograph when its shutters were opened. “In fact, it’s likely we’ll face the opposite. His compatriots have shown a willingness and ability to disappear into the woodworks like termites. It’s likely Dolan will do the same.”

Fullbright spat a curse. “I knew from the start the man was trouble.”

2.

They roused Esmeralda and took her upwards to the very end of her tether. Fullbright flashed a brief message to Sunward Operations three times before someone finally noticed. A moment of silence ensued while a makeshift heliograph was assembled, one that tapped out a message that help was coming.

Two men were sent out to determine the problem. Sunward had mistakenly believed workers repairing Annabelle’s flyer had run into a problem. When the men arrived, they were surprised to find Nathanial and the others on their second cup of tea, embroiled in an animated debate over the practical applications of Babbage’s analytic engine. Four fresh air tanks were fetched, and everyone returned to Peregrine Station, Nathanial and the others tense and ready to begin the monumental task ahead of them.

Holmes suggested they arrange the memorial service immediately, declaring that a “couple of bad seeds shouldn’t deter us from doing what is right”, to be followed by the partial evacuation. His logic was clear. By winnowing the workers to manageable levels, they could address the subject of oxygen supplies, send emissaries to Mars for supplies and to inform British interests there of what was transpiring so it could be transmitted to Earth, and to send more to help locate Le Boeuf and Dolan.

Fullbright returned to Sunward Observation to order Operations to fire the stabilisers at once. Word of his doing so circulated among the workers, and they gathered in the basilica to listen with excitement to the good news. Cheers rose up among them as it was explained the nightmare was over.

Dolan’s betrayal was not mentioned. As he was popular among the workers, it was considered best to leave him out of all mentions of their success outside Peregrine, lest some of the men become upset. Nathanial added that there might be men on the security staff more loyal to the Irishman than to the whole of Peregrine. If that was the case, it would be imprudent to mention his crimes, especially when those same men would be armed and potentially dangerous. Instead, Provost announced after news of the stabilisers that they were disassembling their security staff temporarily, and that the men should return their rifles to the armoury until further notice. Some showed confusion at this, but Provost explained that all would be made clear later.

Nathanial pushed through the crowd and went to Annabelle’s quarters. He could find no sign that she had been there recently, but he had not expected it. Instead, he searched her belongings, hoping to find one of her weapons. The contents of her steamer trunk were in disarray, as if someone had gone through it recently. Nathanial wondered who might have been here. Hague, probably, or could it have been Dolan?

Under Annabelle’s cot he found her Bowie knife still in its sheathe. He hefted it, amazed at how heavy it was. This was hardly the weapon for a woman, he thought. The blade was eight inches long and an inch-and-a-half thick. Its edge, he knew, was kept razor sharp. He had hoped for her derringer, but this would have to do. He knew very little about the use of such a weapon, but he felt if he could get close enough the damage he could do with it, even being an amateur knife-fighter, could be significant.

Nathanial left Annabelle’s quarters. He looked about. The main corridor between Austrian and British was deserted. The station was the most quiet he had seen it since his arrival. The men must be down in the dormitories, preparing themselves for the memorial. Annabelle was supposed to meet Dolan at the quartermaster, according to van den Bosch the day he confronted Annabelle in sickbay. He should check there first. Perhaps he could find some clue as to where she went. Perhaps it would also provide a place for him to enter the air ducts so he might begin his search. Now was the time to end this.

3.

The station hummed as the stabilisers fired. Fullbright was correcting course. Good. Nathanial decided to return to his quarters before going to the quartermaster. He had an oil lamp there and could use the station’s blueprints as well to find his way about. He had nothing that illustrated the ductwork, but he could make assumptions as to where he was and what he was likely to see based on the station drawings themselves.

At his door panel Nathanial slid his fingers into the skull’s eye sockets and pressed the latch. The door clacked, and slid to the side.

Nathanial’s breath caught in his throat.

“Hello, Nathanial,” Annabelle said.

