Space: 1889 & Beyond—Dark Side of Luna

By J.T. Wilson & Frank Chadwick

Copyright 2012 by J.T. Wilson & Frank Chadwick

Space: 1889 © & ™ Frank Chadwick 1988, 2012

Cover & Logo Design © Steve Upham and

Untreed Reads Publishing, 2011, 2012

Cover Art © David Burson and Untreed Reads Publishing, 2012

Space: 1889 & Beyond developed by Andy Frankham-Allen

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

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

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

Other Titles in the Space: 1889 & Beyond Series

Journey to the Heart of Luna

Vandals on Venus

The Ghosts of Mercury

A Prince of Mars

Abattoir in the Aether

Conspiracy of Silence

http://www.untreedreads.com

“DARK SIDE OF LUNA”

By J.T. Wilson & Frank Chadwick

Prologue

1.

(1882)

IT WAS Impossible! A girl of twelve, left to her own devices on an Arizonian ranch, had a million ways to occupy herself; yet her parents decided that Sunday was best spent not exploring these myriad possibilities, but engaging on a ramble with them. Annabelle Somerset was too young to defy her parents and, in any case, would never dream of such disrespect; surely, though, her parents detected her frustration at being impressed into the excursion.

Her father, the great walker, decided the family should explore the Chiricahua Mountains. Her mother suggested the range, handsome though it might be, was too dangerous, particularly for Annabelle. Her father, however, stood firm and eventually won out, hence she found herself beneath the blazing sun of an Arizona midday. Their journey was largely confined to the lower mountains and Annabelle wondered why her mother held the opinion this range was dangerous. A giraffe would scarcely have difficulty on this walk.

When they paused for a picnic luncheon some echoing noises attracted the attention of young Annabelle. The noises indicated the presence of life other than their own in the mountains, animal life from the sound of clattering hooves.

“Mountain goats!” cried Annabelle, clapping her hands and running in the direction of the sound.

“Annabelle, no!” her mother cried after her.

“Let her go, Joan,” her father said languidly, spreading some jam on a slice of bread. “There is hardly a case for arguing with Annabelle in this mood. Besides, you can hear the hooves, it’s quite clear that it is nothing more than animals. Be careful not to frighten them, Annabelle!”

“Yes, yes,” replied Annabelle dismissively. Had she known what was to follow, her response would not have been so casual.

2.

THE NOISES came from a cavern approximately twenty feet from where the Somersets had broken for lunch, and which went some way back into the mountain. Hoisting her petticoats up, Annabelle clambered over rocks to enter the cavern and then ducked her head to pass under the low ceiling of the entrance. The ceiling quickly rose, leaving Annabelle in a cavern some eight feet high and at least twice as broad. There was no sign of the mountain goats, however.

“Here, goats,” Annabelle said, walking towards the centre of the cavern. She still heard noises from the far end, but she could not ascertain their source and the light dwindled the farther she moved from the cavern mouth. She recognized the noises as the clopping of hooves and snorts of a horse, or perhaps a team of them, and then heard a distinctly human voice. She could not make out the words, but the intent was clear: the speaker attempted to quiet the horse.

Suddenly, she realized what she had fallen into and she had barely time to turn on her heels before someone grabbed her.

Of course, even a mere slip of a girl such as Annabelle would hardly stand for seizure by an unknown assailant, and her bawling and kicking almost forced the kidnapper to release her. He clapped a hand over her mouth to regain control, but this only produced further squeals and a painful bite.

“Annabelle!” came her mother’s voice from outside the cavern. “Ezekiel, hurry!”

Before Annabelle could cry out again, her assailant dodged behind a rock, concealing himself from sight and holding Annabelle in a rough choke that left her unable to breathe or speak. As the villain finally loosened his grip and as her eyes adjusted to the light, Annabelle realised that he and she were not alone. Indeed, the man had a number of confederates, pressed against the sides of the rock. She could, however, see no glint of steel at the hips of the men, so these were not the pistol-toting desperadoes rumoured at her school.

“Annabelle, I hope this is no joke,” said her father nearby.

“Ezekiel, I did say this was no place for her!” said her mother, in a tone which blended reproach and anxiety.

“No time for that now. If you heard her here, she must have wandered into the cave; let’s see what we can find.”

Her parents’ figures appeared, silhouetted against the light. Annabelle strained to call out, but the man reapplied his choke and hissed at her in a language she had no hope of understanding. It was at this stage that she realised who her captors must be. Indians!

She knew she had to warn her parents. She threw her hands against the strong forearm of the man and, finding some purchase, gave a strangulated cry which she hoped would serve as warning. The call, however, was incoherent and she realised to her dismay that it only drew her parents further into the cave.

“If someone is holding my daughter against her will,” her father said, “then I insist you release her. I have some standing in the city; you would attract a higher ransom with me than with a child.”

Something in her father’s tone caused Annabelle to hold her breath. Never had she heard his voice shake so.

To their left and right, Indians drew their tomahawks. Their intent was apparent, made all the more horrific to Annabelle because she had no means of preventing it.

She gave one final scream and, at the same time, the Indians flung their tomahawks, succeeding in both instances, catching her parents in the skulls. As the bodies slumped forwards, Annabelle became acutely aware of two things: the first, that she was now orphaned; the second, that she was the captive of a group of hostile savages.

Chapter One

“Homeward Bound”

1.

ANNABELLE SOMERSET knew HMAS Sovereign was the pride of the Royal Navy. It was an impressive vessel, capable of travel between the planets at velocities one might describe as “frightening.” Four hundred and some feet from bow to stern, it was a leviathan of liftwood, of brass, of glass. Englishmen aground would raise their glasses as it passed gracefully by, on its way to some unknown adventure, while Russians, Frenchmen and Germans alike no doubt privately cursed their luck at having no ship so glorious.

But today, something was amiss. There had been no reported instances of turbulence in the aether, nor any hostilities that would lead to the ship being struck. Asteroids could hardly be at fault either. It seemed, rather, that it was simply lumbering awkwardly, flying not with the majestic strides of a stallion in full tilt but with the awkward gait of a hippopotamus on a rooftop. Engineers and navigators, she had heard, worried at the problem in the hope of redressing the balance and restoring Sovereign to its usual potency, but so far to no avail.

In the ship’s sick bay, meanwhile, Annabelle found herself engaged in her own animated discussion with Sovereign’s first officer, Lieutenant George Bedford. Much had transpired since their first meeting. Most importantly, she had been whole seven months earlier, but was now without her right leg. Her companion, nominal chaperon, and increasingly her friend, Nathanial Stone, was now being held in the brig of Sovereign on suspicion of treason, the charge stemming from the total destruction of the prototype Heliograph station, Peregrine. Any suggestion of Nathanial’s culpability for that atrocity was dreadful nonsense, of course.

“Surely you can see that these allegations are utter rot, Mister Bedford. You must be certain of that,” Annabelle protested.

“It is not my place to judge his guilt or innocence, Miss Somerset, as I am sure you know. That he stands accused of treason leaves us with no alternative to incarceration and transportation home for trial,” Bedford answered.

“A suspected traitor? I fail to see how there’s an ounce of plausibility in that tale. What happened at Peregrine Station was scarcely Nathanial’s responsibility and I’m certain the entire Navy can see that. Why, even Ordinary Seaman Byron was saying that he could see Nathanial’s innocence. Are you suggesting yourself to be less perceptive than a mere boy from a press gang?”

“Your argument, I believe, in protestation of his innocence, is that the sabotage was in fact caused by a largely mythical French villain who stowed away on the station using a method that remains unknown. Which of these two tales sounds more plausible to you?”

Was this why George had not come to see her earlier? Annabelle felt the blood drain from her face and anger cloud her vision. She abruptly sat up in the bed. “How dare you! Mythical? Was the bullet that shattered my shin mythical? Was the infection which took my leg, and nearly my life, mythical? If your own argument relies on the belief that I would deliberately invent these occurrences, and presumably cut off my own limb to make my ‘protestations of innocence’ more plausible, then honestly I wonder why you would even honour me with your presence, or why I am not also currently in chains. In either case, I think it time you left.” As she finished Annabelle was surprised to feel tears on her cheeks and she angrily wiped them away.

George faltered and took a step back, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment. “I…that was not my intention at all,” he eventually managed, “I assure you, I have no such…no, you are quite right. I will leave you at once, and not pain you with my presence again. But first I offer my most humble and sincere apologies for my inexcusable remark.”

He put his cap on and turned to leave as Sovereign lurched again, sending a number of medical instruments clattering to the deck and throwing Annabelle off balance. She cried out as she began to pitch to the side and toward the deck, but in a flash Bedford caught her in his arms and righted her on the bed. His face flushed, he stepped back again to depart.

“My words are generally better-considered. I cannot explain why I spoke so stupidly just now. I only… You make an impression, Miss Somerset. Goodbye.”

Annabelle looked down to conceal the flush she felt come to her own cheeks. As she did so she saw the outline of her solitary leg under the sickbay blanket, and she felt her heart sink. This verbal jousting, this game they played from habit—what did it matter? And now look where it had brought them! Would her angry words bring back her leg? Would they reopen the door to a future forever closed by a surgeon’s blade, wielded inside a dirty tent pitched in a Martian dry canal bed? She heard Bedford’s steps as he began to leave.

“Wait,” she said, and Bedford turned back to her. “You do so as well, Lieutenant Bedford—make an impression. Sometimes I say stupid things I wish with all my heart I could take back. I accept your apology on the condition that when I say something outrageous and unforgivable, as I certainly shall, you will extend me the same favour.”

Bedford looked at her for a moment, then walked back, took of his hat, and solemnly offered her his hand. She shook it. He seemed to relax a bit and she settled back on her pillows. Bedford pulled a chair over beside the bed and sat, his hat in his lap and his face still flushed with embarrassment. For a moment neither of them spoke

“You said ‘in chains as well’, earlier,” he finally managed, “but Professor Stone is hardly in chains. The truth is I have already addressed the professor’s captivity with the captain. As you may have noticed, Sovereign is faltering. Boswell manages as best he can, naturally; however he intimated he would be grateful for assistance and frankly, the best man for the job is the man in the brig. I’ve made an application for the professor to be released from confinement in order to attend to this engineering problem. Guarded at all times, naturally, but released nonetheless. I fear an accused traitor is rather less of a problem than a shipwreck, after all.”

“Has your petition been successful, Lieutenant?”

“I fear not,” he replied sadly. “The captain feels that with our aether propeller already partially compromised, we can scarcely afford to put a suspected saboteur in close proximity to it. Naturally I’ve offered my judgment that the benefits outweigh the risks; however, while I may propose, it is for the captain to dispose. Incidentally, perhaps we might dispense with the formalities. You are not one of the crew, so no need to use my rank. Please call me George.”

Annabelle was thrown slightly. “Really, I had no idea that you gave such consideration to how I might address you,” she said, not wishing to admit that she thought of him by his Christian name in any event. “In fact, based on the frequency of your visits here, I had no idea that you gave any consideration to me at all.” She attempted to recapture their previous mood of good-natured jousting, but the fact that her breathing had suddenly become shallow was testament to the conversation having suddenly become deep.

“On the contrary, I have thought of you more than once since we parted company.” George displayed a nervousness she had not seen before, even when they had been surrounded by hostile Russians on Luna.

“I, too.” The words stumbled out of her mouth as uncertain and awkward as debutant ice-skaters. She swore an oath inwardly on finding that she was no more gracious with her phrasing than she was with her feet. Her foot, rather. “I, too, have thought of you…”

Any chance of further probing, however, was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of Captain Folkard.

“Ah, Bedford, I was expecting to find you here,” Folkard said, touching his hat in deference to Annabelle.

“Really, sir?” replied George, somewhat taken aback.

“Naturally! A good captain always knows where his men are, after all,” Folkard responded. “I was thinking, Lieutenant, Sovereign is experiencing more turbulence than expected in the aether vortexes of late. Hardly a problem for a seasoned flyer such as you or I, of course, but some of the younger men are complaining. Of course it would be preferable if White or Grant were here, but in their absence I thought perhaps it best if Professor Stone would be released from the brig and have a look. Guarded at all times, naturally, but released nonetheless. A bloodthirsty dissident is better than a shipwreck, after all, eh?”

George responded with a smile so tight it would have served a lady well as a corset. Annabelle quite approved. “Excellent idea, sir. Really, I don’t know where you get these ideas.”

“Yes, well, that’s why I’m the captain, after all, Bedford. They employ me to be the idea man, don’t you know.”

“As you will, sir.”

“I should note that this is merely a stopgap measure in any event. Providing the ship stays on course and regains nominal speed, we should arrive back on Earth in approximately seventy hours. By then, Miss Somerset, I hope you will be adequately recovered from your injury to travel. I trust Doctor Beverly is taking care of you?”

“His care is adequate, Captain, if anything too solicitous. Indeed I would be more fully recovered had the doctor allowed me to use the ‘leg’ Nathanial and Kak’hamish built for me. Although not the most comfortable device, I managed with it for a time on Mars. And, in truth, it holds value beyond that,” she said softly, thinking of their deceased friend Kak’hamish, the artist who had carved the leg, not to mention saved their lives several times over.

“I was appalled to learn of the loss of your leg, Miss Somerset. Once again, a consequence of the actions of that scoundrel Stone, I understand,” murmured Folkard.

“Nathanial saved my life. Twice, in this instance!” Annabelle retorted hotly.

“The same Stone that you recommend releasing, Captain?” asked George, pointedly, for which Annabelle was thankful.

“Yes, quite so.” Folkard nodded, and Annabelle was certain she saw a slight smile on his countenance.

2.

“COME ON, you maggot, or you’ll be tipped the scroby before lights out!”

Ordinary Seaman Ross McKittrick warmed to the part of overseer of Professor Stone. After a shaky start, during which neither man had been entirely comfortable in their respective roles, McKittrick settled into the task, drawing on his experience as a gaoler some years previously. He’d even managed to recall some of the more colourful language his co-workers used back then. The rifle that he had been armed with only added to the overall effect. Admittedly, nervous of the possibility of overexcitement and unwilling to actually fire at a fellow Englishman, he had taken the opportunity to remove the bullets. Still, he felt a smart rap aside the temple using the butt of the rifle ought to be sufficient to quell any belligerence and he had certainly not disclosed to his charge that the weapon lacked bullets. If only the engine room had been a more reasonable temperature, he might have enjoyed the novelty of his new duty.

“I’m working as efficiently as possible, under the circumstances,” Stone protested, examining a series of pulleys in the central lattice. McKittrick was no engineer, and so had no idea what task Stone was up to. One thing he did know, however, was he was keen to be away from the stifling engine room as soon as possible.

“Have you any suggestions what might be causing this, Prof?” asked Lieutenant Boswell the chief engineer, and who, to the eyes of McKittrick, was as grimy as the machinery he was charged with servicing. The lieutenant’s coat and hat hung from a steam valve and he worked in his shirtsleeves, hardly the sort of example McKittrick expected an officer to set. But he was an engineer, after all, and they all seemed a bit odd.

“The problem seems simple, Chief, but the solution less so. The governor has simply undertaken more missions than it can handle. We scarcely had time to test it before it was needed and had little opportunity to test its durability. Certainly the parts are finely machined; and yet, even the finest gears and pulleys in the Empire need replacing from time to time, and the more delicate the tolerances, the more noticeable any wear becomes. I’ve tightened things up for now and the lattice will hold until we reach Earth; after that, though, the entire assembly will need replacement. But this is simple enough, Chief, I’m surprised you needed a second opinion.”

“As it ’appens, Prof, I knew the lattice needed replacing as soon as we left Mars,” Boswell replied. “I just thought you might fancy a bit of intellectual stimulation. Can’t be too much for you to do in the brig and that’s never right, when you’re banged up for something you never did.”

“There has been little to do, save for protesting my innocence and writing my journal, you’re right,” Stone said. “I am grateful for the change in scenery and for your support, Chief.”

“McKittrick, maybe you might want to take the prof here to see his lady friend,” said Lieutenant Boswell. “I hear she’s in the sick bay.”

McKittrick wasn’t convinced that the prisoner deserved a social visit; still, his orders from Captain Folkard had been to allow Stone to walk the deck under guard and Lieutenant Boswell was McKittrick’s superior too.

“Sickbay is down below centre-deck, or I suppose up above, depending on your perspective, is it not?” Stone asked. “Since boarding Sovereign I’ve been confined to this side of it. I have to say, Chief, the experience of changing the orientation of ‘down’ when one passes through centre-deck is disconcerting, My scientific expertise is with aether propellers and electromagnetism, but I am entirely ignorant of a device used to maintain a low approximation of gravity in the vessel’s interior. Sovereign was the first aether craft I ever travelled in, so I suppose I took it for granted, but I have wondered about it since noticing the lack of similar gravity on other vessels. It was present on Peregrine Station, however, and I found that equally odd.”

McKittrick and the chief engineer exchanged a glance. “On that score, I am unable to enlighten you,” Lieutenant Boswell replied. “I know nothing of Peregrine Station, had not even heard of it before we took you aboard this time. As to ’ere, me and McKittrick, and every member of Sovereign’s crew, have sworn not to discuss this feature of Sovereign’s design. To be ’onest, Stone, I don’t understand it myself. Ain’t aware of any device in centre-deck, either. It is just there.”

“Hurry up, Professor,” McKittrick growled, “or you’ll be wearing those guts as a cummerbund!”

“Please, McKittrick, you sound for all the world like a penny dreadful. We will have time for a brief visit with Annabelle before lunch, which is an unexpected result.”

McKittrick planned to retort with another shattering riposte, but he found himself unable to think of one―no doubt due to the heat making him light-headed—and so they stepped outside the engine room, only to be met by Bedford.

“Good afternoon. At ease, McKittrick,” he said, before turning to Professor Stone. “I am glad to have caught you while I’m pacing teak. All is in order, I take it?”

“Quite so, Lieutenant. The engine will need repairing on our return to Earth, but it is healthy enough to last us until then. I should expect some turbulence when we pass Luna; however, this should be no more than we would normally expect from Luna’s aether wake.”

“Excellent news, Professor. I should convey the thanks of Captain Folkard for looking over this matter with Boswell. Having said that, however, I do wish to add a cautionary note. The eyes of the ship are upon you, Professor. Any violation of your parole will not be countenanced. I will not hesitate to react in the strongest manner to any threat to the welfare of the ship or of Miss Somerset.”

“Should I clap him in the bilboes, Lieutenant Bedford?” asked McKittrick, eager to impress.

“No, that shouldn’t be necessary, Ordinary Seaman, as long as you maintain a vigilant guard.” Bedford smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. McKittrick felt his heart swell with pride at the compliment.

“Lieutenant, there wouldn’t be any additional cause for this sudden interest in my affairs, would there?” Stone asked, evidently not in the least bit cowed by Bedford’s threat.

Bedford met his gaze. “One would have thought that the responsibility to protect my men would have been cause enough, Professor Stone.”

“And of the concern for Miss Somerset?” retorted Stone and at this the lieutenant’s eyes dropped.

Bedford walked to the porthole, perhaps with a view to avoid further conversation with Stone. Instead McKittrick saw the officer’s back stiffen with surprise. Undeterred, Stone pressed on. “After all, Lieutenant Bedford, you will forgive me for speaking out of turn but you are, as I understand it, still an unmarried man. Is that usual for an officer of your rank?”

Bedford turned back to Stone. “If I were you, I would exercise caution before intruding into another man’s affairs. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I must return to the bridge. It appears that we are about to be boarded.”

3.

BEDFORD HURRIED to the bridge to find Folkard already present, in the company of a number of officers and crew, and monitoring the movements of a ship some distance away. Sovereign had halted while its aether propeller was off-line for repairs, but Bedford knew no reason why they had not gotten under way again.

“Why are we still stopped, Captain?” asked Bedford.

“We received a message relayed from the orbital heliograph station Harbinger that a ship wished to make contact,” said Folkard. “Seems to be a French ship. You may have heard of her before: Versailles.”

Bedford had heard of the ship before. “Certainly. Hardly a major ship in the French lists. What the devil are they up to?”

“As yet, we’re not sure. Harbinger no doubt relayed the message to us in the event the Frogs are in distress. Can’t just streak past them if we can render assistance, can we? I’ve sent the Frogs a message asking if we can render any assistance.”

“Sir, if they find out anything about the unique features of Sovereign…”

“I am well aware of the consequences,” Folkard interrupted sternly, “and I shall see to it that they do not. Ah, here’s their reply by heliograph now. Mister Ainsworth, if you could translate?” he asked the signal officer.

“French vessel Versailles concerned your approach Lunar orbit stop. Request assurance no hostilities intended on Luna stop,” able Seaman Ainsworth translated from the blinking light on the French cruiser.

“On Luna?” Bedford asked. “An absurd statement. We have no intentions of docking at Luna.”

“Inform them that we do not intend commencing hostilities or visiting Luna,” ordered Folkard, which the signalman dutifully flashed on Sovereign’s own heliograph, the short and long clacks of the mirror shutters forming the words in Morse code. Presently they received a response from Versailles.

“Due previous actions by HMAS Sovereign, verbal assurances insufficient stop,” Ainsworth translated. “Require inspection of Sovereign stop.”

As the signal officer read the heliograph aloud, Bedford caught sight of a cutter emerging from Versailles. Wordlessly, he indicated the cutter to Folkard, who watched it approaching Sovereign with evident distaste. The cutter advanced using small puffs of compressed air as thrust; they were too close to need aether propellers, and in any case the French lacked the aether propeller governor of Sovereign and her small craft, so could not conduct fine manoeuvres with it. The lightest touch on the French cutter’s aether throttle would send the tiny craft streaking past—or through—Sovereign.

“They intend to board HMAS Sovereign, eh? Very well,” said Folkard, turning to the signal officer again. “Which is the alert gun mount this watch, Mister Ainsworth?”

“Number two port-side, four-point-seven-inch mount, sir,” Ainsworth answered promptly. “Leading Gunner Gibbs serving as gun captain,” he added, and Bedford nodded, impressed. Ainsworth was young but was on top of his watch. The cutter, meanwhile, drew closer. “Shall I bring the ship to Action Stations, sir?”

“No, that won’t be necessary, Mister Ainsworth. I don’t believe we’ll start a war today. It would make the Admiralty quite cross. Be so good as to have Gibbs put a fluorescent-trailing round across that cutter’s bow, and then resume course and speed as before,” Folkard said and turned away to leave the bridge, catching Bedford’s questioning gaze as he did so.

“A little unorthodox, perhaps,” said Folkard. “Nonetheless, I believe Versailles will receive the message quite clearly. I’m sorry if I worried you there Bedford, but I have no intention of letting some Froggy red guard set his garlic-stinking boots on this deck. Now, unless there are any further delays, we will continue on to Earth.”

4.

WHILE FOLKARD acquainted Versailles with the firepower boasted by Sovereign, Nathanial become reacquainted with Annabelle’s medical condition.

“I fail to see why I have to acquiesce to a request from a bludgeon such as you!” McKittrick complained, although he had nevertheless brought Nathanial to the sick bay as Lieutenant Boswell ordered.

“Do cease your complaining, McKittrick,” Nathanial sighed. “I’m more than happy to return to the brig in five minutes’ time. I hardly feel, however, that there’s an awful lot I can use here to bring down Sovereign. Whoever heard of a killer physician, after all?”

McKittrick grumbled, but did not offer further resistance.

“Thank you, Nathanial,” said Annabelle, from her sickbed, although she looked healthy enough to Nathanial, to his enormous relief. “Now, where was I?”

“Lecturing me on my tardiness in creating an adequate replacement for your leg,” Nathanial reminded her.

“Ah, yes. Well, I appreciate you’ve been busy repairing the ship and making a new friend here…ˮ

“Now, steady on!”

“…but I do feel that with these two requirements out of the way, you should be able to address the issue of my problematic leg. After all, did you not say you would create a more useful substitute than a peg?”

“Once we’re back on Earth, I will gladly…”

“What are the workshop facilities like on this ship?”

“Adequate for my needs, as I recall, but I can hardly imagine Captain Folkard stepping aside to allow me access to the metal-working facilities I would require to machine the hinges and spring-rods needed. I have my doubts over whether Sovereign would even hold in its stock the spring steel I will need for the ankle trunions, either. It’s terribly frustrating for me, Annabelle, you must appreciate that, to have a design remaining unfulfilled.”

“In fact, I have a poem about that,” McKittrick interjected shyly.

“Frustrating for you?” Annabelle answered ignoring McKittrick. “Imagine how I feel, trapped here on this bed with nothing to occupy my time but these pamphlets! As much as I appreciate Doctor Beverly’s administrations, the peg will suffice, if only he would allow me to use it. But he fears the effect it will have on my…stump.”

“Matters could yet be worse, Annabelle”, Nathanial pleaded, attempting to placate her.

Annabelle forced a smile. “Not if the addition to your facial hair is anything to go by.”

Nathanial reached for his moustache. He was not sure if he intended to remove it once they returned home, but for now he chose to keep it, in honour of their slain friend Kak’hamish. This he pointed out to Annabelle. “It is no different than you keeping that skrill horn.”

“In this case, Nathanial, it does rather suit you,” Annabelle said.

“Yes, well, quite.” Nathanial cleared his throat, ignoring the curious looks from McKittrick. “Well, um, so far as I can see, I must say Doctor Beverly and his assistants have done a fine job of removing the stitches and drain shunts from your leg. You might want to stay off it a few days in any case to avoid irritating it, let it heal up properly. I would suggest that you rest more while I attempt to find a solution to your issue. Mister McKittrick, as it appears you have been assigned as my guard indefinitely, I would welcome any ideas should you have them.”

“My only idea right now, Stone,” responded McKittrick, “is whether this room contains sufficient room to swing a Cat.”

Nathanial raised his eyes to the heavens at the predictability of McKittrick thus far. Nathanial’s dilemma, so far as he could make out, was twofold: he had to get out of the brig in order to be of any use to Sovereign and Annabelle, and he had to ensure that Annabelle herself was discharged from the sick bay. Two escapes against the wishes of those who were keeping them there.

5.

“WAKE UP, you scurvy knave!” bellowed McKittrick at the cell door. “It’s five bells in the Morning Watch and everyone with a lick of sense has been up for hours. Do you want to visit the engineering spaces today or not?”

“Come now, McKittrick,” Nathanial said with a yawn as he sat up on his cot and looked for his clothes, “you have been my guard scarcely three days and already you resort to piratical slang rather than gaol slang. Besides, there is hardly cause for this hostility. While we have been thrown together by necessity rather than desire, we can surely have a conversation like civilised gentlemen without these theatrics. Educate me. Your name is McKittrick, yet you can hardly be said to have a Scottish brogue.”

“Scottish antecedents, you see,” explained McKittrick. “Me, I’m from the North of England. Manchester, born and bred.”

“Manchester is still some distance for your ancestors to have travelled, is it not?”

McKittrick ventured a small smile. “We’re travelling between Mars and Earth, Professor, and you think the Great Glens to Manchester’s a long way?”

Nathanial smiled in reply. “I suppose I meant relevant to the time period in which they were travelling. The developments in travel since then would have been unthinkable in our grandparents’ lifetimes, at least.”

“Yes, I mean, my grandfather loved his poetry, but I think the idea that I’d be travelling the stars would be beyond even his imagination.”

Nathanial did his morning wash-up at the small basin in the cell and finished dressing. They set out to the engine room, momentarily, it seemed, having declared a truce. Nathanial suspected that behind McKittrick’s bluff demeanour, he was secretly glad for someone to talk to.

“Mister McKittrick, I recall your comment from the day before yesterday that you have written poems yourself. Isn’t that so?”

At this, McKittrick visibly coloured. “Maybe the occasional sonnet, or ode. It’s not something that I really share with the crew, though,” he confessed, after a while. “A group of swabbies who can hardly read? They’re not likely to be the most appreciative audience. A couple of men have heard it though. Some lads I trust. Perhaps I could share some.”

“Ah, McKittrick, Professor,” greeted Bedford, joining them at a turn in the passageway. “At ease, McKittrick. I trust that there have been no incidents with Professor Stone?”

“The blackguard has quite behaved himself, sir!” bawled McKittrick. “There should be no need to issue a thrashing tonight!”

“Excellent news. Do, however, have a care with the thrashings, McKittrick. Flogging has been outlawed in the Royal Navy these last nine years.”

“More’s the pity, sir,” McKittrick answered sadly.

Bedford turned his gaze to Nathanial. “I hope, Professor Stone, that you have given some thought to your defence. Should you be convicted, the consequences would be disastrous. I hardly know how Miss Somerset would take your execution.”

“Coincidentally” Nathanial answered, “I would not take it all that well myself. Bedford, you may suspect me of being a saboteur but do not also accuse me of being a fool. I will present my defence, and my evidence, when we reach Earth.”

“Evidence? And what…?”

“Lieutenant Bedford, is that you I hear?” Folkard’s voice interrupted, drifting down the nearby companionway—which Nathanial had learned was nautical parlance for a stairway. Bedford turned and Folkard’s disembodied voice continued. “No need to report to me, I’ll come to you.” He scampered lightly down the stairs and turned to them. “At ease, men. Professor Stone, you may remain. Mister McKittrick, how is the baby?”

“Eager for my discharge, I would imagine, sir,” replied McKittrick smartly. “Though I fear she won’t be a baby by the time I get back.”

“They do grow up awfully fast, don’t they? Professor Stone, how is your baby?”

“I foresee no immediate issues with the governor. I have, as it were, a healthy baby.”

At this, Folkard smiled. “Splendid! Now, it may interest you, Bedford and you, Professor Stone, to learn that Harbinger, the orbital heliograph station, has flashed us amended orders from the Admiralty. You’ll remember that there was a tremendous excitement from Parliament concerning the Heart. There was some debate about whether it was safe in the hands of Cyrus Grant, yet it was agreed that the British Research Base would provide adequate back-up.”

“Indeed, sir. Has the position of the Government changed since we last departed Earth?”

“It would appear so, Lieutenant. Their hand has been somewhat forced by the messages coming from the Research Base of late. From what I can gather, they have been rather…unsettling.”

“Unsettling, Captain?” The word had an unpleasant resonance in Nathanial’s ears. “Is Grant in any danger?”

“It’s difficult to say, and this is one of the concerns of the Colonial Minister, although I gather there is still some argument as to in which cabinet portfolio responsibility for the lunar facility ought to reside. In any case, he and the Admiralty feel it best that Grant return to Earth to explain the developing situation.”

“How does this affect us, Captain?” asked Bedford. From his tone, Nathanial suspected that the lieutenant already knew the answer, yet dreaded it.

“Why that should be obvious, Bedford. What other Royal Navy vessel is capable of making the approach and landing on Luna? It is up to Sovereign to return Grant to Earth. To that effect, then, I have ordered the navigator to re-chart our course and make for Luna!”

Chapter Two

“Return to Luna”

1.

(1882)

AN HOUR passed since the attack and the group still travelled through the mountains. They left the cave through a low tunnel, with Annabelle marched between two of them. Annabelle was certain that the cavalry would be quick to arrive, but she was mistaken: the Somersets had been isolated when they had stopped their hike for lunch. For Ezekiel Somerset, leisure time held the advantage of being able to “get away from it all”, which had cost him dearly.

Evidently the cavalry knew there were Indians in the mountains, however. Annabelle saw the valley below filling up with mounted cavalry, heading straight for the group which held her.

“Goyahkla,” one of the Indians urged their chief, before pointing down towards the mounted troops below.

Annabelle felt a glimmer of hope. The Indians were famous for their reckless and warlike nature. Would they succumb to temptation and ride into battle against this cavalry? Surely they would lose such a contest given the relative disparity in numbers. The United States cavalry were heroes, popular in every town they protected and with a daunting record on the field of battle. Annabelle could be home by sundown—but what was home, now that her parents were dead?

Annabelle saw from the way the Indian chief slowly scanned the area that he was considering his options. Perhaps he was tempted to fight, for he gave an order in a language she could not speak but which prompted one of his warriors to light an arrow and draw back his bow. The approaching cavalry surely outnumbered the arrows in their quivers, however: it was a brave stand, but one doomed to failure.

The warrior released his arrow. It landed in a tree some distance away from them. It had been a long, hot, dry summer and the brush in the mountains was as dry and brittle as old bones. The tree caught fire immediately, smoke billowing up from it. The fire alerted the men of the cavalry, who quickly dismounted and charged up the mountain. Annabelle gave a wail of despair. They were heading for the wrong mountain!

At a signal from the chief, the Indians took flight, not in the direction of the cavalry as expected, but down into the caverns again. The Indians moved through the tunnels with sure footing in spite of the darkness and uneven flooring. She realized they had a wealth of experience traversing these mountains.

After a while in the darkness of the caves, Annabelle lost her sense of time, unable to calculate how long they had been travelling or how far they had journeyed. They travelled in a slow descent through the mountain, yet at what speed or distance, she could not say. After a while, however, she saw daylight again as it shone through a crevice in the rock. The party scrambled up the rocks, dragging her along with them, and directly they were out in the sunlight of the mid-afternoon. Annabelle rubbed her eyes furiously, trying to adjust them to the light. When she could see again, she looked around.

They stood on the slopes of the mountains opposite to the valley filled with cavalry. Not keen to waste any time, the chief, Goyahkla, gave the nod for the Indians to mount their horses and race away, back to their latest hideout with their latest captive. In the early going, Annabelle screamed and cursed, using any obscenity she had heard from the ranch hands but with no effect. No one could hear her; no one would ride to her rescue. She was a prisoner of savages.

2.

LIETENANT BEDFORD picked at his meal and worried at the prospect of a return to Luna. While the opportunity to butt heads with some of Russia’s finest forces was an opportunity he relished, or at least imagined that out of duty he ought to, he couldn’t help but wonder at the dangers which might face them this time.

If one thing had been established during their initial explorations of the moon, it was that there was a great deal about which they knew nothing. The cold, barren surface that man had gazed upon since the dawn of time turned out to merely be a veil hiding a series of labyrinthine chambers populated by numerous lunar ant colonies. These were, however, not the trifling creatures that disturbed one’s picnic, but five-foot-high, intelligent beings with a number of surprising defence mechanisms. They were the Selenites, who fought alongside the British forces in opposition to the Russians, who had subjected the Selenites to a series of ghastly tortures. Their allegiances, however, were not entirely clear. Bedford remembered all too well the mysterious disappearance of Ordinary Seaman Stevenson and the capture of Ensign Lee Challoner and Able Seaman John Clements, for which the Selenites were, he suspected, at least partially responsible.

Moreover, the lack of solid intelligence or systematic documented experience was bothersome to Bedford. He felt that Luna represented uncharted waters, which was a dangerous thing for any ship to sail into. The last time they had done so, the peril had been multiplied by, in Bedford’s private judgment, erratic and irresponsible decisions by Captain Folkard, and quite uncharacteristic of his commander’s normal behaviour.

“Have you given any thought as to how to approach this mission, sir?” Bedford asked.

“Why, send a group of men down the gorge to Otterbein Research Base, in the company of Miss Somerset,” replied Folkard, peering with suspicion at the meat the chef had prepared. The food was something that had been procured on Mars; the taste largely disguised by some mysterious spices from the planet which gave the meal an earthy, almost dusty flavour. The suggestion of taking Annabelle to Luna, however, left Bedford regarding Folkard in the same way the captain regarded his meal. “No need to look quite so perplexed, Bedford. The girl is keen to see her uncle again and why not? He can vouch for Professor Stone’s good name too, if needs be.”

“Merely concerned as to what the Admiralty will make of taking a civilian to Luna, sir,” replied Bedford, attacking his meat with similar disdain to his captain. “I wouldn’t like it said that Sovereign put an injured young woman in harm’s way to do a sailor’s proper job, and heaven help us if she is harmed. Gladstone and the Liberals will float a no confidence vote as soon as the news reaches Earth.”

“Have a care, Lieutenant,” reproached Folkard. “What’s said of Sovereign is my worry, and what becomes of the Tory Government is theirs. Besides, I am not sure a sailor can do what we need done here, unless he takes a pair of leg irons along. Miss Somerset may be able to persuade Grant to come voluntarily, which I sincerely hope she can do. But our orders are clear: voluntarily or not, come he shall. Tell me, Bedford, how much will Mister Gladstone like it if we bring the inventor of the aether propeller governor back to Earth at gunpoint, and with no charges worth the toot from a bosun’s whistle lodged against him?”

Bedford dropped both his eyes and the objection, at least for the moment. Folkard was right, of course, but that did not ease Bedford’s mind with respect to Annabelle going into harm’s way again, and still weak from her horrible injury.

“Orders are orders,” continued Folkard, “but there’s more to it than simply that. Doctor Grant is the one person to have extensive knowledge of that curious centre of Luna, the Heart. Such knowledge will be indispensable to the Empire, I feel. Possibly even to the entire world.”

“Are we even entirely sure of what the Heart is, sir?” asked Bedford, as Folkard chewed on his meal with distaste.

“The heliograph reports which came from Grant’s when we were last on Earth suggest that the Heart may well contain information on space travel which far outstrips our own,” Folkard answered, after swallowing and putting down his silverware in surrender. “Some of the reports that Grant submitted provided intricate detail about planets that no astronomer has catalogued. Including, it would seem, a planet at the furthest edges of the Solar system that our best telescopes cannot even see! According to the science chaps at Naval Intelligence, the reports have become wilder and more disturbing, yet it is clear that Grant’s experiments with the Heart have given him knowledge of potentially remarkable import. This knowledge, carefully applied by reasonable, rationale British men, could take the human race to areas of which we never previously dared dream. I realise you meet this information with scepticism—even you, though, had to see the effect the Heart had on Grant and Tereshkov. To say nothing of the Selenites.”

“Very well, Captain,” Bedford said after a moment, the influence of the Heart striking a chord of concern about their last visit to Luna. “The instruction from the Admiralty, then, is to bring Doctor Grant aboard. If I may have permission to say so, it does sound rather a gamble. After all, the political situation here is rather…volatile. We assured Versailles we were not bound for Luna earlier, not that it was any of their business. All the same, they’ll put it out that we lied, deliberately misled them, and make a fuss in the international press.”

“Yes, that business with the Frogs was unfortunate, but hardly our concern. We have to render assistance as required by custom and law, and we refused to allow a boarding party, as was also our legal right, and did not hurt a hair on their little Froggy heads. Let them jabber for a while. Give those chaps at the Foreign Office something to do to earn their pay for a change!” cried Folkard. “Besides, I would hardly lead us to Luna without a plan of some sort.”

At this, Bedford had to hold his tongue. As he had just recalled, the previous exploration of Luna had not been characterised by meticulous planning, or much in the way of planning of any sort, by his captain. The loss of so many men as a result of following Folkard’s orders was a black mark against his character which Bedford felt to this day. Such sloppy work was not characteristic of Folkard. In the interceding seven months or so, there had been no further examples of negligence on Folkard’s part and the ship had been run in the fashion which one would expect of Her Majesty’s finest. Bedford had assumed that Folkard had recovered from some ill which had clouded his judgement and that he was now cured. As such, the need to return to the barren rock and all the dark secrets that lay beneath its surface was unfortunate, to say the least.

Ultimately, however, they had no choice.

“I would be keen to hear the strategy, sir,” Bedford ventured finally.

“Very well, Lieutenant,” Folkard agreed, pushing aside for a final time the luncheon. “Otterbein Base has hosted Cyrus Grant since April. Whatever the content of his recent heliograph messages, it should be a simple enough task to head to their dock, send a cutter down and retrieve Grant. I have already sent a heliograph to the Base requesting a rendezvous with the military commander, Colonel Harrison. There are still a few Russians at large in the caverns—no one is sure exactly how many—but Harrison seems to have security of the base well in hand. In light of the situation on Luna, I would prefer to keep as low a profile as possible. Don’t want a bunch of overly-excitable scientists going on about a military invasion, eh?”

Bedford mulled it over. “Quite so. And who would you consider best suited to leading this mission?”

“An experienced man, ideally one with experience on Luna,” Folkard said.

“Hum,” Bedford noted non-committally. “Well then, the best man for the job, in fact, the most experienced man on the ship, is you, sir.”

The captain paused to give it thought, rather pointedly Bedford believed, and then nodded. “Very well, I shall command the mission on Luna’s surface, Lieutenant, and I leave you in command of Sovereign until I return.”

“Very good, sir,” Bedford replied.

3.

NATHANIAL WAS shocked to hear that Annabelle would return to the surface of Luna given her condition, but in his predicament it was unwise to question the decision. In any case, his surprise at Annabelle’s inclusion on the journey paled to insignificance compared with the shock at his own. His presence on Luna might very well work to his advantage, however: Grant could potentially be a powerful ally and character witness, especially as the knowledge he had acquired would be a boon to the Empire. Assisting the Empire in securing that knowledge would mitigate against a charge of treason, Nathanial hoped.

McKittrick and Nathanial came upon Annabelle in some distress, attempting to walk with her peg-leg attached, but faltering due to her physical condition. Despite Nathanial’s best efforts on Mars, simply following the procedure in Blackwood’s book had clearly not been sufficient, a point Doctor Beverly had taken him to task over once the doctor had seen the abrasions on Annabelle’s stump and the irritation around the stitches.

Annabelle had dressed for the excursion but now leaned against the bed for support.

“Nathanial, I simply must have that leg that you promised me,” she remarked upon their entrance, without the courtesy of a full greeting. “You remember the sketches of a prosthetic? I must have it before two o’clock.”

Nathanial laughed. “Annabelle, it’s gone one o’clock now. However do you expect me to construct a workable model with no materials, no workshop and no time to do so?”

“In any manner you can. We are shortly landing on Luna and I can hardly do that in this condition,” she cried, trying to place her hands on her hips and, as a result, losing her balance and toppling back onto the bed. Dashing to help her, McKittrick and Nathanial both offered an arm and helped her sit up on the edge of the bed. “You will have to construct something, Nathanial, I cannot manage like this.”

“Very well,” Nathanial agreed. “Let me help you slip off the leather socket of your peg.” Once they did so, Nathanial did a quick look at the sickbay around him. In the absence of any adequate materials, one simply had to improvise with whatever one had at hand. He picked up three items that he felt would serve as an adequate supplement to her prosthetic. One of these was a rubber surgical cap and the second a tube of lubricating cream. The third was McKittrick’s carbine.

“Egad, I am disarmed!” gasped McKittrick. “I implore you, don’t shoot!”

“Oh, come now, McKittrick, surely you don’t mean to say that you intend maintaining the absurd pretence that this rifle is loaded?”

The guard visibly coloured. “You were aware of this already?”