Chapter Thirty-One

“A Reversal of Fortunes”

1.

“I have a story to tell, Nathanial, but I have no time to tell it.”

He peeked through a small crack in the door. The workers were coming up from the dorms and filing toward British. The memorial service would take place in the galley, the only room large enough to hold everyone at once. He would give them another ten minutes to get settled. That should relieve the burden of any possible stragglers interrupting his work.

Nathanial slid the door closed and looked at Annabelle, who sat at the table near his cot. Her face and body appeared as if it had been in a war. She was dressed in a blue coverall with boots matching those of the men on the station, and the front of the coverall was stained with drying blood. Her arm, still in the bandage, looked swollen. The fingers on that hand were red and splotchy, perhaps from poor circulation. Her black hair was mussed and caked in places to the back of her head with brown, dried blood where she said someone―probably Dolan―had struck her. And her face had a number of new bruises on them. She had declined to reveal how she had received them. Nathanial could not help but wonder if Dolan had given her those, too.

Damn the man! It did not matter that the Irishman was dead. Nathanial wanted more justice for the man. Death, no matter how brutal it might have been (and given the bloodstains on her coverall, it had not been painless), whatever he had got was not enough.

“Are you all right, Annabelle?”

“My head hurts. I’ve injured it twice since we came here. Ah, I must look a mess, don’t I?”

“We should let Doctor Holmes examine you.”

“No. There’s no time.”

“I don’t fancy this, Annabelle,” he said. “I can’t tell you how I’ve worked these past eleven days to save Peregrine Station from the vortex, and now you want me to undo what I’ve done.”

“I’m sorry, Nathanial. We can’t allow Le Boeuf to succeed.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense. What is the term you enjoy so? ‘You must empty out the bathing-tub, but not the baby with it’? It seems we are doing that.”

Annabelle sighed. She looked as if she had not slept in days, either, though she appeared much the worse for wear. “We have no choice.”

“This conspiracy you imagine cannot compare with what they have planned. You say van den Bosch calls Le Boeuf the Devil. I say he is right. I’ve seen it. Dolan told me what they will do. We were supposed to die, you see, and no one was ever to know about Torquilstone, at least not until it was too late.”

“We do have a choice,” Nathanial said. “You say Le Boeuf has more agents here.”

“More than you or I could possibly find.”

“But we have to try.”

“Nathanial, we have to do this before they regroup. Don’t you see? Once Le Boeuf learns you survived, he’s going to try and kill you. We don’t have time for a witch hunt. We have to get everyone off this station, and within the hour, or he will find a way to escape onto one of the cutters. You know he can disguise his appearance. He’ll find a way.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “You don’t understand, do you?” She wept, and the tears shook loose onto her cheeks. “Please, Nathanial. He can’t be allowed to escape!”

Twice now he had seen her cry, once tears of sorrow, now tears of desperation. Nathanial went to her and drew her close. She accepted his touch and hugged herself against his side, burying her face into his lapel.

“The French Commune. They’ve unwittingly financed Torquilstone from the beginning. I don’t know what sort of sum van den Bosch paid Professor Wren, but it was not for the aether machine. The French believe Le Boeuf and his men are here to disrupt communications between Earth and Mars. They arranged for him to be smuggled onto the station and provided him the equipment he needed. They had no idea that he planned to build such a device while here. I don’t think even they would have agreed if they knew what Le Boeuf has planned!”

“I’ve seen Torquilstone, Annabelle. I know its capabilities.”

“Do you?”

The minutes passed, and soon it was time to begin. He peeked outside one last time to make certain everyone was safely within the galley. When he was reasonably sure the halls were clear, Nathanial and Annabelle snuck out into the corridor. In the pocket of his trousers he had Annabelle’s derringer, now. She had pulled it from Dolan’s corpse, she’d said as she gave it over in exchange for the Bowie knife.