“You have a nervous habit of squeezing the trigger when deep in thought, McKittrick,” said Nathanial, smiling. “When the rifle failed to detonate, it was hardly difficult to deduce the intention of the weapon was as a cosh, rather than as originally intended. Now, Annabelle, it’s best you lean back for this.”

Annabelle sat on the bed she had been stuck on for a number of weeks. Nathanial first stretched the rubber surgical cap until it fit over her stump snugly, a thin but flexible protection against further irritation. Then he spread lubricating cream over the bottom of the rubber cap so it would slide as necessary inside the leather cup which held Annabelle’s peg to her stump. Finally he reattached the leather cup and stump, making sure they were secure.

“My hope is that this minimizes the friction between your stump and the leather cup,” Nathanial explained. “Now try standing and use this carbine as a cane to take some of the pressure off your leg.”

“Do you mean to say you intend me to drag this gun along as a crutch, Nathanial?” Annabelle said, horrified at the prospect.

“No, of course not. Just use it for now and we’ll find you a proper cane before we leave. I’m sure there must be one somewhere on this vessel. Now, see whether you can stand on that.”

With some difficulty Annabelle rose to a standing position.

“How does it feel?”

“Better,” reported Annabelle. “There is not the pain I experienced before. A cane may be just the thing until I heal.”

“Can you walk on it?”

Annabelle took the sort of cautious steps that anyone would when faced with the same predicament. Needless to say it looked rather like a baby deer attempting to cross a frozen lake.

“Unsuitable, perhaps,” mused Nathanial, largely to himself, “but I feel that with a few modifications, it may do until a return to Earth.”

“What am I to use as a weapon?” said McKittrick, clearly hurt at the loss.

“Why, you can have your carbine back as soon as we find a cane for Miss Somerset. But I imagine you will be issued a pistol for the expedition,” replied Nathanial. “I understood that was standard naval issue. Please try not to look so downcast, McKittrick. You’ve provided for the poor and needy. A reasonable charitable loan, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” replied McKittrick eventually, as a commotion in the corridors attracted his attention. Returning his interest to Nathanial, he raised his voice somewhat. “Now, come on, you lubber! This is no time to cavort with womenfolk! Don’t make me clap you in irons again, you dog!”

Nathanial shook his head and smiled.

4.

WAITING FOR Sovereign to descend the gorge was a tedious ordeal for Annabelle, during which she observed the men. Judging by the nervous looks they exchanged, she ventured few of them had ever set foot on an alien world before. George Bedford, she noticed, conversed with Captain Folkard, probably confirming the plans of the mission. Annabelle still felt awkward with her new leg, so did not move to join them. The less she moved, she believed, the less her physical infirmity would be in evidence. She felt an odd excitement in her chest of unfamiliar cause. Certainly it did not link to the reunion with her uncle: thinking about the meeting left her with a feeling of dread, rather than the elation she currently felt.

George approached her and she wondered if she had not fully recovered from her exploits aboard Peregrine Station and Mars, because her heart suddenly seemed to hammer in her chest as if the workings of some great machine.

“Permission to escort you to the door, Miss Somerset?” George asked.

“George, the door is only a matter of feet away,” replied Annabelle, but she allowed him to assist her nonetheless. After all, she had barely had time to familiarise herself with the cane.

“Are you certain you are up to this? Your face is flushed. If your wound should reopen…”

“I am fine, George, I assure you. This very handsome cane, which one Seaman Jack Fenn was good enough to loan me, takes much of the weight, even when I will no longer have the pleasure of your arm. And with six sailors as my escort, all of them carrying revolvers under their jumpers, I shall be nearly as safe as I was in sickbay, and a good deal happier to be out and doing something.”

It was a handsome cane, she thought, black lacquered wood polished to a mirror finish, and an ornate heavy silver head which might serve as a bludgeon if needed. She was not entirely sure why a seaman would possess such a thing, and she was hardly in a position to enquire, so she merely accepted the loan with gratitude and felt very flattered by the broad smile Mister Fenn had given her upon her open admiration of the cane.

Annabelle stumbled as her cane slipped on the smooth steel decking by the ramp to the cutter’s hatch, but George tightened his grip on her arm and steadied her. She paused and looked up at the yawning hatch of the small craft and felt a sudden stab of fear. She shuddered involuntarily.

“Annabelle…”

“No, it is nothing. I just…the last time I boarded a cutter of this sort I was bleeding and close to death. When last I saw that cutter it lay broken and scattered in the Martian waste. Unpleasant memories, George, but nothing more than that, I assure you.” As she and George stood by the boarding ramp five of the naval rating filed past them and into the cutter. She was to be paired with Able Seaman Howard Henry, who Annabelle understood to have served some time in prison but who was otherwise unknown to her. She had no worries about this—she had handled worse than an ex-lag, after all—but she did wish that she had the opportunity to spend more time with George.

“Ah, I believe we have reached our destination,” said George, turning to face her. “You may find Luna much changed from your previous voyages and not, alas, for the better. I wish you the best of luck, Miss Somerset. Perhaps a handshake to confirm my well wishes?”

Annabelle was surprised by the gesture, but acquiesced regardless. As she did so, she felt the exchange of some mysterious package into her hand, a leather pouch no larger than her palm, but solid and with weight to it. Not normally a man disposed to mendacity, Bedford handing Annabelle a parcel in this furtive manner could only suggest something at once useful to Annabelle and yet confidential. Annabelle secreted the mysterious package in the side pocket of her jacket, aware that now was not the time for scrutiny.

“It’s a shame that you won’t be joining us on Luna, Lieutenant,” Annabelle said. “Certainly your resourcefulness helped me out last time.”

Bedford smiled ruefully. “I fulfilled the boyhood dream of stepping on Luna on the last expedition. Now duty demands I stay behind. I sincerely hope your trip will be as boring as the captain anticipates.”

5.

WITHIN AN hour they reached the entrance to the large side cavern holding the base. Chief Coxswain’s Mate Charles manoeuvred the cutter in and to the landing ground of the base and then settled down. Upon disembarking they took stock of their surroundings.

Folkard had been here before, of course, but it was an entirely novel, and very alien, environment for most of the others. The Great Cavern was roughly spherical and was about a mile in diameter, softly lit by the glow of the uniquely luminescent lunar fungus which covered much of the ceiling. The floor was roughly level, formed from broken rubble fallen from the roof. A sparkling lake filled over half of the base of the cavern and the research station sprawled along its rocky shore.

Despite its official-sounding name, Otterbein Base was in fact little more than a scattered gaggle of buildings which served to house a set of dormitories, storage sheds, mess and administration facilities, and laboratories. The base had a tidier look than Folkard remembered; the buildings now linked by neatly whitewashed pathways of crushed stone.

The cutter’s arrival drew the attention of a dozen or more people in the open area and more soon emerged from the buildings. Visitors were not common here.

Folkard noted a khaki-clad and turbaned soldier trotting crossing the open ground in the long-striding shuffling trot used in low gravity, his rifle carried at the slope. Judging by his tightly rolled beard, Folkard made him a Sikh. When he reached the shore party he came to attention smartly and saluted.

“Sir! Private Anil Singh, Third Sikh Infantry, Punjab Frontier Force. Colonel Harrison’s compliments, and please allow me to guide you to the headquarters.”

“Very good, Private. Mister Charles, form the shore party up and follow the private. Professor Stone, Miss Somerset, if you would be so good as to accompany us? Seaman Henry, give Miss Somerset your arm if she should require it.”

Folkard led, naturally, with Nathanial and McKittrick central and Annabelle and Henry heading up the rear. The journey was not a smooth one for Annabelle as her peg kept sinking an inch or two into the crushed rock surface of the walk, and she nearly stumbled once, but she maintained her composure. Seaman Henry steadied her arm and remained mute.

Singh led them to the door of the central building in the base and held the door for them. “Wait, please, and they will come for you,” he said but remained outside at his guard station.

The party found themselves waiting in an anteroom which was little more than an entrance hall. The headquarters had been one of the few permanent buildings the Russians finished before being discovered and driven off by the British. Folkard noted that some touches of Muscovite baroque remained, despite the attempts to Anglicise the building.

A door at the back of the anteroom opened and a man in civilian clothes but a military-appearing handlebar moustache stepped through it. “Ah, the crew of HMAS Sovereign, I take it? Mister Singh just telephoned through,” he added, by way of explanation.

“Quite so. Colonel Harrison, I presume?” Folkard said.

“Unfortunately Colonel Harrison is detained elsewhere. I am Professor Robert George, director of the base. Please accept my apologies on the colonel’s behalf. I’m sure you’re aware of Luna’s delicate position; the colonel is attending to what he suspects to be a security breach earlier in the day. Quite possibly he is over-zealous in his caution. One simply can’t be too careful, Admiral Folkard,” he noted, offering his hand to the commanding officer.

“Captain Folkard, Director,” Folkard corrected, taking his hand. “In any case, yes, sadly I’m all too aware of the politics here on Luna. One must wonder how you cope.”

“If I might say so, Professor George, you have established a rather excellent base here, from the little I have seen of it,” interjected Stone. “With your permission, Captain, perhaps I might be able to discuss the work here with some of Professor George’s men?”

“I can see no reason why that shouldn’t be possible,” said George, nodding. “You are Nathanial Stone, I presume? Doctor Grant has said much about you. A collaborator and sometime-rival, I believe, of sorts, but—let me see, what was the phrase? ‘An eminent scientist and an honourable man’, I think.”

Miss Annabelle shot Folkard a knowing look, but he elected to ignore it, and looked back at the base director. “In fact it was Doctor Grant we have come to see, Director. Might he be at the base now, so that we might have a word?”

Professor George smoothed his moustache. “Ah. I’m afraid that may be a problem. Why don’t you come through to the central chamber and we can provide you with an adequate reception?”

6.

ANNABELLE WAS quick to secure the best seat in the room: a chair at the head of the table which allowed her a view of as many of the group as possible, yet also discreetly disguised her disability. The room was uncomfortably intimate for the size of the party within. Several luminaries from the base had been called in to meet with the group and, when combined with the contingent from Sovereign, the occupants outnumbered the furnishings, leaving McKittrick, Henry and the other ratings to scowl at the back while the officers and scientists sat at a central table. The room had been designed in the fashion of the lounges one might expect at Oxford or Cambridge University, but with wrought iron and plants in lieu of oak panelling and books, the overall effect was rather less of the academic and more of the allotment.

Annabelle sat at an angle, as her artificial leg, still without a bendable knee, stuck straight out from her chair, covered only partly by her skirt. Even arranging herself so the table’s wooden leg did not interfere with her own similarly-constituted limb was awkward. She recalled that on Earth and again on Luna, her uncle Cyrus had marvelled at her physical aptitude and boundless energy. What would he make of her now, little more than a cripple? She felt that the Annabelle Somerset whom Cyrus Grant had known was now as dead as her dear parents, leaving only this one-legged husk in its wake.

“Perhaps you might start by explaining your recent work with Doctor Grant, Doctor Staples?” Professor George requested of the eldest man in the room, a harried-looking fellow whose black hair, through the balding process, was retreating to the top of his skull.

“Certainly I will endeavour to, Director,” nodded Staples. “Doctor Grant and I were engaged in some work which attempted to address how best to traverse the asteroid belt, based on the problems we all know to exist. Grant was convinced of some rather radical ideas, which he believed he could find evidence of. It was his conviction, although I’m afraid I can’t explain as to why, that the solar system may host life outside of the inner planets. He was rather dependent on the Heart, although he refused to explain what information the Heart had been giving him, or how he arrived at the conclusions he did.”

“Scarcely surprising, Staples. Grant’s work here was hardly characterised by transparency even then, to say nothing of punctuality and reliability,” interrupted another of the scientists.

“Ah. This is Doctor Howard Phillips,” Professor George said with some embarrassment. “He is our resident entomologist, a specialist in that new branch called myrmecology, which is to say the study of ants. He is here with several of his students studying the biology of the Selenites. Somewhat similar to terrestrial ants, you understand—apart from size, of course.”

“I offer no argument,” admitted Staples directly to Phillips. “Doctor Grant’s behaviour had become increasingly erratic throughout our association and by the end he was rarely, if ever, showing up.”

“By the end?” Folkard interrupted. “What do you mean by that?”

There was an uncomfortable silence among the researchers, who were clearly uncertain whether or not to confess to their visitors. A bell rang outside in the anteroom, breaking the silence.

“Captain Folkard, Grant has not been seen in several weeks,” Professor George finally admitted. “We believe that he was in search of some great mystery of Luna, a mystery he chose not to share with us. Happily we have sources who can tell us more, one of whom I believe is at the door.” The director rose and left the room and an uncomfortable silence settled over all of them.

Annabelle felt a sinking feeling in her stomach at the news of her uncle’s disappearance. He could have been seized by all manner of enemy, human or otherwise, and subjected to unthinkable torture to extract the knowledge in his mind. She swallowed before speaking.

“Gentlemen, Cyrus Grant was―is―my uncle,” she managed. “I am sorry to report that we have no other family. Do you know whether he might be in any danger?”

The men exchanged glances. “I’m afraid it’s entirely possible, Miss Somerset,” Phillips admitted. “Your uncle was never one to exercise caution. Particularly with the sort of things with which he surrounded himself, if the rumours are true.”

“The rumours are true. Unspeakable things!” agreed Staples. “I shudder to think of them. You must remember, he had been on Luna longer than anyone else and…well…his interests seemed to change from those of his colleagues as time passed. Drastically so, let us merely add that.”

Even the dimmest person could realise that he was being diplomatic to prevent further embarrassment to Annabelle. Annabelle, however, had concerns which far outweighed her possible embarrassment.

“What do you mean, ‘unspeakable things’, Doctor?” she asked. “The Selenites played a crucial part in the securing of this base. Uncle Cyrus and I have a good deal of respect for them; surely he has conveyed this to you?”

“You are quite correct about the Selenites, Miss Somerset,” said Staples. “The creatures to which Doctor Phillips refers, however, were no Selenites. I could scarcely begin to describe them. As soon as I saw them I felt that no good could come from their presence; and indeed, none has.”

“Wait!” Nathanial interjected. “Creatures? Beings other than Selenites? Do you mean to say you have encountered another intelligent race here on Luna? Why in God’s name did you not report this at once?”

“Yes,” Folkard added forcefully, “I’d like to know that as well.”

Staples and Phillips exchanged confused looks for a moment.

“Why, we did so, Captain Folkard,” Staples said, “in our regular heliograph reports to the Colonial Office. Do you mean to say you were not informed?”

“Informed in vague terms that the reports from the base had become ‘disquieting’, I think was the word. But no specific intelligence as to the content of the reports was passed to me. Blast and damn those secretive pencil-pushing fools. This puts a different light on the matter!”

Annabelle, deducing from this that her uncle was in very grave trouble indeed, turned to Folkard with a look of despair. “Thank goodness we arrived when we did. We may still be in time to save him. Surely we know which way he will be heading, Captain. Is that not enough of a lead to pursue?”

Folkard nodded, but paused, lost in thought for a moment. It was clear that he had understood Annabelle’s hint that Cyrus had gone to the Heart. “Last time we followed that particular lead, there were a number of lives lost, Miss Somerset. We must consider whether it is prudent to make a further visit into the caverns that litter Luna. I can ill afford to exercise so little caution again. Yet at the same time…” His sentence ran down at that point and Folkard retreated into his thoughts.

Presently the door of the conference room opened and Professor George returned, accompanied by a guest familiar to some of the party. While the men who had had no prior dealings visibly shuddered to look upon such a bizarre countenance, those already acquainted with the strange creature were delighted to see him.

“K’chuk, old man! A pleasure to see you again!” said Folkard, who had risen from his seat. He offered a hand to the Selenite, but thought better of it. Annabelle had no such qualms and, forgetting herself slightly, staggered over to K’chuk and caught him in an embrace.

“I echo the captain’s sentiment, K’chuk,” added Nathanial, “it seems like forever since we saw you last. The memories are still all too vivid, mind you. How are your Selenites?”

K’chuk was the Retainer of Knowledge for the Compuntos colony, a position of some seniority which meant that his viewpoint of the Selenites’ position on Luna carried no little weight. Choosing to remain standing for reasons of necessity as well as of decorum, he made a melancholy movement with his head. “Much different, friend Nathanial. So much different for Selenites and for humans here. Hard for Selenites here.”

“What is the issue?” asked Folkard. “Not those Russians creating trouble again?”

“Russians,” confirmed K’chuk, “but not only Russians. Others, too. Everywhere trouble for Selenites. Baddoctor is not the only problem for us now.”

“I’m sure you appreciate, K’chuk,” said Professor George, “that the British representation on Luna has only the best interests of the Selenites at heart. I assure you we have never intended any harm to the Selenites, nor am I aware that we have inflicted any.” K’chuk’s role in his village placed him in a position between tribal leader and wise man. His co-operation was crucial for the continued relations between the British and the Selenites, which accounted for Professor George’s obsequious tone, Annabelle decided. “Our gratitude at the continued assistance of the Selenites cannot be underestimated. But I digress. Now, we’ve called you here on this occasion because these fellows from Sovereign are looking for some assistance.”

“That’s right. Thank you, Director,” Folkard said and turned to the Selenite. “We’ve returned to Luna with the intention of gaining audience with Cyrus Grant. I anticipated meeting him here but it seems our expectations have been disappointed. Have you or your village seen him at all?”

“Selenites have seen gooddoctor recently, yes,” K’chuk confirmed. “He was heading for the Heart.”

“Well, surely this presents no problem?” said Annabelle. “We’ll simply take the lift. If memory serves, the journey is no more complicated than that.”

K’chuk shook his head. “Heart everywhere. Friend Annabelle has seen only one piece. Gooddoctor can learn from Heart here but…” He seemed to strain for the right words. “Different part of Heart, different learning.”

“Certainly we must give chase immediately, if he seeks the Heart,” Folkard said at once. “A part of the Heart which we have never explored, however, is a danger indeed. K’chuk, do you know in which direction the good doctor was going?”

“Yes, Selenites know where Grant went,” replied K’chuk, “but route is bad one. Much danger. Many of your enemies, many of ours. Things that you have not seen.”

“What do you mean?” asked Nathanial, but received no reply.

“Will you take us in that direction?” asked Folkard. “It really would be most appreciated. If you’re concerned as regards safety, I should note that we have some of our best men accompanying us, and well-armed.”

K’chuk displayed a marked reticence in spite of Folkard’s assurances and, at a gesture from Nathanial, the latter turned to Annabelle in appeal. Annabelle, in turn, addressed Professor George.

“Director, if I might be permitted to have a word with K’chuk in private? K’chuk, would you mind awfully?” George nodded, and led the two to a smaller room which served as an office. The room boasted all the spaciousness of a funicular railway carriage.

“Now, K’chuk,” Annabelle began once they were alone, “I know that your people do not tell lies, but I do know when you’re not telling us the entire truth. What is happening here on Luna? Are these people mistreating you?”

K’chuk pondered a moment, which Annabelle took to mean that he was seeking the most diplomatic way to say his piece. So difficult to tell, though, with that inexpressive face!

“Earth men as one to us, friend Annabelle,” he said at last. “We know no difference in Britain village and Russia village. One group hurts Selenites, one does not. That is all. British Research Base men not harm Selenites. They are not baddoctor. But the gooddoctor has left us, friend Annabelle. He not friend of Selenites as he was. He not remember himself.”

“Are you worried about meeting him like this?” Annabelle asked. “Surely you are not saying that my uncle is an enemy of the Selenites?”

“No enemy. But he does things that say he does not want Selenite friends. Selenites not talked with gooddoctor,” K’chuk admitted. “He has…other friends now. He is interested in things Selenites do not have interest in. K’chuk not seen him for some months.”

It seemed to Annabelle as if K’chuk was lamenting a friendship that had come unstuck due to interests becoming incompatible. This was hardly the end of the world for a human, of course, particularly not one with the endless stream of loose connections and travelling companions of Annabelle Somerset; however she could well imagine that it was a new experience for a Selenite, whose closest friends remained so from larva to death.

“You’re worried that he might have no time for you, or view you differently from before? I can well understand this, K’chuk. Look at this.” At this remark, she pulled up her skirt, revealing the hitherto concealed wooden leg, carved to look like a riveted and pistoned mechanical appendage.

“You are turning into a machine?” asked K’chuk, at which Annabelle had to smile.

“No, although I see it appears so. This wooden carving must serve as a leg for me temporarily.”

“Where is your normal leg?”

“Gone, alas. There was…” Annabelle thought of how best to explain it. “A fight between some humans on a space station in which I was injured. The wound became a problem and my leg couldn’t be saved. It was that or death: hardly a choice offering much luxury. Now I am to be presented to my uncle with less body parts than he remembers me having. I fear that he will think less of me for that. Perhaps we both have our reasons why we would not wish to meet my uncle, K’chuk. But really we must, or at least I must. Some things are more important than foolish pride.

“We find ourselves in a research base which has already attracted some interest. It has surely occurred to our enemies to find out quite what is being researched here. If we don’t reach the Heart first, there is every chance that another party on Luna will find it. Perhaps the Russians…” she remembered a curious word from her last visit to Luna “…or Drobates, I know not. I do know, however, that it would be a sorry day for both of us if they do.”

“Friend Annabelle, we help you go to Grant. But it is a dangerous journey. Need to be careful. We come with you and help. Maybe even best British men no use there.”

Chapter Three

“Spies!”

1.

THEY COULD ill afford to waste time. Grant’s tracks were already over a month old and with each passing hour, they risked turning as cold and unfathomable as the lunar surface above them. A lift led deeper, beneath Otterbein Base, so Folkard decided the group would descend to the caverns from there. Professor George guided the group to the lift, but could not accompany them further due to his responsibility for the base, particularly in Colonel Harrison’s absence. Folkard sent a message with a Sikh private instructing Ainsworth to take the cutter to Sovereign in order to notify Bedford of the amended plan. Bedford should send armed reinforcements at once; Folkard saw no value in keeping the military profile low at this point.

The base personnel provided them with several cans of yellow paint with which to mark their passage so Bedford could follow. Folkard gave these to Gibbs with instructions to mark every passageway entrance and every fork in the tunnels. He would have requested the loan of a section of Sikh infantry from the base’s garrison as well, but Colonel Harrison, their commander, had still not returned and Folkard lacked authority to order the men in his absence. He did demand an additional two hundred rounds of .476 Enfield ammunition from the base’s armoury, and protocol be damned. The six rounds in the chamber of each of the men’s revolvers might not suffice if they ran into serious trouble, but thirty more rounds in each of their pockets should do the trick. If not, ammunition was probably the least of their worries.

The party did have some reinforcements, however. Two of K’chuk’s Selenites, and K’chuk himself, joined the group as guides. Two scientists from the base also expressed a desire to accompany the Sovereign’s shore party: Staples, the closest of the group to Grant, and Phillips, whose biological interest in the Selenites now found itself with the opportunity to develop further with a rare piece of field research—the potential of seeing the Selenites in combat. Folkard had reminded both men of the potential danger, but Phillips countered with the example of Benjamin Franklin and his kite; the best scientists, he had said, like the best captains, always took risks. Folkard was of the opinion that any trouble they encountered would be a deal more dangerous than flying a kite in a storm, but their numbers were so slight as it was he willingly accepted any accretion of strength. As to that, the Selenites certainly made for robust-looking guardians, and Folkard had seen them in battle—formidable warriors when provoked.

With all in order, the only thing left was to identify the whereabouts of Grant. Conversation with the geologists working in the caverns yielded little: they remembered seeing Grant stride in a direction away from the base into the depths of the caves but had no idea where he went from there. The problem was Grant’s wanderings had become commonplace and consequently went largely unnoticed. The Selenites, on the other hand, positively reported having seen Grant passing through “long crooked cavern down below, where seven big spiders lived before it flooded”. Since Luna had no magnetic poles, compasses were useless, and so these sorts of vague landmarks were all they had to go by. Folkard had expected more mapping of the caverns to have been completed by this time, with a rationalised system of designating passages and chambers, some clear markings on the walls near the station at least, and a chart or two prepared. Survey work was part of the charge of the military garrison, after all, but as near as he could tell very little had been done in that regard.

The early stages of the expedition required the group to descend at a steep angle which they did with care. The Selenites made the descent using all six of their limbs, crawling down with ease and occasionally returning to offer assistance to Miss Somerset, clambering at an awkward angle with the assistance of Seaman Henry. Eventually the descent became more gradual, allowing the group to relax somewhat.

McKittrick, enthused by the opportunity to show off in front of the new arrivals, coaxed Stone along with a veritable deluge of antiquated jargon, which singularly failed to impress anyone. The acoustics in the cavern only served to encourage McKittrick further. Folkard was about to have a word with him when Henry turned to Leading Machinist O’Hara.

“Paddy, did I ever tell you about the terrible accident I witnessed at Newgate Prison?” he said.

“Why no, Howie, but I’d love to hear,” the short, wiry Irishman answered.

“There was this prison warder, a right tyrant he was, always shouting orders and saying very hurtful things about the prisoners.”

“Ah, hurtful was he?” O’Hara asked.

“He was. Then one day a brick fell out of the ceiling and cracked his skull open. Killed ’im! It was terrible to see.”

“I imagine it was at that,” O’Hara agreed, “although a man that hurtful—you have to think God’s justice had something to do with it as well.”

McKittrick turned and glared at them, but with a hint of nervousness as well.

“That’s enough idle chatter,” Folkard ordered.

“Aye-aye, sir,” Henry and O’Hara piped.

Folkard frowned at them to make sure they understood him, although Stone shot Henry a grateful look, and Folkard smiled inwardly himself. It wouldn’t do McKittrick any harm to keep his gaoler slang to himself for the balance of the trip, and with Henry along, Folkard expected he would do exactly that.

After perhaps half an hour of silence, Folkard heard Miss Somerset try to engage Seaman Henry in quiet conversation, but without much success. Henry was a naturally taciturn man and his dialogue with O’Hara was the most verbiage Folkard could recall issuing from him. Folkard had to smile at Miss Somerset’s attempts to amuse him with observations concerning the stalactites in the caverns or the curiously albino lunar bats. She noted his tattoos—to Folkard’s eyes, an unremarkable collection of self-applied prison tattoos and dockland ink—and angled for some autobiographical details on this front; she found that he had little interest in explaining them beyond “it looked good” or “I liked it”. Nor did she find much detail lurking behind the scar on Henry’s face, which reached from his ear to his nose. Folkard had always been too decorous to ask about the scar, so was interested in his reply. “Prison fight,” he muttered, and said no more, to the disappointment of Folkard and Miss Somerset both.

She tried to press him further by drawing his attention to her own disfigurement, the absent leg, before going on to give her opinion that the geologists giving their testimonies to Folkard were rather more interested in her prosthetic than in their own memories. “I suppose, after all, they are scientists. I do fear, Mister Henry, that I am becoming medically interesting!” she remarked, which drew only a nod from the dour sailor.

When she finally lost her patience and noted that her colleague was not the most garrulous of men, Henry remarked, “a wise man with nothing to say is silent.” This comment, practically a speech by his standards, was enough to silence Miss Somerset for some minutes.

Folkard, at the head of the party with K’chuk, soon also found that his attempts at conversation were not progressing in the manner he wished. He attempted to work out some preliminary tactics with the Selenites in the event of an attack by Russians or others, but found, not entirely to his surprise, that they were talking a different language. Folkard gravitated towards the language of conflict and battle, K’chuk preferred the discourse of discovery and understanding. There was also the dark allusion by K’chuk that there were forces of which Folkard knew nothing, which confounded him.

“Why, whatever do you mean, man?” he asked, carefully walking down an incline and straining to avoid a deadly slip on a loose rock.

“Not holy. Not peace. Enemy of Selenites,” K’chuk replied in his stridulous voice and would say no more.

After a time of looking at little more than rock, the group became aware of the sound of running water. Presently, a short corridor ended with a sharp increase in height and what was little more than a pot-hole became a great chamber, at which point they came upon the source of the sound. It was a great river, larger than anticipated and boasting a current heading broadly to their right. They were deep beneath the surface of Luna, but the river flowed downwards, further into the depths of the world.

“If Doctor Grant came this way,” said Folkard, “I see no alternative but for him to have moved down-river. The bank disappears into a canyon wall up-river, and this current is too strong to swim against for long.”

“Staples, Phillips, do you know this water?” asked Stone.

“I believe so, or at any rate have heard rumours of it,” said Staples. “This is what I warrant the Selenites call the River of Life, understood to be the largest underground river on the planet, this side of Luna at least. It is held to have regenerative qualities, which―”

“Come now, no need for local mumbo-jumbo,” Phillips interjected. “Best we restrict ourselves to the facts. Although we are yet to map it ourselves, it is believed that the river leads to the very centre of Luna.”

Folkard knew something of water, and he doubted a river just started somewhere and ended up in the centre of the planet, or by now all the water would have got there, filled it up, and stopped running. From where did the water come? There had to be a water cycle at work here, a regular system of exchange; but that was for the geologists to sort out.

“Grant has contacted the Heart before, and he sought it in this latest trek,” Folkard said. “And the Heart, as its name suggests, resides in the centre of Luna.” He nodded. “We will search down-river.”

There was some animation among the Selenites, as though Folkard’s words upset them.

“Some problem, K’chuk?” Miss Somerset asked.

“Danger downriver, friend Annabelle,” said K’chuk, although he appeared to be restraining his thoughts somewhat. K’chuk was looking to the banks of the river and Folkard followed his gaze, attempting to identify what had inspired him to raise this caution.

“Danger indeed,” muttered Seaman Henry darkly, indicating the remnants of a recently vacated campsite among the unusually lush vegetation.

Folkard, taking McKittrick and Henry with him, made his way to the campsite to inspect the remains. There were some discarded food cans among the detritus, which attracted the particular interest of the men.

“Written in Russian, sir,” reported McKittrick, yet Folkard did not respond immediately.

Indeed, he had stopped as if suddenly touched by an unseen force. “Did you feel that?” he murmured.

“Feel what, sir?” asked McKittrick.

“Felt almost as if…as if someone was breathing down my neck,” said Folkard. He felt as if he had temporarily taken leave of his senses.

“Perhaps a breeze from the river, sir,” McKittrick suggested.

“Yes, perhaps nothing more than that,” Folkard replied. He was far from convinced; still, one must keep up appearances in front of the men. “Russian, you say? Well, stands to reason. We know there are Russian stragglers who took refuge deeper in the caves after the station was taken. We rounded up several and repatriated them, but some die-hards hung on, God only knows why. “

“Clearly much has changed since we were on Luna last, Captain Folkard,” said Stone, as he struggled down the riverbank to join the men, “but I fear K’chuk was referring to this.”

He indicated a skeleton, easily overlooked in the shadow of the cliff wall, that looked quite unlike anything Folkard had seen before. It was a blasphemous approximation of human physiology, yet the proportions were all wrong and the skull strangely shaped—flat-faced in front but with an elongated back. The skeleton was picked clean of any flesh or viscera yet had an unpleasantly fresh air about it, as if the original bearer had only lately stumbled upon the misfortune which caused him to perish here.

The naval ratings removed themselves from the site of the skeleton at once. While they had encountered skeletons before, of course, Folkard imagined combining association with ant-people with proximity to this ghoulish relic was simply too much. Folkard and Nathanial remained, however, and were presently joined by Staples and Phillips, who evidenced with Nathanial a scientific interest in the mysterious entity.

“Remarkable specimen, is it not, gentlemen?” asked Stone to his fellow scientists. “Something of both the Selenite and of the human, I’d say.”

“I must say, that caught my eye, too,” said Phillips. “With alien species I frequently find myself drawn less to the differences to the anatomy of man and more to the similarities. This is an unusual specimen indeed. Almost a prehistoric version of the Selenite. Perhaps an ancestor?” he wagered, to the derision of Folkard, the evolution cynic.

“If this were to be Selenite, Doctor Phillips, we would surely find six limbs rather than four. The bones seem somewhat too fresh to be an ancestor,” said Stone, crouching down to peer at the find. “In any case, I would expect evolution to proceed from an insect form to a man-like form, not vice versa. Perhaps this is some distant relation? A different branch of the lunar tree of life?”

“This skeleton does look familiar,” said Staples. “It is reminiscent of something I once saw in Doctor Grant’s laboratory, although he was evasive about its identity and I never learned a name for it. Either way, it is certainly no Selenite.”

“Not Selenite,” said K’chuk, from the top of the bank. “Something worse. Need to move.”

Folkard turned to K’chuk at this. “What is that creature?”

“A bad thing. Enemy of Selenite.”

“An enemy of humans too?”

“Not all men,” K’chuk said, dropping his gaze. “River of Life full of danger. Not good for human or Selenite.”

Miss Somerset appeared to have a further question on her lips, but said nothing. She wore a frown that suggested she was not altogether convinced that K’chuk was telling the team as much as he could. Folkard made a mental note to take the matter up with K’chuk at a later point. For now, however, it was time for action.

“I dare say,” he answered, “but the river is our only lead. If you know a parallel route, we can take it. Otherwise I’m afraid we’re obliged to follow its course, at least so long as we have a solid bank. If the cavern walls close in and we lose the ledge, we will have to improvise.”

The party continued to follow the River of Life on its journey downwards, towards the centre of Luna. Folkard felt a certain shiver of the spine, a tremulous sensation for which he could find no outward explanation. He noticed some of the others in the group exhibit a peculiar awkwardness as they travelled, an uneasiness, and Folkard saw in their faces they probably felt the same thing as he.

It was almost as if someone was breathing down their necks.

2.

GEORGE BEDFORD liked to think that he ran a tight ship. So, too, he felt, did Jacob Folkard. It was simply a fact that they held different opinions on certain aspects of the maintenance of discipline. Leniency regarding minor transgressions, for example. Bedford believed that if these transgressions were addressed and ironed out early, it would save them problems in the long run. Folkard, however, believed that minor slip-ups could go without punishment on the first instance, with a warning of serious redress on future examples. How much stock to hold in the opinions of the men was another area in which they differed. Folkard felt that holding the opinions of the men in high stock was the finest way of ensuring content onboard. Bedford felt that the men felt more comfortable following a leader who had confidence in his own judgment and of that of the officers and petty officers who had risen to rank by experience and merit, rather than if every novice ordinary seaman’s view was held to be of equal merit to veteran officers. What did that say to the men about an officer’s faith in his own decision-making?

The most notable disagreement since serving together on Sovereign, however, had of course been on Luna. Luna was a devilish rock which had held no prior interest for the British Government and for good cause. It was not for nothing, Bedford felt, that physicians considered the minds of the insane to be controlled by the impulses of Luna, hence the phrase “lunacy”. The myths of a dark side of the moon were exactly that, of course: it was, in fact, only made to appear light from Earth by the Sun. It rotated in the same way as the Earth, so no part of it could strictly be considered to be the “dark side”. Nonetheless, he felt certain that there was, after all, a dark side to Luna; a metaphorical darkness that appeared horribly tempting to the susceptible mind and led only to ruin.

It was for these reasons that he was wary of returning to Luna to begin with. The previous mission, from an outsider’s perspective, could have been considered a success: they had, after all, uncovered a secret Russian compound and secured it for the Empire. However, many lives had been lost and the cost to Sovereign could have been greater still if Bedford’s team had not been led by Annabelle to an atmosphere pocket. The team had, after all, been abandoned by Sovereign with barely an hour’s oxygen in their tanks. Normally, in spite of their disagreements, Bedford had to admit that Folkard characteristically demonstrated impeccable behaviour and judgement; on this occasion, however, the decision to leave the men on the lunar surface without warning was a nearly inexcusable one. Bedford hoped that there were no similar lapses in the captain’s judgement this time: one could simply not be said to be fit to run a ship if their conscience deserted them whenever they approached a planet or a moon. One would hardly expect a commanding officer of the Army to be excused were he to make a series of blunders whenever his men marched into Rhodesia!

Whatever happened on Luna, it was important that Bedford himself should demonstrate exemplary behaviour while protecting Sovereign. The ship, after all, was the finest in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy and boasted a number of singular characteristics. Not least of those was the armament with which Versailles had already been familiarised. Bedford had a feeling Sovereign’s firepower would be needed once more before the mission was complete, perhaps this time the big 14-inch guns fore and aft rather than the smaller 4.7-inch quickfires Folkard had used to warn away the French cutter.

Although he dared not admit it even to himself, there had been a number of innuendos made with regards to how he was making for rather a mature lieutenant, although on the premier ship of the Royal Navy. He had worked his way up from the life which his parents had had, this was for sure; the son of a tanner, he had escaped from following in his father’s footsteps by virtue of his sheer force of intelligence and willpower—and some extraordinary good luck. Catching the eye of their Member of Parliament, an octogenarian retired Royal Navy post captain named Swinton, had proved his salvation. The man had learned his trade as a midshipman under Cochrane in the Napoleonic Wars, and lost an arm in ’54 commanding a three-decker in the bombardment of Sevastopol. Old Captain Swinton had secured Bedford’s appointment as a midshipman. After that, it was up to him, and nothing to fall back upon but a life as a tanner, the same as his brothers. His father was long since dead, alas, yet Bedford still remembered the threat of the tannery. Having got this far, merely finishing a competent second would be insufficient.

Yes, a bit old for a lieutenant, and a bit old to still be single. In his seafaring days, Bedford had wanted little for the extended company of women, preferring the advantages of a temporary relief before setting to sea once more. Yet gone were the days when a sailor could find a mate in every port, that was for sure, and if the docks of Mars or Mercury could be said to be lacking in anything, it was whorehouses, although at least on Mars that lack seemed to be by way of remedy on their last visit. With all the troops arriving at the Crown Colony it was no wonder.

Sovereign had escorted three liners rigged out as troop ships and herself made berths available for two companies of the Rifles. Something was brewing there for sure, and there had been more ladies of the evening than he remembered from before. Still, even when the option had become available to him, this time he had found reasons to remain aboard. Duty was his excuse, but he suspected that he was growing out of such pursuits, which left him with mixed feelings—a certain melancholia for his passing youth, but also an appreciation of the possibility of a far better stage of life opening up to him.

What he required was a strong woman, one who could hold her own against his intelligence and force of will. He was not content to simply have a woman to make his home, to cook his dinner, to father his children. He wondered…

A clangourous alarm interrupted his ruminations. The sound came from the landing bay and announced the arrival of a cutter. Presumably this was Mister Ainsworth with a message from Folkard and his crew, since that was the only cutter gone. Ordinarily, a change of plans so early in the mission would concern him; however, he had learnt from his last expedition to Luna to take nothing for granted and avoid complacency.

Whatever it was, best to find out right away in case action was required. He started out but remembered his standing order to officers on watch to wear sidearms while down in the Lunar canyon. It wouldn’t do to violate his own order, would it? He plucked on the leather pistol belt as he left his day cabin.

When he’d nearly reached the landing bay he encountered Sub-Lieutenant Barry, the officer of the watch, on his way as well.

“Bedford,” Barry said by way of greeting and they entered the bay.

Other than the bosun’s mate on duty and one seaman, who secured the recovery gear and winch which had pulled the cutter inboard on its docking cradle, the pad seemed empty of life. That struck Bedford as odd. Ainsworth was not the sort to tarry unnecessarily in a cutter. On recent missions, he had excelled in the position of messenger; the cutter would have barely come to a standstill before he was rushing to convey the latest information from the ground as if he were the Pheidippides of legend. The boson and his assistant exchanged a curious glance as well. What was the delay?

Cautiously Bedford led his party towards the ship, the only sound the echoing of their footsteps in the bay. As they crept closer, he drew his revolver, in the event he was confronted with something out of the ordinary.

“Ainsworth?” he tried, his voice sounding deafening as it broke the silence and reverberated around the walls of the bay. “Hardly common practice to retire in the cutter after a journey, Able Seaman. Out with you!” There could hardly have been anyone this side of the Sea of Tranquillity who had not heard Bedford, yet still the cutter remained undisturbed.

It could not have reached Sovereign unmanned. It could perhaps have been launched, to race upwards, but how would it avoid colliding with the canyon walls, how make the transition from air screw to aether propeller, and most importantly, how decelerate and dock, without a hand on the controls? He had heard mysterious tales of ghost ships roaming the seas with no crew but that was different. This was no empty hulk bobbing on the waves. The cutter, however, was deadly silent. The macabre prospect of facing a ghost spaceship and, worse, one that had originally come from Sovereign, was upon him. He could feel the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end.

He motioned to Barry to draw his revolver. He did so and the bosun picked up and hefted a large spanner, longer than his forearm. The seaman reached into his rear trouser pocket and produced a screwdriver, looking absurdly ineffective next to the spanner. Still, Bedford looked the seaman over and decided he wouldn’t want to give that lad an excuse to slide the business end of that screwdriver between two of his ribs.

Bedford continued toward the cutter when suddenly the door of the small vessel’s hatch sprang open.

There was a moment before anything happened. Bedford froze, his men following suit. Weapons still at the ready, the men watched in horror as a grotesque figure scrambled out of the cutter with more right behind it. The sight left the men momentarily stunned.

3.

FURTHER DOWN the River of Life, Folkard had identified a clue. Scattered on the bank of the river were a number of shavings from branches, together with uncoiled rope which lay discarded near a bush. A nearby small stand of tall, slender mushroom-like trees had been decreased in number by four, judging from the stumps and sign of their trunks dragged across the loose shale. The leathery branches and fronds had clearly been trimmed from them and by the shore the group found the charred remains of some papers apparently torn from a notebook. Those which could still be deciphered showed a few sketches against which were some hurried notes.

“This writing is scarcely legible,” said Folkard.

“Yet certainly it is Grant’s,” said Stone, contemplating the burnt documents. “During our work together he would often pause and scribble notes like this on the blackboard. These particular notes do not illuminate his destination, but his intentions are clear. He meant to build himself a raft, which I can only presume he succeeded in doing. He’s a resourceful fellow, it has to be said. This at least serves as confirmation that our navigation thus far is accurate. He must have attempted to cover his tracks by burning his papers.”

“Why burn them?” Folkard asked. “Why not just throw them in the river?”

“Possibly the party from which he desired to hide his intentions was down-river,” Stone said. “Perhaps there are more remains which might serve as a clue as to where he was heading.”

As he scouted around the group to search for further clues, Folkard halted abruptly. His early sensation of being watched now was backed by solid evidence: footprints differing from those of the group. They seemed fairly fresh and pointed unusually outwards from each other, which, it could be presumed, gave the walker a bent gait, clearly unlike that of anyone in the party. Someone else had been here, and recently.

“Bad things are coming,” muttered Seaman Henry in a pessimistic tone.

“I would have to agree, Captain,” said Stone, looking from Henry to Folkard. “Whoever these others are, Grant clearly considered them dangerous.”