“You’d get killed trying to use it,” she’d said of the knife. “Take the gun. Try to be within short range when you fire. It’s more effective, then.”

2.

They set a brisk pace through the basilica. Nathanial was nervous. He wanted to run, but Annabelle was in no shape for it. She also insisted on carrying Nathanial’s satchel, even though he had been of a mind to leave it behind. That she was able to match his quick step seemed a miracle.

“I’ve been through many trials the past two weeks, but it’s been worth it. I know what must be done, Nathanial. You may not want to believe any of it at first, but I ask you to trust me. You must trust me. If you don’t, Le Boeuf is going to bring something into the world that will eventually destroy it.”

They passed the galley. The doors were slid closed. From inside came the buzz of two hundred or more workers talking amongst themselves before the service began. Good, Nathanial thought. They had an hour, at least. More than enough time to do what needed doing.

Fullbright’s quarters were next to van den Bosch’s. Nathanial could imagine the Juggernaut was still abed. He doubted the man would have even wanted to attend the service if he had been of good health. Pressing an ear to the wall, Nathaniel heard the man’s deep snores, confirming his suspicion.

Inside Fullbright’s quarters, Nathanial riffled his friend’s possession until he located the station log, which Fullbright had dutifully kept every day since he had first come aboard. Finding the information they needed, Nathanial and Annabelle left British and returned to Austrian, heading straight to Sunward Observation.

3.

Nathanial went to Operations, a station along the left wall facing the viewport. The controls here were unfamiliar to him, but that was not an insurmountable problem. He located the stabiliser controls and studied them. The coordinates next to each control told him what he needed to know. Using the controls he fired the stabilisers, laying in a course for the aether vortex’s last known position, adjusted for time and velocity. Furthermore, he boosted the station’s own velocity to many times what it had been during the past twelve days, when they were drifting toward the vortex to begin with.

He stepped back, and Annabelle ruined the controls with the handle of her Bowie knife.

“It’s a power source. I abhor his methods for its construction, using subterfuge, terror, and even murder, but I cannot help but admire what Le Boeuf has created. It’s a grand device, and it might even one day see use. Imagine what can be done with it.”

“You’re a decent man, Nathanial Stone. You see Torquilstone and think of how it can be used for the greater good. You imagine a better England, a better Earth. But you are naive. You haven’t seen horror yet. Oh, you’ve seen dangers aplenty, but you’ve never seen a blanket smother the child it’s swaddling or the spoon that chokes the starving man.”

“Quit speaking in such ways, Annabelle. This is not you at all. Come to your senses and talk plainly, or I will drag you to see Holmes.”

“A weapon, Nathanial. Le Boeuf is going to use the Torquilstone power source to build a weapon, and he’s going to turn it on England. Dolan told me. ‘England will be the New Atlantis, burning as it falls into the sea.’ That’s what he said.”

“My God…”

“We have to destroy it, Nathanial. We have to destroy Torquilstone, and the only way to do it, the only way it can be accomplished without Le Boeuf’s agents murdering us before we’ve had our chance, is to do it now and to send it―and this station―into the vortex.”

“My God…”

“And Le Boeuf. Nathanial, he can’t be allowed to escape. If he escapes, he’ll take the secret with him, and he’ll rebuild Torquilstone. Once that sort of device is unleashed on the world, even if he’s stopped, nations will destroy each other trying to possess it. It will be like Pandora’s Box, releasing evil onto the world. And once the box is opened…”

Nathanial let out a long sigh, feeling the tension in his shoulders. Regret wanted to overwhelm him, but he had no time for it. “Holmes is going to be upset when we interrupt the service, but we need to act as quickly as possible. We have perhaps two hours before the station strikes the vortex’s outer edge.”

Annabelle shook her head. “Not half as angry as Fullbright will be when he finds out you’ve destroyed the station.” She took Nathanial’s arm then. “We should get moving, then. There’s a lot to do in a short time.”

“Agreed. Let’s find Holmes and the others, and let’s leave this miserable place, once and for all.”