Folkard nodded. “Still, there is little choice, men. Sooner or later we will have to confront these men―if they are men―and I would rather we meet them on our terms than theirs.”

“Can we really entertain even the possibility that they are men, Captain?” Stone asked. “I mean―God―those footprints!”

“Highly possible, Professor Stone. Who knows what sort of torturous exercises the Russkies subject their soldiers to? In any case, whether man or alien, they mean us no good or they would have shown themselves—if not to us, to the research station personnel. So everyone draw your weapons and when we move we will spread out, so if someone does fall upon us, some at least will be free of the melee and able to give supporting fire.”

“Permission to speak, sir?” asked Henry, somewhat surprisingly. When Folkard gave his consent, Henry continued. “Sir, permission to guard Miss Somerset if she stays behind? Likely to be conflict in other group. Can’t have a lady abducted.”

“Ah, and you’re suggesting that she may need someone to fight for her, Henry?”

Henry merely nodded in reply.

“Very chivalrous, Mister Henry,” said Miss Somerset.

“Yes, I do rather agree with you, Henry,” said Folkard. “Excellent thinking. I suspect the danger will be greatest for the forward party so I shall lead. McKittrick, Burroughs, you shall accompany me. Professor Stone, you as well, if you please.”

“Perhaps I might also be of assistance, Captain Folkard?” offered Phillips. “I am not yet too old for adventuring and I may have some insight that could be useful. That is, if you are amenable to the input of a civilian?”

“Very well and thank you. Miss Somerset, Seaman Henry, Doctor Staples, I would like you in the centre of the party. Chief Charles, you take Gibbs and O’Hara and form the rearguard. You’re the senior petty officer here, so if something happens to me, you’re in command, and no backtalk from any of these civilians, no matter how many doctorates they hold. Understood?”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“K’chuk,” Folkard continued, “I would be obliged if you and your men went in the centre, with Miss Somerset, to guard her and Doctor Staples in the event of an attack.”

The Selenites looked among themselves with an air of reluctance. They were communicating telepathically, as ever; it did seem, however, that K’chuk was displaying more of a desire for combat than his men. “Selenites fight if needed,” K’chuk eventually replied.

“Very well. Now let’s move out, but proceed with extreme caution.”

They walked for several hours along the river. It could not be said to be silent, as the sound of the water was always present, contained, amplified, and distorted by the narrow covered canyon through which it ran, now murmuring, now gurgling, now roaring as it dropped over a low falls or broke into foamy waves among the rocks of a rapids. But the river’s voice was so omnipresent that after a while it seemed almost to dwindle into half-heard background noise.

Something about the skeleton, the strange footprints, the burnt remnants of cryptic notes, and this seemingly-endless river combined to silence their tongues as well. None of them spoke until Stone raised his hand and cried out.

“Hallo! What’s that up ahead?”

Folkard held his hand up and the column halted. He studied the small, dark feature on the ground Stone had seen, perhaps a quarter of a mile on, studied it with eyes used to picking out the single flickering white light of a cutter from a background of a thousand stars.

“Bodies,” he said at last. “Two of them, I’d say, although we’ll have to get closer to be certain. Charles, you stay here with the rearguard and the main body. Find yourself some cover and stay put, no matter what happens, until I give you the all-clear and wave you forward. Clear?”

“Aye aye, Sir.”

“Good man. I’ll take the advanced party on ahead and see what’s what. Everyone on your toes.” Folkard cocked the hammer on his Enfield to emphasize the point.

As the captain and the four others of the advanced party drew near their objective, it became all too apparent whose bodies had been piled in such a way, and the sight—to say nothing of the stench—were enough that men with weaker constitutions would have run screaming for the surface.

“I knew those men. Captain, say it isn’t so!” McKittrick appealed to his captain, who was knelt by the bodies.

“I’m afraid it very much is so, gentlemen,” Folkard said grimly. “Ensign Challoner and Able Seaman Clements, late of Sovereign.”

“Surely this is impossible. Those men were taken months ago!” gasped Stone. “Yet these corpses are fresh. Why, they’re barely three hours dead!”

“But why keep a man alive for seven months, only to then kill him?” mused the young and nervous-looking Burroughs.

Folkard rose to his feet only to see the fresh horror that had materialised in a circle around them, seeming to rise from the sandy ground.

Ambushed!

“This is why,” Folkard murmured, raising his revolver, “you kill them to lay a trap.” He fired the weapon, and one of the creatures spun backwards, blood and grey fluid spurting from its head. Before he could get off a second shot they were on him and knocked the revolver from his hand.

Chapter Four

“Captured!”

1.

(1882)

IT WAS four or five hours past sunset, and most of the soldiers were asleep, but a small fire and its circle of light identified a sentry post.

“I want my mommy! I want my daddy!” Annabelle bawled as she staggered toward the light

“Hey, hey, li’l’ girl, whoa there,” a young cavalry trooper called as he and a comrade rushed toward her. “What happened to your mom and dad?”

“I don’t know,” wailed Annabelle, before descending into incoherent sobs. “We were in the mountains and then we―we―ˮ

“In the mountains?” said the older one doubtfully. “Why, they must be five miles from here! You bin wanderin’ all night, young lady?”

She nodded as the younger sentry offered her his handkerchief. “I don’t know what happened, one minute we were having lunch and then―ˮ She trailed off into further sobs.

The two sentries turned to one another. “I don’t see how she coulda got this far out on her own,” said the older of the two. “Why, the only people who’re normally around this area are Apach―ˮ But he was afforded no opportunity to complete the thought, as at that moment an arrow pierced his throat.

Realising too late the treachery, the younger sentry turned sharply on his heel so that he might run back to camp and warn the men, only to be caught in the skull by an arrow from the opposite direction. Annabelle watched him fall, then saw flaming arrows streak through the night, turning canvas tents into infernos, and saw men, some on fire, cut down by arrows as they scrambled from their burning shelters.

2.

I SHOULD have warned them, Annabelle told herself. She should have remembered the Apache trap, should have told them to watch the ground nearby, send only one man to check the bodies, keep their guns trained on any spot of cover. It all came flooding back now. Too late!

Such was the mortification which Annabelle Somerset found herself in the throes of. She hobbled downstream alongside the River of Life, to the point where her companions had lately been snatched. It was scarcely her fault that the men had been taken, of course: however, Annabelle should have recognised a ruse of this nature when she saw one and she held herself accountable for failing to do so. Had she been wise enough to recall the horrors of her youth, some good men could have been saved. What was the point of having lived through that experience if she could not now gain value from it?

There was no question of her exposing her despair to these men; it was scarcely appropriate to break down in tears around men she had known a matter of hours. She would simply have to deal with her pain in the same manner as the Englishmen themselves would: by internalising it, however much she felt the need to weep, for her parents, drawn into a trap of a similar nature; for Nathanial, her companion over the last seven months, now seized by forces she could hardly begin to comprehend and who she felt she may never see again; for the men who she barely knew and who were largely innocent. They had, all of them, been drawn into a life that had known nothing but death and pain at every turn, from the killing of her parents by the Chiricahua to the death of Kak’hamish on Mars. Would that George Bedford had been here! Annabelle had no doubt that a word from him would have set her mind at ease.

No. Better for him to remain as far away from the death pall which seemed to touch all those who grew close to her.

She swallowed her emotions down. As she did, Annabelle watched and listened as the remaining men and Selenites considered their options.

“My God! What were they?” asked Gibbs, one of the sailors of the rearguard.

“Why not ask the ant man?” growled Henry, turning on K’chuk. “You’re from this Godforsaken place, aren’t you? Probably they’re your allies.”

K’chuk veritably bristled at such a slur. “Not friends of Selenites! Enemies of our people. Take Selenites. Make Selenites work. Not friends. We will fight them!”

At this exchange of raised voices, Annabelle regained her composure. “Henry, do settle down, dear man. It’s clear that these creatures are no allies of the Selenites. K’chuk, when last we were on Luna and these men we found here dead first disappeared, you spoke of Drobates. Are the creatures we saw Drobates and can such creatures be defeated?”

“Yes, Drobates very bad, but can die,” K’chuk said. “Many have. But they are…” He struggled for the appropriate word. “They…cannot be seen. Do not fight fair. Five Selenites can beat five…” He again paused, but on this occasion it appeared that this was no language barrier, rather a refusal to speak of the creatures, almost as though to do so would be to utter an unspeakable oath.

“I do agree with the ant about that,” said Henry. “If we surprise them, they’ll have to fight fair. I fancy my chances against those things,” he added, pounding his right fist into his left palm to illustrate his fighting credentials.

“Did they look as if they would fight fair?” asked Annabelle, quenching the blood lust. “We must be realistic, gentlemen. These Drobates, then, are superbly organised, outnumber us by at least three to one, and will doubtless lead Captain Folkard and his men to a place where they outnumber us further still. A skirmish would simply be impractical.”

“That’s fine,” Charles finally said. “Everyone’s had their chance to say their piece, have they? Lots of talk about will they fight fair, won’t they fight fair? Lots of brandishing of fists there, Henry. But look at that dead ’un the Cap’n took down. T’wasn’t a fist did that; it was a four-seven-six Enfield bullet between the eyes. I don’t give a tinker’s damn whether they fight fair or not; we ain’t gonna, understand? They like to fight close in. Don’t let ’em. Cap’n filled our pockets with Enfield cartridges, so by God we’ll fill their bellies with ’em.”

“Aye,” O’Hara said, his first word since the attack. It came out as a low growl and he hefted his revolver. Annabelle looked at his face and saw narrow eyes and a thin-lipped, grim mouth. For all Henry’s imposing physical size, O’Hara, the smallest of the sailors present, was the more dangerous man. Dangerous men were a subject about which Annabelle knew a great deal.

“I guess they think they have all of us,” Charles went on. “We use that, see? We follow at a distance; find out where they take the Cap’n and the others. Looks to me as if they took them right into the river, but that don’t make sense.”

“Could they have drowned?” Annabelle asked, hurrying to the edge of the river and peering into the water.

“Not in water,” K’chuk said. “Travel under water. They go that way.” At this last, he pointed to the ripples and bubbles forming in the water some distance away from them.

“We move on foot,” Charles commanded. “Follow the water and make the best time Miss Somerset can manage.”

Taking the only option available, the group marched down-river in the direction the strange creatures of Luna had gone, preparing to fight an unknown foe.

3.

IN THE docking bay of Sovereign, George Bedford faced an unknown foe of his own. Five in number, the invaders regarded the humans with an unpleasant curiosity as they advanced, in much the same way that a cat may size up an unusual bird with a view to its dismemberment.

“Good Lord, Lieutenant! What are these things?” asked the bosun.

“Selenites. Of a sort. Quite unlike those I’ve seen before, though,” Bedford replied uncertainly as he backed cautiously away from them. They certainly looked menacing enough, but were they actually hostile? It wouldn’t do to gun down the first representatives of a new tribe of Selenites just because they looked frightening, and then find out they were ambassadors of peace. His eyes were drawn to a gleam of light coming from the tarsal claw of the Selenite at the far end of the party. It clutched something that looked familiar. “Take cover!” He barked, and the four of them scattered behind winches and crates of engine parts. As they did, a loud report echoed through the dock, although the sound of the ricochet came from several feet to Bedford’s right. He turned his eyes back to the Selenite invaders. “Well, that’s a hostile act, I’d say, and with a Berdan Model 1870. Open fire, Mister Barry!”

Bedford and Barry each put several bullets into the two Selenite-types wielding firearms, clearly inexperienced marksmen, as the other three monstrosities charged them. The Selenite’s mandibles snapped horribly, hungry for the kill. Bedford realised quickly that brawling with these creatures would be suicidal: six limbs, six stone of extra weight, armour plate, and mandibles made the contest decidedly uneven. As one of the onrushing Selenites thrust at him, he aimed a revolver bullet into its knee. The creature stumbled momentarily, before aiming a powerful snap to Bedford’s head. Bedford lurched back and fired a bullet into the eye of the ant, which, now lifeless but carried forward by momentum, crashed into him and sent him sprawling.

Pushing his fallen opponent aside, he turned to see the two ratings grappling with the other ants while Barry tried to reload his revolver with trembling hands. The bosun swung his spanner with both hands, bringing it down with a powerful overhead blow into the forehead of the attacking red Selenite, which crushed the creature’s head and brought it to the deck in a spray of vile fluids. Beyond him the other rating struggled in the grip of the remaining ant’s mandibles, plunging his screwdriver again and again into its eye and skull. Bedford took careful aim and fired a bullet into the ant’s thorax, which staggered it, and then he fired another which brought it down.

“Lieutenant Barry, inspect the cutter for any more of those creatures,” Bedford instructed the officer of the watch. “In the event that we are now relieved of the company of these monsters, please arrange for the disposal of these bodies.” Barry finished loading his revolver and clicked it shut before advancing on the open hatchway

“Tempting to put their heads on spikes or summat. Send ’em a message,” the bosun offered, although Bedford did not intend to let any other intruders get close enough to appreciate the display.

He walked over to the seaman who a moment earlier had been held aloft by an ant, and who now stood looking at the gore-covered screwdriver in his hand. “Able Seaman Platt, that was a close call. It would seem trips to Luna do not agree with you. Do you need to attend the infirmary?” Bedford asked, noticing the spreading red stain on Platt’s jumper. “Get Doctor Beverly here at once,” he shouted to a group of sailors who had heard the sounds of gunfire, but who had arrived too late to contribute to the fight. He lifted Platt’s jumper and realised immediately that Beverly would stand no chance of rescuing the seaman. The mandibles of the Selenite had evidently connected inside his abdominal cavity.

Platt’s eyes turned to him as the colour drained from his face. “Thank you, sir. Those were two good shots.” His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed. “Damn this rock!”

Bedford grabbed him and lowered him to the deck, but by the time he finished doing so the seaman no longer had a pulse. It was amazing that Platt, having suffered the wound, had been able to fight at the ant at all, or stand here. He had died heroically. The Admiralty didn’t award posthumous decorations, except for the Victoria Cross, and they’d never approve that for this action. Still, Bedford would mention the lad in his dispatch, and his family and all their friends could read their boy’s name, and what he’d done, in the London Gazette. Nothing the Admiralty could do to stop a mention in dispatches.

“Barry, is the cutter empty?”

“Seems to be, Lieutenant,” the officer replied. “No sign of those devils.”

Bedford nodded. There was no telling what had befallen Ainsworth or the others, but clearly someone had trained at least one of these Selenites to pilot a cutter, and then armed them, albeit indifferently, for an attack. That they were armed with Russian Berdans, which he had recognised from the distinctive pear-shaped bolt handle of the Model 1870, provided more than a hint as to the architects of the scheme. He hardly believed that a contingent of five would be dispatched and realistically be expected to overthrow a ship of the size of Sovereign. No, this was clearly a diversion, an attempt to keep Sovereign’s personnel off balance and in a defensive posture. There was a peculiarity about this group, in both its hostile manner and its nauseating appearance, which he did not like. Well, if they wished to engage in psychological warfare, they would find no purchase with George Bedford.

“Sub-Lieutenant Barry,” he called.

“Sir!”

“Back to the bridge and sound action stations, if you please. Then give Lieutenant Blake and Major Larkins my compliments and have them join me here.”

4.

HIS LOCATION was a mystery. The group had, each of them, been knocked unconscious by a blow by some blunt instrument. By the time they regained consciousness, they found themselves on the beach of a large island, and doused with water to revive them. How far from their colleagues they had travelled, and by what method, none of them could say. As for the present, however, they found themselves dragged into consciousness and marched towards a nearby group of buildings. Every one of the buildings was austere, made of carved stone blocks, devoid of windows or character. It seemed that their captors had no spoken language; Folkard gestured to his comrades to remain silent themselves, aware that it did not necessarily follow that their captors were deaf or ignorant of the English language.

As to their captors, the bipedal creatures’ physiques were roughly akin to human. The dimensions, however, differed grotesquely. The skull was longer, with an extended forehead, while the length of their arms exceeded that of their legs. Together with the shape of their craniums, they were ape-like in appearance. It was clear by sight alone, however, that this simian appearance was not coupled with an intellect comparable to the baboon. Their eyes betrayed an intelligence and complexity of a superior race. Most striking of all their features, however, was in the tone of their skin. It was of a faintly bluish cast, yet the colour was pale enough to give them an almost translucent quality, revealing a network of veins and arteries below the surface. They wore tunics made of a material one would call silk were it not for its singular iridescence. Their overall appearance was at once both fascinating and repellent. Clearly these creatures were not the same as the half-man half-ant skeleton seen earlier by the river.

When they reached the buildings, they found themselves rudely bustled into a large chamber of substantial depth and height which already contained a dozen human prisoners, and perhaps a score of Selenites. The men were gaunt, with long beards and hair, and dressed in rags. Folkard heard some of them exchange quiet remarks in Russian. He was not so able to tell the physical condition of the Selenites, although they did not display the same rich coloration or energetic movements of K’chuk and his companions. There were also, he noticed, a few Selenites of a different sort, ant-like in overall form but different in coloration and other anatomical details.

While the prisoners were allowed to mingle as they pleased, it was notable that each group kept their own counsel. The dejected expressions on the men and the downbeat body language of the Selenites indicated beings who had been imprisoned for some time, to say nothing of the reek of putrescence which recalled the most rancid inner-city gaol. A disturbing number of the group appeared to be crippled in some respect, or else lunatics. Beyond the wailings and soliloquies of the insane, however, the most lucid of the group remained eerily silent.

Folkard took it as a given from the despondent atmosphere that any attempts at remonstrating or even bargaining with their kidnappers would be futile. Instead, he reasoned that it would be worthwhile seeing whether any of the group―be they Selenite or even Russians―would be willing to lay differences aside for the sake of escape from these dread creatures.

McKittrick appeared to be demonstrating signs of mental strain already and he had no intention of allowing the man to slip further into the abyss of mental incapacity.

“Do any of this group speak English?” Folkard barked. There were feeble cries from the back of the hall, barely audible over the groaning of the insane, which had to be taken in the affirmative. “No more? Very well. I am Captain Jacob Folkard, of Her Majesty’s Aether Ship Sovereign. It is not my intention that we linger in this glorified school dining hall longer than necessary. I shall need some information first in order to facilitate an escape.”

5.

NATHANIAL RAISED an eyebrow at the obvious optimism of Folkard. He recalled being in a similar situation on their last adventure on Luna, which led to him and K’chuk attempting to navigate a mining vehicle while Folkard impersonated a Russian sub-lieutenant. Such adventures seemed almost quaint now. Though it was less than a year since he first set foot on Sovereign, he had seen and done so much in that time that it were as if twenty years had passed. Compared with the ordeals of dragging a delirious woman across the Martian desert, unlocking a mystery on a space station and confronting dinosaurs on Venus, sitting in a mining vehicle with an excitable ant seemed like small change. The unnecessary cost of human life had moved him deeply and left him acutely sensitive to the uselessness of hostility. He decided he should make a resolution: only when it was absolutely necessary was he prepared to do battle. Of course, that necessity seemed to be occurring more frequently than he was strictly content with. This would never happen in Putney.

“Who here can tell me of the enemy we face?” Folkard demanded.

“They call themselves the Drobates, sir,” replied a distantly familiar voice.

It was a voice that Nathanial had heard before and he found himself so preoccupied with the voice of the speaker that he could barely comprehend the words. The voice was one that he felt he surely must be imagining; a voice from beyond the grave, perhaps, or at least that of a man long since disappeared. That there was the possibility that the voice was not merely imaginary but was, indeed, the real voice of a man with whom he could finally enjoy a reunion…why, his heart leapt to even contemplate it! He could barely conceal a smile.

Only the exercising of decorum prevented Nathanial from racing to the back of the hall to embrace his friend. Hardly wishing to risk the mocking of the captain, however, Nathanial adopted a brisk walk in line with Folkard in the direction of the voice.

What he saw was beyond his wildest imagination. There, indeed, was Ordinary Seaman Erasmus Stevenson. Seven months older, of course, rather gaunter than Nathanial remembered and wearing the scars of his ordeal with the Drobates; however there was no mistaking the man who Nathanial had befriended on his first space-faring mission.

Upon seeing Folkard, Stevenson presented his captain with a brief salute, suggesting that it was proving rather an effort even to lift his arm.

“Stevenson! By God! A pleasure to see you again, man!” Folkard said, putting Stevenson at ease.

“Can it be? I hardly expected I would clap eyes on you again in this life,” Nathanial said, taking Stevenson’s hand in a firm handshake.

“Nath…” Stevenson coughed, and resumed with a weak smile, his blue eyes dulled. “Professor Stone, as you see, I live.”

Nathanial felt an overwhelming relief that his friend was safe and that Stevenson even remembered Nathanial at all. To think of the things he must have been through!

McKittrick, reaching the front, was keen to add his commentary to proceedings. “When we saw what had happened to Challoner and Clements…”

“Yes, I think Ordinary Seaman Stevenson understands our point, Mister McKittrick,” interjected Folkard. The man was clearly in no position to learn of the dreadful fate of his comrades. “How have you survived these long months, Stevenson? I imagine you’ve had quite an ordeal.”

“To say the least, Captain Folkard,” nodded Stevenson. “I rather fancy that were it not for an inherent ability to understand these awful creatures, I would have been left for dead by now.” He scanned the group: four familiar, one unknown. “Perhaps you have felt likewise? A feeling as though a key has been held against the nape of one’s neck?”