They had started down the stairs to the deck when a shot rang out. Annabelle cried out and fell over, grasping at her leg just below the knee.

Nathanial looked up from her to see a man dressed in Professor Wren’s ragged clothes, though the man no longer wore Wren’s ghastly face. In its place was the face of a handsome, distinguished gentleman with a charismatic cast to his eyes. His black hair, slightly receding, was oiled back against his scalp and slightly greying at the temples.

“Le Boeuf,” Nathanial said.

The man raised his pistol, pointing it at Nathanial’s head. “Professor Stone,” he said. “We meet at last.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Le Boeuf Triumphant!”

1.

“Careful, Stone. I intentionally shot Miss Somerset in the leg. I don’t have to be so discerning with you.”

Nathanial stood where he was. Annabelle writhed on the floor. She had made little noise after the initial shock of being shot, but she was demonstrating a ferocious level of pain. Blood leaked through her fingers.

“I think the bone is broken,” she hissed.

“How unfortunate,” Le Boeuf said. “Unfortunate for you, at any rate.” Nathanial whirled back on Le Boeuf, anger flushing his cheeks. Le Boeuf favoured him with a self-satisfied smirk. “Yes, I’m sure you planned to make some haste in leaving this place,” he said. “Now it shall be a little more difficult than that. A real pity. I know you’d hoped to leave me here to die, and I am terribly sorry to disappoint you.”

“You monster!” Nathanial cried. “Why shoot her? Can’t you see she’s been through enough?”

“Yes.” Le Boeuf drew out the word as he appraised Annabelle’s appearance. “Not nearly as much as I’d wanted her to suffer, however. Dolan was supposed to push her out an airlock, you see, but apparently he had a change of heart. Speaking of Mister Dolan, Miss Somerset, if you had bothered to hide the poor blackguard’s body, I might never have known what you were about. But there I was, off to get a replacement rotor for an experiment I’ve been conducting―oh, you both know about my little aether machine by now, don’t you? Yes, I’m sure Dolan told you all about it, Miss Somerset. He did love to talk, that one. Which is why I knew to rush straight over, but it looks like I’ve arrived a moment too late.”

“Peregrine’s headed into the abyss,” Nathanial said. “There’s nothing you can do it about it, now.”

“Nor do I plan to. At least, not any more than I have already done.” Le Boeuf placed a hand on a nearby console, stroking it lovingly. “You’ve destroyed this place, true. I always knew Henry would never do such a thing. For all his terrible faults, he has a respect for what science has wrought. You, you’re a young pup, Stone. You don’t yet understand what can truly be accomplished, and so you senselessly throw away such a wonderful creation without a second thought.”

“I’ve thought enough of this place to last two lifetimes, and I know what you’re going to do with Torquilstone, Le Boeuf,” Nathanial replied. “I would as soon sacrifice my own life than see you unleash this terror upon the world.”

“Oh,” Le Boeuf said with a surprised laugh. “How charmingly noble of you, Stone, but no, I don’t think we’ll require a blood sacrifice from you today. Your friends in the galley will be sufficient.” Nathanial recoiled, suddenly startled, and Le Boeuf smiled a shark’s smile. “I designed this place, as you know, and what a curious feature, to install locks on the doors which can only be accessed from the outside. I can see by your face you understand. I’ve locked them inside the galley, and I’ve thrown away the key, as it were. You’ll never rescue them, Stone. Your rash gesture has cost the lives of nearly two hundred men, and I want you to live. I want you to have a long, healthy life full of magical days and nights that you can’t enjoy for having murdered so many innocent people.”

“Where is the key?” Nathanial cried.