The group’s brows in one movement knotted in confusion, save for that of Folkard, who nodded. “I have experienced this feeling, Stevenson; more than once, in fact.”

Stevenson nodded. “Some men can feel it, some cannot. I can’t suggest why that is. Professor Stone, have you any suggestions?”

Nathanial shook his head. “Perhaps after more observation I might be able to give my opinions. I cannot formulate a theory without data. Mister Stevenson, can you tell me more?”

“Perhaps it might be best,” said Folkard, “if Stevenson were to tell us about his unexpected sojourn with these Drobates. What can you tell us?”

Stevenson, however, had no opportunity to obey his captain, as it was at this point that the Drobates returned to the chamber.

They surveyed their prisoners with a contemptuous air. There were perhaps thirty who had been shepherded into this awful compound, against a mere five Drobates. It would seem that, if the group gathered together, they would overwhelm this small detachment. Yet it was clear that none of the prisoners dared to attempt a confrontation with their captors: too weak, it appeared, either physically or mentally, or perhaps wary after unsuccessful attempts in the past. There was also the matter of the unusual weapons that the Drobates held. These had an appearance roughly akin to a carbine, but with a uniquely large magazine and a mysterious metallic coil wrapped around the barrel. Sheathed on a belt around the waists of the moon men were daggers, with ornately designed hilts. The Drobates turned to regard each other, as though they were considering their options.

“Be careful,” said Stevenson at Nathanial’s arm. “The things these creatures can do!”

Folkard was holding his lower back uneasily, while knotting his brow. It was the sort of expression, Nathanial thought, that one might have if they were listening intently to a whispered conversation.

“Can you understand it, sir?” Stevenson whispered, having realised Folkard’s efforts.

“No. Can you?” Folkard hissed.

Stevenson nodded. “After a time, you learn it, sir. They intend to move us!”

“Move us? To where?”

“To a city, I think.”

Nathanial was confused. “The Drobates are speaking?”

“Not speaking as we might understand it—but yes, they are speaking. Captain Folkard, sir, you have a sensation in your spinal column perhaps? You will experience that when they communicate. It is, I think, some kind of subsonic buzzing.”

“I can’t make sense of the conversation, though, Stevenson. It is as if someone had attempted to connect a telephone call from thousands of fathoms beneath the ocean which was being conducted in a foreign language.”

It was astonishing, Nathanial thought. As perilous as their plight might be, he found himself intrigued by his kidnappers. Their method of communication—and the fact that this could be noticed and even understood by certain humans—fascinated him. To be confronted by creatures and situations like this: why, surely such discoveries were the reason that man looked towards the stars in the first place? Even in the middle of an adventure, there was something of the scientific detachment still lingering in him, perhaps.

An unpleasant rattling sound interrupted their conversation. Turning their attention again to the front of the room, they realised that the Drobates were setting about handcuffing the men’s hands behind their backs, linking them by chain in groups of six. The Selenites among the group were being chained in similar fashion but utilising two chains and two sets of handcuffs to address their additional upper limbs. Moving among the men were two unarmed Drobates, who were studying the infirm and treating any fresh wounds with a curious expression that suggested compassion. At the same time, the soldiers among them were responding to any signs of disobedience in their prisoners by roughly striking them down, thusly creating as many wounds as the medics were attempting to cure. It was all something of a queer affair.

There was a rippling of agitation among the British contingent, whose presence at the back of the hall meant that they were to be among the last to suffer the indignity of being chained together.

“Good God! These monsters intend to march us in a chain gang!” Burroughs said, not troubling to lower his voice.

“Keep your voice down, man!” hissed his captain.

“If it quells your concerns any, Burroughs, I think that they at least intend to take us alive,” remarked Nathanial, sotto voce.

The groups were starting to be marched out of the building, leaving only the British and a party of Russians, some of whom seemed scarcely mobile, let alone prepared for a lengthy hike to a mysterious city.

“Keep calm, men,” Folkard advised. “This is scarcely the time or the place to risk doing something…”

His counsel was brought to an abrupt halt by a deafening crash to his right. Astonished, the men turned in the direction of the sound to see McKittrick holding a splintered wooden chair aloft. “You’ll never take me alive, you fiends!” bawled McKittrick, running toward them and brandishing his improvised cudgel.

With astonishing speed, a Drobate avoided the club and in one graceful movement unsheathed its dagger and swung its arm in a broad sweep. A flash of silver was visible briefly before the dagger returned to the ornate scabbard. Aghast, the men returned their gaze to McKittrick. The man’s throat had been slashed and he collapsed to the floor as blood spurted fatally from the wound.

“Put your hand to the wound, Mister McKittrick!” Nathanial shouted, resisting the pull of the Drobate guard as best he could.

McKittrick was already too weak to do so, however. Unable to speak, he looked apologetically at his captain.

“No need to look so remorseful, McKittrick, you have been slain in the name of Queen and Country. Naught nobler,” Folkard responded.

“‘With heavy heart and failing light/I fear I go into the night/Recall me thus, if must you mourn/Not at the dusk, but at the dawn.’” The group turned to Burroughs, who had recited these lines. “A poem of McKittrick’s own, sir,” he explained sheepishly. “I thought it might be what he’d like.”

McKittrick managed a faint smile at this and died with his own words still in his ears.

6.

“I TRUST you will excuse my waking you up at this time, Major Larkins,” Bedford said when the commander of Sovereign’s Marine contingent joined them in the docking bay. “Let me assure you that I would not take such a move were it not urgent.”

“Nothing of it, First Officer,” remarked Larkins, who then nodded his greeting to Lieutenant Blake. “So those are the invaders I heard about. Nasty looking buggers, ain’t they?” he said, examining the five alien corpses now dragged into a line by the bulkhead. “And I thought the Selenites we encountered before looked rum.”

“Nasty enough they put paid to Able Seaman Platt, and possibly the entire landing party,” Bedford replied. “I want you to muster your entire Royal Marine contingent to launch a rescue operation. We’ll take all four cutters.” He turned to Blake. “I shall be accompanying the Marines, Lieutenant. You will command Sovereign in my absence. Once we’re away, you might stand down one watch and alternate at action stations. No telling how long this will take. Make sure you have an armed guard at this docking station at all times, however.”

“Very good, sir,” Blake answered.

“Captain Folkard ordered me to send a relief force at oh-one hundred hours if we hadn’t heard from him by then,” Bedford explained. “Given that the cutter was taken by enemy forces, I see no reason to delay the mission. My intention is to first ascertain the status of Otterbein Base. Our orders are to find Grant, but our first responsibility is the safety and security of the base. Once we know the situation on the ground, I’ll decide what action to take next. I can’t very well expect anyone else to make that decision, right?”

“Sir,” they answered almost in unison.

“Assemble your men here at twenty-two hundred hours, Major,” Bedford concluded.

“Do you feel that the landing party is likely to go far?” Larkins asked. “Should I have the men bring a day’s rations?”

Bedford grimaced. “Better make it several days’ worth. Unless I am very much mistaken, this may take us to the very heart of Luna.”

7.

CHARLES HAD, he feared, bitten off more than he could chew, not that it was his decision to take the bite, mind you. He was as handy with a small craft as any coxswain in the fleet, and he’d blacken the eye of any man who said otherwise. But piloting a cutter in a tight spot was one thing; leading a group of men—well, five men, one lady, and three great bloody ants—was a different proposition altogether. He was worried by the notion that he might not be up to the job. His father had told him, “There ain’t nothin’ Horatio Nelson Charles ain’t up to, and you remember that.” Horatio Nelson Charles! He always signed on as “H. Nelson Charles”. Let the other petty officers get wind he was named after England’s greatest admiral and he’d have to blacken half a dozen eyes, as sure as there was a hole in his bum, and maybe end up spitting out a tooth or two of his own. He wouldn’t care for that; he liked his teeth.

They reached a part of the river which broadened out and he saw an occupied island further out in the stream. From the cover of a stand of mushroom-like trees and bushy moss undergrowth they observed the island. There was no bridge to it and access was clearly by boat only. A strange metallic vessel, probably one of the submersibles K’chuk mentioned, rested moored to a pier on the near side of the island and several buildings were in evidence further toward the centre. A number of oddly-proportioned men marched outside the perimeter, carrying some sort of rifles.

“Any ideas?” Charles asked, remembering that Folkard was a keen advocate of seeking the counsel of his men before making a decision, as well as hoping that phrasing the question in that manner would disguise the fact that he lacked the slightest idea himself.

“Perhaps take a lead from Doctor Grant and construct a raft?” suggested Staples.

“Selenites swim,” K’chuk offered, to the surprise of the men. “Friends on our backs. Raft of Selenites.”

Henry pointed at the prison colony. “We would be too exposed. They could shoot us as soon as they saw us.”

“K’chuk, the Selenites know the Drobates,” Miss Somerset said. “What can you tell us that will help us here?”

“Know some, friend Annabelle,” said K’chuk. “Not enough. Drobates enemy of Selenites. Much fighting. We do not win.”

“How long have you been fighting this enemy?”

“Five generations. We know them long time.”

“Do you know where the Drobates will take our friends?” she asked.

“To city.”

“To a city? What city?”

“City of Light and Science,” said K’chuk with disgust. “Like Selenite village. But big village, for them. Many…” He paused a moment, again appearing as if there was much unspoken. “Many bad things happen there, friend Annabelle. Not good place.”

Miss Somerset nodded. “Do you know how to get there?”

“K’chuk not been there, but know way.”

“From here?”

“Yes. Down river.”

“If I may be so bold as to put a suggestion,” Miss Somerset said, turning directly to Charles, “it seems that our best solution would be to bypass the prison island, which is almost certain to be fraught with unassailable peril, and travel to this City of Light and Science. Perhaps we could obtain help from the Selenites as well. When those villains bring Captain Folkard, Nathanial and the crew there, as the undoubtedly will, we can plan the most appropriate method of rescue.”

“Well, beggin’ you pardon, Miss, but there’s a few things wrong with that plan,” Charles said after a moment spent organizing his thoughts. “First, this here’s an isolated outpost. If you think that’s fraught with—how’d you put it?—unassailable peril, their capital city is going to be that in trumps. Second, those crewmen we found on the riverbank, they’d held them here on this island for months—unless you think they took them down to the city and then brought them back, which don’t make much sense to me. So what makes you think they won’t do the same with the Cap’n and the others? And if it’s all the same, no women’s intuition if you please.” Charles saw her bristle at that but he shrugged and went on anyway. “Third, I’d like to know where this army of Selenites of yours is going to come from. K’chuk, can you get an army of your people down here in, oh, a day or so?”

“No,” K’chuk answered, which was brief even for him. Miss Somerset looked at her giant ant friend, who would not meet her eye, and she seemed to wilt a bit.

“And finally,” Charles said, “the Cap’n killed one of them. Maybe they mean to have their revenge on him, maybe on all of them. They could be torturing him right now while we talk on about strolling down…”

“You’ve made your point, Mister Charles,” Miss Somerset snapped, eyes blazing. “So what do you propose as an alternative, pray tell?”

Charles motioned for them to follow and led the party back upriver a quarter mile or more, until a bend in the canyon completely screened them from anyone on the island. The trees had concealed them before, so long as they were careful not to disturb the foliage, but Charles was about to disturb it very much.

“This uncle of yours,” he said once they were all assembled in front of another stand of the tall, oddly shaped mushroom-like trees. “I’ll wager he didn’t make a habit of carrying pioneer tools with him when he went out on his strolls, did he?”

“Pioneer tools?” Miss Somerset asked.

“Axes, spades, that sort of thing.”

“Why no, he didn’t,” Doctor Staples said. “I’d have remembered seeing that and he didn’t take anything with him but his notes. Nothing at all like that.”

“So tell me this, then,” Charles said to all of them, “how did he fell enough trees to make a raft?”

All of them looked blankly at him and at each other, but none of them ventured an answer. Charles turned, put his shoulder against the trunk of a tree a good six inches in diameter, dug his feet into the rocky ground, and pushed. After a moment’s hard effort, the tree trunk splintered and broke near the ground and the tree crashed down. Charles straightened up and turned to the others.

“I noticed when we made our way through the last grove. Like balsa trees, in Ecuador, they are. As light as the logs are, they’ll make a better raft than hardwood.”

“But won’t they see the raft coming, Chief?” Henry asked.

“Yes. So for the next couple hours we build our raft, but we also knock down a few of these trees and chuck ’em in the river, give ’em a good push to get them out in the main current. Maybe they’ll figure a ledge with trees on it collapsed into the river, or maybe a flood somewhere upriver swept in some trees. Thing is, after a couple hours, they’ll get tired of figurin’ and just accept that there’s flotsam in the river today. Our raft we just use as a float, rig it up irregular-like, to look like a snag in the river, with moss on top. We swim behind it, Selenites too, I suppose.”

“And how do we steer?” Miss Somerset asked, but O’Hara answered before Charles could.

“That won’t be no problem, Miss Somerset. Chief Charles here is the best small craft man I’ve ever seen. Chief’ll sort it all out.”

Charles had joined the crew after it’s baptism of fire on Luna, and had always felt a bit like an outsider, not having a part of the stories which dominated their reminiscences. He looked at O’Hara and knew he wasn’t an outsider any more.

Chapter Five

“River of Life”

1.

BEDFORD LOOKED out of the thick glass of the cutter’s forward lower viewing port and shook his head. He expected robust security at the landing ground of Otterbein Base, but he had not counted on a mob of turbaned and khaki-clad Indian Army men swarming over the area.

“Have a care, Coxswain. Let’s not crush any sowars today when we set down,” he said and the helmsman smiled slightly in reply. The cutter settled gently to the gravel landing ground and had scarcely come to rest when Bedford heard an insistent banging on the main hatch. A Marine corporal undogged the hatch and swung it to the side to show a European of medium height and swarthy complexion in khaki drill and an officer’s Sam Brown belt, but no badges of rank on his bush jacket.

“Who’s that and what’s your purpose?” the man demanded.

“I am Lieutenant Bedford of HMAS Sovereign, and I’m here to see Captain Folkard.”

The man nodded. “Harrison, Punjab Frontier Force, and officer commanding, Otterbein Station.”

“Ah, Colonel Harrison, of course. I did not expect the commanding officer to meet us, sir.”

“Didn’t intend to. We’ve suffered a security breach. Regrettable. Losses, you know, losses all around.”

“Losses all around?” Bedford asked, and he felt his heart accelerate. “The young lady in the party was not…”

“What? There’s a lady down here, too? Damn me if I can keep track. But no, it’s your young officer, Ainsworth. Identified him from his papers. Sorry, one of those damned ants got him. Chopped him up rather badly. Care to look? No? Just as well. Private Anil Singh suffered the same fate. Ghastly. Good chap, Singh. Why’d your people take the cutter away and leave this Ainsworth behind alone, eh?”

“Our people did not take the cutter. The Selenites, probably the ones who attacked him, did. Five of them, with Russian-made Berdans. They took the cutter up and attacked Sovereign.”

“What’s that? Ants with Berdans? Well then, where are your people?”

Bedford stifled an exasperated sigh. “They are still here, Colonel. As I said, I came here to find my captain. I take it you haven’t seen him?”

Harrison looked around, as if he might find the others from Sovereign standing within arm’s reach, then he looked back at Bedford, his expression a mixture of irritation and confusion. “Well damn it, man, if they’re still here, who flew your cutter full of ants away?”

“One of the Selenites, I imagine, as only they were on board when they docked with us.” Bedford no longer kept the sarcasm from his voice, but it was lost on Harrison, as a good deal else seemed to be as well. Bedford caught a faint odour of gin on the colonel’s breath.

“What? No. Ants can’t fly one of those cutters. I’ve never seen one at any rate,” Harrison declared and then nodded forcefully, as if that settled everything.

Bedford judged Harrison the sort of man who considered the absolute boundaries of possibility to be the things he had actually witnessed with his own eyes. Bedford thought that made Harrison a singularly bad choice for lunar duty. Well, that was the Army for you.

“I wonder, Colonel, if you could have your men clear enough of the landing ground for my coxswains to bring the other three cutters down? One of the men is new to his job and I wouldn’t want him to injure any of your sowars.”

Harrison turned away to clear his men off the field as another man, of slighter build and in a suit coat instead of khaki, trotted up from the direction of the main building. He paused for a moment to catch his breath and mop his brow with a handkerchief, and then extended his hand.

“Professor Robert George, director of the base,” he said. Bedford shook his hand and introduced himself and again asked after the landing party.

“Captain Folkard and his men, and Doctor Grant’s niece, have gone in pursuit of Grant. Three Selenites accompanied them. They have been gone some hours, I know not in what direction.”

“You do not think they have approached the Heart?”

“The Heart is made up of many parts, Lieutenant. Colonel Harrison has posted guard details at those nearby parts we know of, but I doubt any man, even Grant, knows where every piece of the Heart is located.”

Bedford frowned. He hadn’t really expected to find Folkard and the others here at the base, but he had hoped for more useful intelligence than this. The Marines poured out the open hatchways of the cutters and now formed a double line on the gravel landing ground, barked into place by their colour sergeant. Major Larkins and his vice, Lieutenant Booth, joined Bedford and Director George.

“Ships troops assembled and ready,” Larkins said casually after Bedford made the introductions. “Your orders, Lieutenant?”

Bedford noted that Larkin stopped short of calling him “sir”. Larkins outranked Bedford, but as a Marine officer he was not in the ship’s chain of command, and so long as he was assigned to Sovereign, he obeyed its master. It may have rankled him to take orders from someone this junior to him, but that was the Navy for you. Colonel Harrison wandered back to join the group and Bedford used the opportunity of another round of introductions to think through what his next move should be.

“Colonel Harrison,” he said, “I believe the Berdan rifles suggest a continued Russian presence on Luna. Someone armed those red Selenites, someone taught them how to use a breach-loading rifle…”

“Not very well, I shouldn’t think, or you wouldn’t be standing here now,” Major Larkins put in.

“Thank you, Major, that may be true. But the fact remains someone did arm and train them, however inadequately, and most importantly someone taught one of them to fly a cutter equipped with a Grant-Stone-pattern aether propeller governor.”

“Oh, I see,” Director George said and mopped his brow again. “That is quite extraordinary. I should like to have seen the Selenite pilot your craft. I would not have thought they had the forelimb manual dexterity to do so.”

“Nevertheless,” Bedford said.

“Well I still don’t believe it,” Harrison grumbled. “Oh, the Russkies are probably behind it all, you’re right on the score, but I warrant some tsarist hero piloted the ants to your ship and jumped clear immediately before they docked, just to throw us off the scent.”

“How would he have survived?” Director George asked.

“Survived? How does that enter into it? Those chaps don’t put the same value on human life we do,” Harrison said.

Major Larkins looked at Harrison and then at Bedford. Bedford met his eyes and, though neither man’s expression changed, they understood each other: Harrison was a fool.

“It’s still very odd, though,” Harrison continued. “I haven’t seen evidence of Russians in this part of Luna for quite some time. Indeed, the only relic of their occupation left is the wreck of their flyer Borodino, on the opposite side of the reservoir.”

Bedford narrowed his eyes. “Take me there.”

2.

THE COLD of the river water shocked Annabelle and by the time the raft floated into sight of the island she shuddered uncontrollably. She held tenaciously onto the log in front of her, her wrists thrust through loops of the ropey vines they’d used to lash the raft together. One hand also held her cane, peg and leather cup, there being too much chance of it coming loose in the water. Awkward as they were, she would be far worse off without them. She kicked underwater with her one leg, careful to never break the surface behind her. She had been embarrassed at first to feel her skirt and petticoat floating in the water under her arms, but none of the others had noticed and after twenty minutes of physical exertion and energy-draining cold, she no longer cared.

“Starboard side kick,” Charles whispered harshly. “Port side belay. Steady. There, that’s got it. Now all kick again.” He lifted himself up slightly to see over the log, through a gap left in the tangle of branches and moss. “So far we’re in luck. No guards on the beach. Easy now. Twenty more yards.”

Annabelle kicked but only weakly. Fortunately the river’s current carried them near enough to the island that the water became shallow and they were able to walk the raft into the shallows and then secure it against a rock outcropping. Annabelle dragged herself from the water and collapsed behind the cover of a large boulder.

“Doctor Staples, would you be good enough to stay here and look after Miss Somerset?” Charles asked. “She looks a bit done in, and no wonder. You did a fine job kicking, Miss. Now leave the rest to us.”

Annabelle nodded dully, too tired even to put on her artificial leg. She held it against her body and shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering. The four sailors, themselves pale and shivering, checked their revolvers and set out stealthily through the undergrowth. After ten yards or so Charles turned and waved the Selenites forward.

“I return soon, friend Annabelle,” K’chuk said and then led his companions after Chief Charles.

Staples said nothing but merely lay on the shale and shivered, clearly as exhausted as Annabelle. The men and Selenites were gone perhaps fifteen minutes. Annabelle heard no sound of a scuffle, no gunfire. Then Chief Charles walked back, upright and making no effort at concealment, the revolver dangling loosely in his hand.

“Submersible’s gone and the island’s deserted. Looks like they went down river after all.”

3.

EVEN BY the unusual travelling standards to which Nathanial had become accustomed, this latest vessel was beyond all expectations. Travel by foot from the prison was out of the question, so he had been scarcely surprised to have been escorted, with the anticipated brutality, to a great ship and subsequently to be held in a darkened chamber under the watch of a surly guard. Once more unto the brig, perhaps. However, he had to confess his surprise when peering through the sole porthole and being confronted with the murky depths of the river itself.

“Good heavens, I do believe we are in a submersible!” exclaimed Nathanial.

Phillips nodded grimly. “It would explain how the Drobates evaded detection while we were along the embankment. I can only imagine they discreetly surfaced, then descended below the depths to shadow our progress. You would hardly think the river deep enough!”

“One would hardly think that the barren surface of Luna would contain a network of populated caverns, Phillips, yet here we are. The full extent of the secrets of Luna has yet to be revealed, I wager,” said Nathanial, stroking his chin. “Captain Folkard, you are uncharacteristically quiet.”

Folkard gave a nod by way of acknowledgement. “Merely concerned at becoming a prisoner of war to an unknown enemy, Professor. Moreover, concerned that I have allowed two civilians to become prisoners, too. Neither you nor Phillips are military men, yet I have jeopardised your lives with this mission.”

“There are worse things that happen at sea, Captain,” offered Burroughs, in hope of reassuring his captain, Nathanial supposed. Stevenson, for his part, was unconscious, the effort of the short march between prison and submersible having proved to be quite exhausting after so many months in the prison colony.

“I feel, perhaps, that that particular idiom needs updating,” Folkard said dryly. “It is unfortunate that our whereabouts are unknown. We still know so little about these Drobates. It is difficult to anticipate what we will experience on our arrival at this City of Light and Science.”

Like Folkard, Nathanial was frustrated at his ignorance. From the vibrations in their chamber and the shadows of the rocky underwater canyon wall passing the porthole, they were travelling at a considerable speed for a submerged vessel. The Drobates evidently boasted engineering knowledge that far outstripped that of the human race.

He would have hoped for more information about the Drobates in order to calculate a plan for their escape, too: yet the most knowledgeable scholar among them was unconscious and the Drobates themselves seemed incapable of verbal communication. The knowledge Nathanial had, then, was as murky as the water itself.

4.

BEDFORD THOUGHT it bizarre that beneath the Moon’s lifeless surface lurked a complex subterranean life in which hostilities between the British and the Russians—or the natives and settlers—continued in much the same way as on Earth. Still, one could say the same thing about any location or even any person: that beneath their surface appearance, there was significantly more than met the eye.

Colonel Harrison and one of his riflemen joined the party as guides for their journey around the reservoir. Larkins sent Booth slightly ahead with one of the Marine sections as skirmishers, while the rest of the party marched in columns of twos.

The march to Borodino’s crash site, over uneven rocky ground, took the better part of an hour, although Bedford gauged the actual distance as not much more than a mile. Borodino’s wreck lay in a pronounced hollow, so it was not visible from Otterbein base across the reservoir. The vessel had apparently crashed on its side but had since been levered upright and several large boulders moved against the hull to hold it level.

“Colonel, did your men do this?” Bedford asked.

“What? No. Not that I know of, anyway. Maybe one of those scientists got poking around, eh?” he answered. Bedford doubted that, unless the scientist had brought a substantial work party with him. Bedford walked around the flyer but saw no external evidence of repairs. Marines crowded for a closer look at this relic of Muscovite martial might until the colour sergeant barked them away.

“Awright, this ain’t a bloomin’ circus excursion! Form a perimeter twenty yards out. Bixby, your section on that rock outcropping there, Colvin along that rubble spill there, Johnson form a skirmish line in between along that long bank. Step to it!”

The Marines reformed their sections and trotted to their assigned posts. Colonel Harrison nodded in approval. Perhaps not entirely a fool, Bedford thought.

Bedford completed his circuit of the wreck and then scrambled up on one of the large boulders to reach the small deck and pilot house. Major Larkins followed him up. The door to the pilot house hung on one hinge and came off altogether when Bedford tried to move it.

“Looks as if someone placed this rather carefully to look derelict but hide the view in,” Larkins commented.

The interior of the pilot house bore little sign of the crash. The glass windows had been shattered but no broken glass littered the floor. The room had been swept clean and empty housings bore witness to the removal of several items of equipment, possibly for salvage. What was most interesting, however, was what had been added. Larkins did not notice, of course; he was not a naval officer. Bedford immediately went to it and knelt down to examine it more closely.

“What’s that, Bedford?” Larkins asked.

“It is an excellent model of the throttle controls of a Grant-Stone-pattern aether propeller governor.”

A shout of alarm from outside, followed by a shot and then a half-dozen more, cut short any further discussion. Larkins and Bedford dashed out onto the broken flyer’s deck and saw the Marines to their left, on the wall-like line of broken rock—the feature the colour sergeant described as a rubble spill—firing at a group of perhaps a dozen red Selenites scrambling forward among the rocks. Bedford started to draw his revolver but checked himself when he saw Larkins put his hands behind his back and calmly study the Marine section’s fire.

“Fast buggers, ain’t they?” Larkins said. “The ants, I mean, especially for their size. Not fast enough, though.”

Five of the Marines did the actual firing, taking careful aim and spacing their shots, while the section corporal walked behind them, directing their fire and steadying them. Some of the shots ricocheted off boulder, but as many of them hit home, and within a minute or two most of the red Selenites were casualties and the survivors pinned down behind large rocks. Bedford looked around and noticed the Marines on the opposite side of the flyer, the ones on the prominent outcropping, had, apparently out of curiosity, drifted down the slope toward the sound of the firing.

“Major Larkins, should those men be moving this way?” Bedford asked.

Larkins turned and looked, and then shouted a command with more volume than Bedford expected he had. “Number Three Section, guard your front!”

The men turned and started ascending the slope with long, measured bounds, but at almost the same time two red Selenites came over the top from the other side, then two more, and then a solid wave of them.

“Damn!” Larkins exclaimed, and now he drew his revolver, an example Bedford followed immediately. “Three Section, fire! Johnson, pull your section back to the flyer! Form a firing line facing those ants.”

“At the double, Johnson!” the colour sergeant shouted from below them as the men in the open skirmish line fell back towards the flyer in the long strides of the shuffling trot used to cover ground quickly in low gravity. “Two Section, fix swords!” The men drew their bayonets—called swords by the Marines, for some obscure reason Bedford had never learned—and clicked them onto the end of their Lee-Metfords as they came into position. “Section, guard! Prepare for rapid fire.” The men came to the guard position, sword-bayonets levelled, and threw the magazine cut-off switch on their rifles. Normally the Lee-Metford was fired as a breechloader, with the magazine blocked. After each shot the soldier opened the bolt and loaded another round by hand from his cartridge pouch, but now each action of the bolt would bring a round to the chamber from the magazine—eight rounds fast when you needed them, and it looked as if they needed them now. As rifle fire crackled from the rock outcropping, the Sikh private fell in beside the Marines by the flyer, his bayonet fixed to an older Martini-Henry breechloader. With Lieutenant Booth and the sergeant at one end and the colour sergeant at the other, it looked like an impressive firing line to Bedford.

On the rock outcropping, the red Selenites had the advantage of charging downhill toward the scattered Marines of Corporal Bixby’s section. Bedford saw a Marine fire and clearly kill a charging Selenite, but the beast’s momentum carried it skidding the few remaining yards down the hill and bowled the Marine over, sending him tumbling down the slope. The first shots had brought four or five Selenites down, but Bixby’s section had not switched to rapid fire and, as they hastened to reload from their cartridge pouches, the second wave of Selenites swarmed over them.

Bedford saw a red Selenite seize a screaming Marine in his mandibles, lift him aloft, and shake him, blood flying from the mortal wound.

“Have your firing line shoot, Larkins!” Bedford exclaimed.

“Can’t. Our chaps are in their line of fire.”

“Well they aren’t in mine!” On the elevated deck of the flyer Bedford had a clear shot at the red Selenites still climbing over the top of the rocky hill and began firing. His hand shook with reaction and several of his shots went wide of their mark, but the creatures were so closely packed that three or four rounds hit, and brought down two of them. Larkins began firing as well as Bedford paused to reload his revolver.

One or two of the Marines on the slope scrambled to the side or leaped down ahead of the Selenite charge, but the others disappeared under the wave of giant insects.

“Now, Larkins, for God’s sake fire!” Bedford shouted.

“You heard the lieutenant,” the colour sergeant called out from below. “Fire!”

Nine rifles barked almost as one, gore and pieces of carapace flew from the charging creatures, who shuddered from the impact of powerful rifle rounds, and the front line of red insects collapsed in a twitching, bleeding heap. More Selenites swarmed over the pile from behind but a second volley followed almost immediately, then another, and another, until the black powder smoke from the rifles all but blocked Bedford’s view of the hill.

“Cease firing,” Larkins ordered.

“Look to your front!” the colour sergeant ordered. “Even numbers, charge your magazines.”

As the smoke drifted away, Bedford saw the slope of the hill carpeted with dead and dying red Selenites, well over a score of them. Two of the creatures, apparently unharmed, disappeared over the crest of the rock outcropping,

“Larkins, I’d like to know where those fugitives are heading,” Bedford said.

“Right. Colour Sergeant, two men to that crest and observe the enemy movement,” Larkins shouted over the railing and the colour sergeant sent two privates bounding up the low hill, leaping over the still-twitching bodies of Selenites. He led the rest of the section forward more slowly, checking for surviving Marines under the carpet of Selenite dead and dispatching wounded Selenites with occasional rifle shots or sword-bayonet thrusts.

Bedford watched it dully, his mind momentarily numb with reaction to the battle which had started so suddenly, become hellishly violent, and then abruptly ended. It already seemed dream-like in his memory. He reloaded his revolver just to give himself something to do, so he would not look like a man stunned, although he very nearly was.

Larkins climbed down from the flyer to speak with two dishevelled Marines, one of them wounded, who escaped the massacre on the rock hill. Everyone seemed to have something constructive to do but Bedford. He shook himself to dispel the shroud of lethargy and followed Larkins down the boulder, then climbed the rocky hill past the Marines at their grisly work.

“Very well done, men,” he said as he passed them and several of them nodded grimly. He joined the two Marines stationary on the crest. The empty ground before them stretched toward the cavern wall four or five hundred yards away. “Any sign of them, men?”

“Don’t know as you can see it, sir, but there’s a black shadow to the right of that big boulder, about fifty yards out,” one of the privates said.

“The one as looks like a terrier,” the other one inserted.

“Well, I don’t see no terrier in it,” the first one said, “but it’s big and sort of squarish. See it, sir?”

“Right there?” Bedford asked and pointed.

“That’s it, sir. Saw one of them going down into that shadow beside it as we crested the hill. I’m betting it’s a tunnel of some sort.”

“What are your names?”

“I’m Williams and he’s Heighway, sir.”

“Williams, Heighway, good job spotting the tunnel, and that was a nice piece of work down below. Stay alert,” Bedford said. He started back down the hill but as he passed the work party he paused to watch them carefully check a fallen Marine for signs of life, without success. The twin chevrons on the bloody sleeve made him a corporal. What was this corporal’s name? Bixby. “I am sorry for your losses, men,” said Bedford, and then he finished climbing down.

Colonel Harrison stood with Larkins and Lieutenant Booth, and Bedford recalled he had not seen Harrison during the fight,

“How many men lost, Major?” Bedford asked as soon as he joined the group.

“Was that Corporal Bixby up there?” Larkins asked. “Thought so. The only casualties were in Bixby’s Three Section. Bixby himself and one other man dead, Higgins has a nasty wound in his leg, and Sutcliffe over there broke his arm falling down the hill.”

Bedford turned and saw the two wounded Marines sitting beside the wrecked flyer and recognised the man holding his arm and grimacing in pain as the Marine who had killed a Selenite and been knocked over by its dead body. At least he had survived.

“I’ve reassigned the two fit survivors to the other sections,” Larkins added. “What are your orders, sir?”

“Colonel Harrison, I imagine you will be returning to the base.”

“Yes, at once,” Harrison added. “Full alert, you know. Never seen these red buggers before. Damn me if they don’t come on like howling dervishes, don’t they? No howling, of course.”

“I wonder if I could prevail upon you to escort our two wounded back, as well? Your men might help Private Higgins. I think Sutcliffe can make the walk on his own.”

Harrison frowned for a moment, clearly anxious to get back to the security of the base as quickly as possible, but then he nodded. “Gehlot,” he called, “cala!” The private helping the work detail turned and slid down the slope of the hill and came smartly to attention. “We’re back to Otterbein. Give that fellow there a hand. Shall I pass word to your vessel by heliograph, Bedford?”

“Thank you, Colonel, but I do not believe it will be necessary. Private Sutcliffe, once you’re back at the base instruct all coxswains to dog their hatches from the inside and not to open them unless they see an officer outside and no red Selenites. Have one of the cutters take you and Higgins back up to Sovereign. When you arrive inform Lieutenant Blake of the battle here, but he is to take no further action at this time. Then off to sick bay with you. Understood?”

“Sir!”

As Bedford, Larkins, and Booth watched Harrison lead the small party away back around the lake, Larkins spoke. “I take it, then, that we are pressing on.”

“The replica of the aether propeller controls in Borodino identify this as the site used to train at least one red Selenite cutter pilot, perhaps more. Your men spotted the tunnel into which the last of these red Selenites escaped. That must also be how they managed to approach so closely without being seen. I cannot say where the captain and his party are, but this trail is fresh and it leads to the mind behind the attack on Sovereign. It is the only trail we have, and I cannot but think it is part of a larger whole, so follow it we shall.”

“Colour Sergeant!” Larkins called. “Cover those two bodies with stones. We’ll recover them and take them back to Sovereign for proper burial when we return. Then assemble the detail. Lieutenant Booth, take Sergeant Adams and a half-section as skirmishers and lead the column. Pick your own men.”

5.

BEDFORD BROKE his fast, as did the Marines, with ship biscuit and tinned bully beef washed down with cold tea from his canteen. The better part of a day following the faint trail of the red Selenites had produced nothing, and eventually he had called a halt to rest. Four hours sleep was all he allowed, and now he used the time spent eating his unappetising breakfast to consider their options.

He expected that some changes had taken place in lunar politics since his last visit to the world, but he had no idea as to their extent. He had certainly received no insights on that matter from either Colonel Harrison or Director George, both of whom struck him as extremely myopic men, too focused on their own narrow interests to pay much attention to the broader situation. Case in point, the very presence of an aggressive new variety of Selenites near the base, and apparently in considerable numbers, had entirely escaped their notice.

Bedford remembered the hospitality of Queen Q’theletockus and her colony, the Esitonina, from his previous visit. His party must have been in or near their range now. When he left Sovereign he had entertained a vague notion of obtaining guidance from her and, if necessary, reinforcements. The attack they suffered at the Russian flyer, however, left him uncertain as to the intentions of Selenites in general. He had cautioned the men not to fire on any Selenites other than the red ones, who had already demonstrated their hostility. But was it not possible that all the Selenites had turned hostile towards the humans, or at least the British, in the seven months since his last visit to Luna?

He knew, of course, that K’chuk and his escort had agreed to accompany Folkard in his pursuit of Grant, but Bedford remained uncertain whether that act meant K’chuk represented the Selenites in general, or if it made him a rogue outsider. Bedford decided against resuming his acquaintance with Q’theletockus, at least for the moment. Foolish trust and hasty manoeuvres were a characteristic of Folkard’s recent actions on Luna, not Bedford’s.

The tunnel they had followed down from the vicinity of the wrecked flyer broadened out into a cavern below, and Lieutenant Booth and his three skirmishers had led the way, carefully checking for signs of Selenite traffic. The passage showed considerable evidence of use, including discarded leathery husks of some sort of fungus, apparently the inedible remains of meals. They also found a crumpled piece of paper with writing on it, but the letters were in the Cyrillic alphabet and indecipherable to anyone in Bedford’s command. In places the rock floor had been filled in with gravel to make the passage easier, in others long dripstones had been broken off to make the passage less hazardous and had been neatly stacked to the side. For hours the party had made their way from one roughly spherical cavern to another, through tunnels and fissures made passable by alien hands.

Bedford had been in many caverns on Earth, but the lunar caverns were little like them. Terrestrial caverns were formed by the passage of water through rock, wearing away the less resistant material and leaving twisting passages which followed the geological seams. Lunar caverns had apparently been formed by trapped gas in cooling molten rock, frozen bubbles inside a now-cold world, hence their spherical shape. Thousands of years had altered them, of course. Large parts of cavern roofs had fallen, partially filling in and levelling the bottom. Water passed through seams and fissures in the rock, wore wider passages, and left the familiar spear-like dripstones: stalactites hanging from the ceilings and stalagmites reaching up from the floor to meet them.

“Very well,” he called, seeing the men finishing the last mouthfuls of their meal, “we’ll bury these ration tins under some rocks and be on our way. Lieutenant Booth, your lead.”

“Sir.”

An hour later Bedford slid two yards down a smooth rock surface, slick with mud, and then helped Larkins who followed him. They climbed up and over a large fallen stone dripstone column to make room for the Marines following. Bedford puffed a bit in the thinner lunar atmosphere, but the passage would have been much more tiring had it not been for the reduced gravity. Booth and his skirmishers were no longer in sight, having rounded a bend in the passage. Bedford heard a voice cry out in alarm up ahead—and then a shot!

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Bedford heard Lieutenant Booth call out.

Bedford and Larkins hurried forward, drawing their revolvers as they went. They rounded the bend and saw Sergeant Adams holding his own rifle and that of another Marine, the unarmed Marine clearly beside himself with fright, and Booth, his arms outstretched and hands empty, trying to reassure a half-dozen Selenites, all of them having risen up on their hind legs in alarm.

“Ah, Lieutenant Bedford! Glad you’re here, sir,” Booth said. “These are some of the non-red ones you said not to harm. I hope you’re right, sir; they look about ready to eat me!”

6.

ANNABELLE AND K’chuk huddled close to each other and clung to the raft. Seaman Henry lay protectively on the other side of her but propriety kept him from actually touching her. A raft was their only practical option, and in two hours they had fashioned one large enough to support all of their weight. They had gathered a supply of edible mushrooms as well, as all of them began to feel pangs of hunger. Annabelle’s leg kept her from helping with the heavy construction so she built a fire near the shore and roasted mushrooms for the others. A thick mushroom stew would have warmed them as well as filled their bellies, but they had no cook pot.

Now they floated down the river. At first their progress had been maddeningly slow, but then the river’s velocity increased dramatically as the canyon walls drew closer together. White caps covered the river’s surface and the raft threw a fine spray of icy water over the passengers as it bit through the wave crests. Now, hours later, they still bobbed and foamed and shivered through the frigid, choppy water. Charles steered them clear of hazards by means of a long sweep lashed to the back of the raft, but Annabelle could tell that even he tired. As warm and comforting as K’chuk’s flank was, she crawled back to the coxswain. A larger wave broke over the raft and soaked both of them, and Annabelle pushed wet tangled hair back out of her eyes before she spoke.

“Mister Charles, we must put in somewhere and rest. You cannot keep this up, and if you falter we are all lost.”

“I can go a while longer,” he answered over the roar of the river.

“Yes, I dare say you can. But what if, when you can no longer carry on, there are no convenient landing places? What if we suddenly come to a particularly dangerous and difficult stretch of the river just as your arms begins to fail you? I beseech you to look for a landing place now, while you have the remaining reserves of strength to pilot us there.”

Charles did not meet her eyes. He studied the river ahead of them, corrected to the side for a few seconds, then back as they slid past a nearly submerged boulder. Finally he nodded. “Very well. I see an island ahead with vegetation. We will land and make camp there.”

7.

THE CORRUPTED scientist noted agitation among the red Selenites. A group with such meagre material effects could hardly be said to be packing up in the conventional sense; still, there was an air of finality in the way that they conducted their business in the underground cavern in which they had chosen to dwell.

Their very presence here was his doing. Humans, he had found, were simply too difficult to manage: their minds too susceptible to radical ideas such as free will. It was clear that the human race no longer knew what was best for it, while the Selenites ordered around by pacifistic fools such as K’chuk were simply too soft. Meeting this group had changed his opinion on the warlike potential of the Selenites, and he had used every resource at his disposal to transport them across the Great Gorge.

Time, however, could not be said to be on their side; already he was aware that the Heart was calling his enemies ever closer. His diversion against the British ship in the Gorge had failed. The British had sent troops anyway, and his attempt at an ambush against them had failed as well, had cost him more warriors than he could afford to lose. Perhaps he should have spent less time preparing for this task, and simply struck immediately, but how was he to know Sovereign would return at the worst possible moment? An attack a month ago—a week ago—would almost certainly have succeeded. Now, nothing was certain. Time to trust his fate to audacity.

He was certain that he would be reacquainted with an old enemy: if he knew his old rival the way that he believed that he did, he could almost guarantee his presence. Those imbeciles were completely unaware that their all-conquering ambition and their brazen arrogance made them as hated here as on Earth and on any other planet they had landed on. It would be impossibly dangerous for them to couple that lust for power with the incalculable depths of knowledge that the Heart contained. It was imperative, then, that his group, however modest in size and intellect, reach the Heart’s centre before his enemy did.

The Heart was his, and these creatures would keep him safe as he reached it.

Chapter Six

“A City of Light and Science”

1.

(1880)

“AN INVENTOR’s work is never done, Annabelle,” said Cyrus Grant as he rushed around his workshop looking for some mysterious cog, lever or pulley. “You can build all the things in your imagination but all of a sudden, there are more things in your imagination! More things to build and to design. Why, there must be a hundred ideas in my head right now and only time in my life to create ten, at most!”