“I told you already. I threw it away, and I’ll never tell where. Now, you could be the hero and run about this station, eyes wild and blood pumping through your veins, looking for the key, but even if you find it, you’ll never escape this station alive. Neither will those poor souls who are now offering their hearts to God for the safe passage of those who have been lost these past few days. Or, you could do what you were planning to do in the first place, which is leave Peregrine Station. Your flyer, Miss Somerset, won’t survive an emergency flight from here, but one of the cutters should suffice. It should take you all the way to Mars, if that’s what you like, or anywhere else. I like to think you’ll return to Earth out of some misguided desire to inform the Queen and Her people of what has transpired here. I almost wish I could be there with you, when you see the ‘gratitude’ on the faces of the people you are claiming to have saved. They will crush you, Stone, crush you for being a hero. The Crown doesn’t like heroes. They like power. And money. And grudging renown. There’s no room for heroes, not where politics are concerned. Heroes are villains to them, and I have ensured that your name will be synonymous with villainy. It won’t matter where you run in the end, for they will spare no expense to have you. You’ll rot for years before they stretch you.”

“Why are you doing this?” Annabelle asked. “Just kill us and be done with it.”

“I could take no real amusement from something so short and sudden. No, you’ve hurt me deeper than you can know, and I will see you suffer for it. I’m surprised they didn’t warn you about me. Once I’ve taken notice of a young soul, I don’t give it up so easily. I like to stretch pain out over decades, and you’ll never escape me. You might try to match wits against me, but you’ll fail. I am the greatest mind this world has ever seen, and I will show you all what a true union of intellect and will can accomplish. You will think you’ve gone to sleep in Hell and dreamed of Hell, only to wake up in Hell, and with a greater Hell to go to when you die.”

The derringer’s report muffled the last word. Le Boeuf, wide-eyed with shock, fumbled a hand to his abdomen where the bullet had made a small, red hole. Nathanial shot him again―this time four inches to the right―just to be sure. The pistol dropped from Le Boeuf’s numb fingers and clattered to the floor. Already, his knees were starting to buckle.

“You seem to be confused,” Nathanial said. “You’ve told me what I need to know, and I don’t care to hear you pontificate about your vastly superior intellect. What I want to hear is you grovel in pain as I pass you by. You’ve doomed the people on this station. You’ve killed my friends. You can die with them.”

Nathanial retrieved the pistol from where it lay. Le Boeuf half-heartedly reached a hand out. His lips were moving, but he made no sound other than a stuttering “t” under his breath. Nathanial slapped the hand away and shoved Le Boeuf with all of his might, sending the man hurtling onto the floor, where his head thudded off the deck.

“We have to go,” Nathanial said. “We won’t have much time.”

“We’ll have even less than that,” Annabelle said, voice agitated with pain. “I don’t believe I can walk.”

Nathanial inspected the gunshot wound. Annabelle was correct; the leg was broken. He looked about for something to use as a splint, but there was nothing.

“If we could return to where Dolan held me, there were crates. We could use the wood,” she said.

“We can go to the quartermaster. Everything we need will be there.”

“You should go. It will be faster.”

Nathanial shook his head. “No, I won’t leave you here with him.”

“Give me the pistol. I can take care of myself.”

Reluctantly, Nathanial agreed and gave over the weapon. He turned and sprinted away. All the way, he kept his ears trained, expecting at some point, to hear the muffled crack of gunfire.

2.

At the quartermaster, he found a tapestry commemorating the coronation of King Edward I, from which he cut several strips, and two pieces of wood which were about half the length of Annabelle’s leg. He knew nothing of battlefield medicine, but he knew that the location of the wound was a difficult one, one that required they immobilise most of her leg since the wound was located so close to the knee.

Nathanial returned to Sunward Observation to much the same scene as he had left, much to his relief. Le Boeuf still lay crumpled on the floor, moaning but unmoving, and Annabelle, having suffered so much in the past two weeks, had done nothing irrational. Good. He did not want something like Le Boeuf’s death on her conscience. Let that be his burden, like this station. Like the people who were even now remembering the men who had fallen recently, unknowing that soon they, too, would die.

The hot fury that came before tears burned his eyes as he fashioned the splint about her leg. Stopping the bleeding would come when they were safely aboard the cutter and out of harm’s way. He hoped Annabelle would live that long, but he could not help matters at all if she did not. He had to get them out of here. Better to push all other concerns aside and do what had to be done first. There would be time enough later to deal with such thoughts.

Annabelle looked weak. He lifted her into his arms, and while she was not quite dead weight, she hanged limply. The satchel went on top, across her abdomen, and like that, he carried her to the lifts and downward into Hell.

It took him a while to orient himself. Hell was difficult to navigate when one was unburdened, but with Annabelle in his arms, and the heat and steam immediately beginning their work on him, he wondered if he would manage it. Within twenty feet he already began to feel the fatigue starting to take hold. By fifty feet, he was breathing hard, and his arms were starting to ache. He had to stop twice, set her on the floor, and massage the muscles in his arms. He was a scientist after all, not a labourer, and as small as she might be, Annabelle was solidly built, perhaps as much as ten stone.

“Throw me over your shoulder,” Annabelle said. “It’ll take the burden off your arms. You can use your legs, then. It’s easier.”

Nathanial protested. “I won’t handle you in such a way, Annabelle, not like some sack of feed.”

“Enough propriety!” Annabelle cried. “I don’t care how you handle me, Nathanial, but we can’t stop every ten feet for you to rest. We won’t make it!”

Nathanial did as told, and though she grunted as he slung her over his shoulder, she said nothing.

3.

The rest of the journey to the docking bay was easier, if only slightly so. When they arrived before the cutter, and Nathanial was able to alleviate himself of Annabelle’s burden, the muscles in his left shoulder were throbbing knots, and his legs felt like flimsy cane stalks. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her the rest of the way inside and lay her down on the cabin floor. Afterward he stoked the boilers to life, primed the aether propeller and got the cutter in condition for travel.

Being as there were no men to open the bay doors Nathanial left the ship and found the lockers with the atmosphere suits. He pulled on one, fashioned the hose to the helmet, and pulled the ring. Air flooded the helmet, and only then did he secure it in place on his head. He would not need the entire hour of oxygen, he hoped, and so the tiny bit he lost was of little consequence.

Properly suited, Nathanial returned to the bay. Each cutter, and there were five in all, rested in pressurised stalls. Nathanial closed the stall door, depressurised the stall, and opened the airlock into the aether. He then used the personnel airlock to enter the aether, and the handholds on the side of the station took him around into the stall, where he entered the cutter.

Once inside the cutter he took the controls while still in his suit. He wanted to waste no time, including the few minutes it would take step out of his suit. Already it had taken considerable time to carry Annabelle the near-length of the station. In Heaven, the memorial service would soon end, and those gathered there would realise what was transpiring, at least in part. Would they count their number and realise he wasn’t there, and would they blame him, then, as they began their fall into the vortex? He did not want to think about their faces, yet the images would not leave him as he steered the cutter free of the docking bay.

Annabelle had crawled into a chair bolted into place along the cabin wall, and secured herself to it. She watched Nathanial work. The cutter was a small ship, much smaller than Annabelle’s flyer, and as such it was a simple matter for a crew of two or even one to the operate it. Gone was the need to race back and forth between engineering and the bridge, as it could easily be accessed with just a short walk. The navigational equipment worked, as well, and Annabelle instructed him how to take his readings. Nathanial steered them in the general direction of Mars.

“I’ll tell you, I think I need to see if we have a telescope,” Nathanial said when they were underway. “I rather think I like my method better.”

Annabelle half-smiled, half-grimaced. “I don’t care how we proceed, so long as we get to Mars, and soon. I think I’ve had enough of the aether for a while.”

Nathanial found a medical kit, along with a battered copy of Blackwood’s Pocket Physician, which he used to clean and dress the gunshot wound. The bleeding had slowed to an ooze. The bullet itself had ricocheted off the bone, and had come just shy of exiting the soft tissue elsewhere. It pressed the epidermis outward just behind the knee. Following the instructions in the book, Nathanial used Annabelle’s Bowie knife to slit the skin and pushed the bullet out. There was little pain in the procedure, or so she said. Nathanial was relieved to see the bullet come away in one piece. No fragments had chipped away when it collided with the leg.

“The leg will have to be set,” he said to her. “I’m not certain I can do this, Annabelle. What little I know of medicine are the complications which can occur if something is not done properly.”

This made Annabelle chuckle even if levity was not his intention. Given the plethora of cuts and bruises about her person, Nathanial was sure it must have hurt, but she laughed nevertheless. “I’m glad to have you as a friend, Professor Nathanial Stone,” she said, patting his cheek.

This left Nathanial confused, and so he merely nodded. “Thank you, I suppose.” He waited a beat, and then added. “We’ll need to keep that leg splinted, no matter what. And we’ll have to wait until we’ve put a safe distance between us and, uh, Peregrine Station before I can concentrate enough to set the bone properly. If I can do so at all, mind you, which I’m not saying I can. But we’ll have to wait.”

Annabelle was still smiling. “Whatever you think is right,” she said.

She turned her eyes toward the window. “I’m going to miss Esmeralda,” she said, voice strangely soft. “Given the friendship Uncle Ernest had with my father, it felt almost like a gift from him. From Father, I mean. Losing it…well, I must say it feels a bit like I’ve lost another piece of him, Nathanial. While you’re sitting here, fussing over the nature of my injuries, all I can think of is there’s no salve or bandage in the world that’s going to patch that up.”

Nathanial was about to reply when the ship lurched as if it had collided with a wall. Luckily, Annabelle was still strapped into her seat, but Nathanial was sent sliding across the deck to the front of the cabin. His shoulder collided painfully with the wall.

“What is that?” Annabelle screamed.

“It must be the aether vortex!” Nathanial shouted, reasserting his balance so the magnets in the soles of his shoes connected with the metal floor. “We must have caught the outer edge!”

Nathanial scrambled to the aether wheel and began to steer it. From the viewport he could see the swirling black mass. They were still far away, but that did not matter. A station as large as Peregrine would hardly have felt any effect at this range, but the cutter, being so small, could be ripped apart. Nathanial whipped the wheel, and the cutter started to come about. The hull groaned and shrieked, and the bridge shook.

“We’re coming in too fast,” Nathanial shouted over the noise. He reduced speed, but that did little to help the problem. The problem was, their turning arc was wide, and they would be far into the vortex’s outer edge before they could fully turn around.

Something shattered nearby. Glass spilled onto the floor. Nathanial looked left and saw it was the internal pressure gauge. The aether wheel shook so hard it felt like it might break off in his hand.

“We’re coming apart!” Annabelle cried.

Peregrine Station began to slide into their field of vision. The angle of departure they had taken had not got them that far away from the station. Similarly, the aether vortex was so large as to capture them both in its field. The station, Nathanial could see, was mere minutes from crashing into the outer edge.

The cutter completed its wide, arcing turn. Nathanial increased speed. Something overhead exploded, sending a shower of sparks down onto the deck floor. The bridge lights dimmed and faded away. He noticed then that the controls were not responding efficiently. Something was wrong with the steering mechanism. He increased speed further, and soon, the pummelling on the hull subsided.

Nathanial breathed a sigh of relief.

“We’ll skirt the edge of it, now,” he said. “Eventually we’ll find an end to it, and then we’ll adjust course and proceed to Mars.”

Their new course was taking them by Peregrine Station one last time. Nathanial watched it pass. The stabilisers were working at full capacity. For a thing its size, Peregrine was travelling at an enormous speed. It hit the outer edge of the vortex, and a trickle of purplish energy coursed over its outer hull. The station otherwise showed little evidence it had collided with anything. Instead, it continued to barrel forward, toward the heart of the vortex. At this distance, little damage would be done. Within a few minutes, however, the first visible signs of its destruction would occur.

Nathanial found something else to occupy himself. He checked the controls, cleaned the glass off the floor, and visited engineering to make certain everything was in order. The aether propeller had slight damage, but it was nothing significant.

“We have no luck with flyers,” Annabelle joked when he told her what had happened.

“It shouldn’t delay us much,” he replied. “I’ll examine the cutter more thoroughly when we’re clear of the vortex, but I imagine our hull is still intact, despite the sturm and drang.”

Despite his best efforts, Nathanial could not keep away from the viewport. He found his way there again, and he stared at Peregrine Station as it retreated from view. Purplish energy coursed around it now. The station was being torn apart, millimetre by millimetre. A curious effect then. Pieces began to break away, first one here and one there, with the frequency increasing every second. The hull squashed and began to elongate, as if it were made of putty. Finally, as the true destruction began, sections liquefied and began to ooze.

Peregrine Station was literally melting.

“My God,” Nathanial whispered, and he looked away once more.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“For Phoebus, Cloaked in Mourning”

1.

Nathanial had expected an eventual explosion, but none ever came. The storage cupboard in the back contained the bulk of the space within the cutter. Lashed to the deck were enough supplies to last them a month at least, and in the corner, next to a cask of potable water, was a telescope. This he set up on the bridge to scout the vortex’s edge, which appeared to be several hundred statute miles away, if his calculations were correct.

But every few moments his attention would stray from the stars and fall back to the last known place where he had seen Peregrine Station.

“You should come away from the viewport, Nathanial,” Annabelle said. Her voice was thick with drowsiness. The medical kit had also contained a bottle of laudanum, and she was again falling under its effects. As she had muttered earlier as he had brought the bottle to her lips, “I’ve spent more time unconscious lately, in one way or another, than I have since I was a baby.”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “I can’t stop thinking of them,” he said. “I see their faces in my head. Holmes, Fullbright, Provost. The others, even, but I see those three the most. I only knew them a short time, but I’d come to call them friends. Even in my darkest thoughts, I believed that one day we would reunite on Earth, share a bottle of brandy, and tell fabulous lies of an evening. I never considered it would come to this.”

“It’s not your fault. You aren’t the madman who trapped them. That was Le Boeuf.”

Nathanial looked in the telescope’s eyepiece. “A while ago, I thought I saw a flash,” he said. “It looked like the flashes of the interplanetary mirror. Of course, such a flash was probably a trick of the light, but nevertheless, I thought it might be the first few flashes of an SOS.”

“Don’t think such things. Come away from the viewport.”

Nathanial did not stir. Eventually, Annabelle fell asleep. He stared a while longer through the telescope before giving up. He took up the chair next to Annabelle. She snored a little, her chin resting on her chest. He took her hand and squeezed it. She snorted, still asleep, and squirmed a little. He let go of her hand and turned his attentions to the stars outside the viewport.

What day was it? What year, even? Here again, were the same thoughts, the same predicament, as before. What had changed? Nothing. Everything. When they cleared the vortex he would change their course back toward Mars, and slowly, by and by, it would fill his vision. He reached into his satchel and removed Professor Wren’s journal. It was still there. He returned it and removed his own journal. Thoughts were all he had out here in the aether, the long hours dragging out before him. He would jot down his later, when boredom and inactivity started to become more than he could manage.

Until then, he stared out the viewport, at the stars, at the black, and painful images that danced in front of his mind’s eye.

And he waited.

To Be Continued…

A Prince of Mars by Frank Chadwick

L. Joseph Shosty lives in Beaumont, Texas with his wife and son. He is the author of nearly fifty short stories, as well as numerous essays, articles, book reviews, and poems. A novel, Sign of the Hanged Man, was serialised on the web in 2000 and 2001, and his story collection, Hoodwinks on a Crumbling Fence, was published in 2000. His second novel, a mainstream work titled The Return of Baldheaded Johnson, has recently been completed.