Grant was attempting to answer a question common to uncles faced with a ten-year-old: why? In this instance, why invent? Such a question had no easy answer. For Grant, inventing was fundamental to his very existence: Annabelle may as well have asked him why breathe?

“You know that even now there are men in space, Annabelle? What an age we live in! Man taking flight towards the stars! Someday soon…” here he lowered his voice confidentially, “I, too, will be joining those men.”

“You, Uncle Cyrus?”

“Certainly. You didn’t think that the United States of America would be big enough to hold Cyrus Grant, did you? That I would be satisfied creating contraptions to amuse the local ranchers and prevent their dogies being rustled? Nothing of the sort! Space is the ultimate goal, Annabelle, and space is where I shall be!”

Annabelle looked nervous. “But, Uncle, what about the space aliens?”

“What are they, compared to the fat rancher with his complaints about wolves thinning his herd and chatter about breeding seasons? I dare say that an alien race would be less intimidating than Ron Bradshaw and his ignoramus ranch-hands. My ultimate dream, Annabelle, and one which I feel will be achievable in your lifetime, is as follows. I dream of a city where the intelligent are not viewed with a detached amusement but are venerated as indispensable pillars of the community. A city where the thrill of discovery is not crushed by government greed or capitalist interest, or adapted into weaponry! A city of illuminated minds. In short, I dream of a city of science and light. If I have to leave this country or even this planet to achieve this destiny, I swear that I will do it!”

Annabelle had been amused by her uncle’s story, even enthralled, but as Grant told it, he realised that the ten-year-old, like so many people to whom he had given the same speech, would think that it could be little more than a fairy tale. A member of her family jetting off to the stars, or landing on the moon: it was unfathomable. As for the city of light and science that her uncle rhapsodised about, it was no more likely than a flying carpet.

Yet everything was possible. It was not so long ago that space travel seemed an impossibility. A city of light and science? There was every chance that such a thing would be created in Grant’s lifetime. Perhaps Annabelle would, one day, be able to see it.

2.

BEDFORD STEPPED between Booth and the Selenites. He did not holster his revolver but kept it down at his side, just in case. He faced a creature boasting a quartet of great arms, and the familiar oversized head, and quivering mandibles. The carapace of this one was smooth and pale of hue, unlike the red Selenites they encountered earlier, which had been partially covered with short coarse black bristles. Bedford’s strictures notwithstanding, Booth must have as cool a head on his shoulders as any young officer Bedford had ever know to keep from just opening fire on these creatures, especially after the fight they’d gone through earlier. Bedford looked closer; to his surprise, he found the Selenite familiar.

“K’ovib?” he asked in amazement.

K’ovib was a high-ranking retainer of knowledge, for the Esitonina, the subjects of Queen Q’theletockus.

“Yes, friend Bedford. It is K’ovib. You have come back.” He held out his right forelimb, a gesture learned from the British earlier, and Bedford shook it.

“Yes. We’ve come for the gooddoctor Grant, but he is missing and we were attacked by Selenites—red with bristles all over them. We followed them this way. Do you know of them?”

“Sssss! Yes. Saltators. Very bad.”

“Saltators! That is what the red Selenites are called?”

“Saltators are one tribe of the Hairy Ones. Saltators come from the Up-The-River and across the Great Gorge. How Saltators crossed the gorge not known, but was a mighty feat.”

“Yes, either that or they had help from other Earth men. We think the Russians helped them.”

“Sssss! Roozans help Saltators? Very bad. Roozans bring metal eggs, hide them close to the English-place-that-was-the-Russian-place.”

“Near Otterbein station? Metal eggs—what the deuce? Wish I could take a look at those. You say they hid them somewhere?”

“Hid, but K’ovib’s scout sees. The eggs are bad?”

“I can’t know without examining them, but I suspect they are. Why else would the Russians sneak around with them? You say you have a scout who knows where they are. Can he show us?”

“K’ovib shows.”

3.

THE SUBMERSIBLE had already reached its destination. Without landmarks or understanding of the technology, it was difficult to gauge exactly how far they had travelled in the two or three hours of the voyage

Nathanial had little doubt, from the sounds of stomping boots overhead, that the submersible’s crew were preparing to disembark. Presently a detail of Drobates filed into the cell and applied further chains to the captives, then gestured for them to leave the cell. Stevenson, who the Drobates brought back to sudden consciousness by means of some mysterious injection, seemed hardly more refreshed for his sleep than he had been before.

With all men accounted for and apparently, on inspection, meeting the satisfaction of the Drobates, the group were marched out of the brig and onto land, flanked at either side by Drobate guards. Folkard lead the group, Phillips and Burroughs following, with Nathanial, supporting Stevenson, trailing at the rear. As the group exited the submersible, they as one felt the need to avert their eyes. Having been held prisoner in a succession of dingy cells offering very little in the way of light, it was an unpleasant shock to the system to become suddenly reacquainted with the blazing luminescence of the fungi, possibly even brighter here than in other caverns. Dazzled as they were by the radiance of the light, they stared in wonderment at the city that gazed down upon them.

They had reached the fabled City of Light and Science.

The city was a complex of buildings reaching to vertiginous heights and stretching on as far as the eye could see. In their design and in their complex translucent glow they most closely resembled a mass of crystals yet to be cut. The reflective surfaces magnified the brilliance of the fungi, giving the city a radiant glow. It gave the impression of a paradise; however, it was clear from the chains and the menacing glares that, for the humans and Selenites, the Drobates intended it to be hell. As if to emphasize the point, the Drobates pulled at the chain joining the men and set them to marching towards the city.

While the city had appeared from a distance as Paradise, a closer view produced a more mundane, even worn, impression. Bits of wreckage and discarded worn-out ship fittings cluttered the beach, along with stinking dead fish and an odd sort of red kelp. The sounds of many feet walking, heavy machinery humming, and groaning pulleys lifting heavy cargo, filled the air of the harbour, although the lack of voices imposed an air of unreality on the bustling activity. A thousand voices raised in the most alien and outlandish language Nathanial’s imagination could conjure would have seemed ordinary next to this preternatural silence amidst bedlam.

The prisoners passed through a large open gate into the city proper. Tall gun towers flanked the gate and each mounted what appeared to be a field gun, but of highly exotic pattern, so much so that Nathanial wondered if the coils of gleaming metal which encased the gun barrels were some sort of baroque and impractical decorative motif, or if they bespoke a dramatically different principle of design from human artillery. The city walls to either side of the towers, however, were little more than tumbled down heaps of rubble with the occasional standing wall section leaning precariously, as if tired and anxious to join its reclining brethren below.

They marched through a low-income residential area and both the bustle and squalor in which the inhabitants lived was not so different from the back streets of London, or perhaps even Manchester. The chained prisoners travelled further into the city along widening boulevards and past spacious governance buildings and what appeared to be a number of laboratories boasting glass of a curious tint, sure evidence they had entered the more prosperous part of the city. Trash still cluttered the streets, however, mainly sodden paper and tattered discarded robes, but also assorted mechanical pieces, the use for which could only be guessed at. Some Drobates went about their business with a sense of purpose, while others in ragged robes sprawled prostate across rusting benches, clinging to bottles of liquid of a bluish hue.

Most Drobates moved by foot, Nathanial estimated, but he also saw several examples of a singular vehicle, entirely circular in design and resembling a gyroscope, which glided across the rubbish-strewn roads soundlessly, its movements matching its owners for grace. In several spots, the burnt-out and rusted wreckage of one or more of these vehicles could be seen, having presumably collided with another of its sort, and had simply been pushed to the side and left. Above the heads of the men were a number of intercrossing wires, possibly used for communication of some variety akin to the telephone, although a number of wires appeared frayed and a few were broken and hanging down to the street.

Given the decay of the city and the evident neglect of its inhabitants, Nathanial fully expected to see broken windows, cracked paving slabs with weeds growing up, and unhinged lopsided doors. Curiously, however, none of these things were in evidence. Indeed, the perfection of the buildings and of the boulevards was entirely at odds with the filthy living conditions. Such buildings and roads, in fact, could have been built the day before Folkard’s party reached the city and they would have scarcely looked more immaculate than they did that day. Clearly the city itself was built from a material significantly different from the crumbled city walls through which they had passed. Only the absence, in some cases, of doors altogether suggested anything untoward about the outward appearance of the buildings. Of the insides, however, Nathanial dreaded to think.

“Can you tell us anything about their intentions?” he whispered to Stevenson.

“They mean to take us firstly to the dungeons, I think,” Stevenson hissed back. “The dungeons themselves are beneath the administration centre of whichever monsters govern the Drobates. What a government they are!” he added ironically. “From there, as far as I can gather they mean to put us to work.”

“Why detain you for as long as they have, yet take us to work the moment we are captured? It makes no sense.”

“They wanted to examine the extent of our physical and mental ability, it seems. You hardly need to be psychic to realise that the rigorous physical and psychological tests that they put us through were an attempt at gauging our potential. After they had reached the limits of what they could gather from these exercises, it was merely a case of waiting until they had the right numbers. On your arrival, they finally attained their quota. They are very superstitious about specific numbers and I am half surprised that the death of McKittrick did not cause them to reconsider. Unfortunately, it did not.”

They passed a curious but splendidly garish building; the golden icons at the gate pillars and doorway uniquely appeared to be of scientific artefacts and mechanical tools rather than of gods or fetishes. They were forced to avert their eyes briefly as they passed, not as a result of any religious deference but because a golden cog on a pillar reflected light directly into their faces.

“Until they had the right numbers?” Nathanial repeated. “Whatever for?”

“They mean us to repair the wall surrounding the city for—I believe the word they’re using is protection,” Stevenson replied, to the bafflement of Nathanial.

“Protection for the Drobates? From what monstrous enemy would they need protection?”

“Possibly from us. You surely do not forget what formidable entities humans can be?”

“I am aware that they can possess powers that are frightening to think about, and that they can inspire emotions like no other species.” At this, their eyes met briefly.

4.

METAL EGGS indeed! Bedford could see why the Selenites would describe the tapered, polished cylinders as such. He wished Folkard was here; he at least could read the Russian inscriptions, but the general pattern was familiar enough.

“Nasty business, this,” Larkins ventured, displaying a gift for understatement. The two of them knelt by the shining, deadly eggs.

“You are more familiar with field gun ammunition, Larkins, but I would make this a three-inch shell. Hard to tell if it is common shell or shrapnel, but I doubt it’s simple shot.”

“No, you’re right there,” Larkins replied. “Shot projectiles are solid steel. These have fuse apertures in the nose, so it’s some sort of exploding shell. If they have a three-inch field gun that can bear on Otterbein station, I don’t know that it matters much what sort of shells they start tossing that direction.”

No, it would not matter a bit. A dozen or so exploding shells, against which the research station had no means of reply, and there would be little alternative to surrender. Of course without ammunition a field gun was no good, but was this the only ammunition cache the Russians had planted? And where was the Russian gun itself? They had held the cavern long before the British and Selenites drove them out and they undoubtedly knew its nooks and crannies far better than did the British. For that matter, he doubted that Colonel Harrison had made much of an effort to search for such places. The complacent fool sat in the middle of the cavern with his company of Sikh infantry arrayed around him and counted himself secure.

K’ovib had brought them to this ammunition cache, where two dozen complete rounds lay neatly stacked for quick access, each steel projectile nestled in its brass cartridge case. A short tunnel to their left led to the great cavern containing Otterbein Base and its reservoir, but a large outcropping blocked view of the tunnel entrance from the main cavern floor. You would have to literally stumble upon it if you did not know exactly where it was.

“How many rounds do you suppose a red Selenite could carry, Larkins?” Bedford asked.

The Marine major picked up a round and hefted it before answering. “I’d make the complete round at about four pounds here in this low gravity, say twenty-five pounds back on Earth. The red buggers look a bit more robust of leg than your pale friends over there. Rig a proper harness for their back and I’d wager one of them could carry four rounds without any difficulty. You’re thinking one trip by a half-dozen of the red devils could have brought this whole lot.”

“Yes, and we’ve already seen a deal more than that. No telling how many trips they’ve made, or how much ordnance they’ve sequestered here and there. Colonel Harrison has to be made to understand the danger, and he has to scour these cavern walls for hiding places. He has the manpower to do it; we do not.”

Larkins carefully put the shell down and stood up, dusting off his hands. “So it’s back to Otterbein Base?”

“For you it is,” Bedford answered, standing himself. “I’d send Booth but Harrison won’t listen to a lowly lieutenant and he surely won’t listen to a navy man, but he might listen to you. Take one of the sections with you; there may be more of those Saltators out there.”

“What about you, Bedford? You aren’t coming?”

Bedford took off his cork pith helmet, scratched his scalp, looked at the stacked field gun rounds again before answering. “No, I’ll stay here with Booth and the other section—and K’ovib, of course. We need to learn more. We’ll see what other caches we can find nearby. Perhaps we’ll even stumble upon the gun itself, but we can hardly rely on that sort of luck. Our best chance will be to ambush a carrying party, capture one of these things alive and see if we can get any information from it, or at least see what it’s carrying. Have your men leave their rations here with us. No telling how long we’ll stay out here and you can re-supply at the base. But the main thing, the critical thing, is to persuade Harrison of the danger, and to get him to act on it.”

“Harrison’s a fool,” Larkins observed.

“He’s a damned fool, but he’s the garrison commander and there’s no getting around that. Do your best, Larkins. I believe a great deal is riding on your success. Blasted if I know exactly what, but I intend to find that out as well.”

Larkins offered his hand and Bedford shook it. “I’ll take One Section,” Larkins said. “A couple of them seem a bit windy. A stretch back among friends should settle them down. You keep Corporal Johnson’s lot; he’s steady enough—not very bright, but there are advantages to that. Private Jones in his section is the best shot in the detachment: ‘Jones the Marksman’ they call him—Welsh, you know. I’ll leave Colour Sergeant Moore with you; he’ll keep the lads on their toes. Take care of yourself, Bedford. You’re not half the fool I’d expect a naval lieutenant to be.”

5.

THE PROCESSION of prisoners and wardens halted outside the largest building in the inner city Nathanial could see. It teemed with life and activity: Drobates attired in the modest tunics of their lower caste took orders from those dressed in iridescent materials and all of those visible appeared to be in a terrible hurry. All of them gave a wide berth to the prisoners, however, and indeed to their guards. The guards seemed to be describing or cataloguing the prisoners to a number of their species who, in addition to the iridescent tunics that demarcated their status, wore absurdly ornate and elaborate jewellery about their heads and necks, presumably to indicate their higher status among their kind. This gaggle of bejewelled Drobates, while as mute as their prison wardens, gave every appearance, through vigorous gestures and rapidly changing facial expressions, of being engaged in animated discussion. They pointedly ignored the prisoners, however, save for some furtive glances at Nathanial and at Phillips which, Nathanial fancied, seemed to be tempered by something approaching fear.

Whatever the cause for their occasional looks in his direction, Nathanial could tell that the Drobates felt no immediate sense of alarm. They no doubt believed, and rightly so, that the humans were unlikely to raise an insurrection in light of both their shackles and their limited energies following captivity. Somewhere in the distance he heard a repetitive thumping, the source of which could not be clearly ascertained and was clearly of no interest to the Drobates engaged in the discussion.

The British took advantage of their captors’ sudden lack of interest in them to gather in a tight group. Their arms being handcuffed behind them, it was impossible to form a circle of any sort, so they were forced to do the best they could under the circumstances.

“I can tell they’re having a conversation because I feel as though I am getting a headache,” Phillips opened. “Perhaps someone might be able to decipher?”

Stevenson, evidently waning as a result of the energy expended, spoke with barely-disguised difficulty. He repeated the information he had previously given to Nathanial, and added, “they’re debating our future. Some of the party feel that it would be wise to conduct further experiments on us. Some of the others…”

“Feel there has been quite enough experimentation already and the time has come for action?” finished Folkard. At this, Nathanial wore a look of surprise which was matched by the rest of the group. “It seems my ability to decipher the communications between these moon men is growing the more I am exposed to them. I must assure you, men, the ability is hardly one of which you should be envious.”

Burroughs, whose face betrayed his fatigue, requested permission to speak. When this was granted, he asked; “They will surely reach some form of compromise? The condition of their city does not suggest a decisive government.”

“No doubt they will hold us in these dungeons I’ve heard mentioned, until they have at least reached some decision,” said Nathanial. “I must admit, were it possible I would prefer to facilitate our escape before they have the opportunity. I have seen the inside of quite enough cells lately and do not welcome another.”

Burroughs wore a mask of dismay. “Another cell? Surely it would be impossible to keep all of us in one cell?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have thought so,” replied Nathanial. “Such conditions would be no worse than the gaols in Great Britain, after all. Surely you bunk in a similar fashion aboard Sovereign, Seaman?”

“But to have no escape! No light!” cried Burroughs.

“Keep your voice down, man!” Folkard urged. “Do you want every one of these monsters to hear you?” The repetitive thumping was either increasing in volume or proximity and Folkard found himself having to raise his voice louder than he was comfortable with.

“One would hope that, if they expect us to build them a wall for this city, they would treat us somewhat better than the Israelites,” said Nathanial, attempting to reason with Burroughs. “Why, I would hope they would treat us in the same way as a British ship would treat a prisoner of war.”

“Oh God!” Burroughs bawled, straining desperately at his chains.

“Seaman Burroughs, control yourself. That is an order!” demanded Folkard. “Have you already forgotten what happened to McKittrick?”

“Oh, God, here they come!” screamed Burroughs, attempting to push past Folkard and Phillips, to whom he was still chained.

The move was no more successful than one might expect and presently he found himself entangled in the shackles and losing his balance entirely, coming to a halt on his knees at the feet of a Drobate guard. As Burroughs looked up, Nathanial saw the guard draw his weapon. Folkard and Phillips to his right and left had barely time to react before the guard fired, sending a charge of electricity down his body as if it were a length of wire and killing him immediately.

As Burroughs fell to the floor, Nathanial felt himself being dragged down too and, if not for quick reflexes on Folkard’s part and on the part of Phillips, the entire party would have collapsed in an untidy heap, stunned from the electrical current which had passed through them when Burroughs received the charge.

The brutality of the move seemed to shock even the Drobates, who immediately relieved the guard of his weapon and dragged him away. Or perhaps, Nathanial reflected, the reaction was simply to his having reduced the tally of prisoners below some superstitiously propitious number. Nathanial had scarcely time to regain sensation in his shock-numbed fingers before the entire group, man and Selenite alike, were dragged off toward the garish palace fronted by the two large golden icons.

6.

BEDFORD FOUND the situation so absurd he would have laughed, had the stakes not been so high. After long hours of prowling and searching, after uncovering another cache of three-inch shells and one of rifle cartridges loaded in dozens of the long straight magazines used by the Russian Gorloff rapid-fire guns, the Marines and Estonians had ambushed a small party of Saltators, killed two, driven several off, but captured uninjured (mostly) a Saltator and a Russian soldier. The Russian, rather inconveniently, did not speak English, nor did the Saltator. The Saltator did speak a bit of Russian, it seemed, and K’ovib spoke enough of the Saltator tongue to make himself understood to their Selenite captive. In order to interrogate the Russian, Bedford had to put his question in English to K’ovib, who phrased it to the Saltator in his tongue, who translated to Russian, listened to the reply, translated to his own tongue, and then K’ovib translated to English.

The Russian soldier seemed anxious to talk, anxious to ingratiate himself with his captors, which made the exercise maddeningly frustrating. It was not merely slow, the Russian’s answers, often lengthy and clearly rich with detail, invariably came back as unintelligible nonsense.

“Where are the other caches of the steel eggs?” Bedford had asked.

“Eggs from Toolarooza.” K’ovib eventually told him. “Is Toolarooza their steel queen?”

“Blasted if I know what the devil it is,” Bedford answered. “This is pointless! Captain Folkard should be here. He speaks Russian like a native. He could interrogate this fellow directly and find out everything we need to know.”

“Take Roozan to friend Folkard,” K’ovib suggested rather unhelpfully.

“Well, as splendid an idea as that may be, I am afraid I have no idea where the captain happens to be” Bedford said.

“Follow yellow marks to river,” K’ovib said, his head cocked slightly to one side as if it were obvious.

“Yellow marks?”

K’ovib explained, and as he did so, Bedford’s anger at the incompetence of the Otterbein Base leadership grew. Folkard’s party had marked their path with yellow paint, presumably to better retrace their steps later, and one of K’ovib’s scouts had observed them so doing. No one at Otterbein had seen fit to tell Bedford that.

After extracting all the information about the River of Life K’ovib had to offer—which was not a great deal, once the obviously legendary bits were stripped away—Bedford made his decision. Harrison and George had near a hundred Sikh infantry and half of Sovereign’s Marines. If they couldn’t look after Otterbein with that force, they could go to blazes. Folkard’s party was down there somewhere along this so-called “River of Life” and Bedford’s responsibility was with that group, even had Annabelle not been among them. It would not be right, after all, to allow his feelings for her to sway his judgement, but he was confident he had not.

“Colour Sergeant, pick me out a good runner to return to Otterbein.”

“Sir! Jones, fall in.”

“Not Jones. We may need his marksmanship later.”

“Whelan, fall in.”

Bedford scribbled a note to Larkins detailing the other caches they had found, explaining they had captured a Russian soldier, had learned the approximate whereabouts of Folkard’s party—and how they knew—and that they would attempt to reach the party and bring it back.

“Will you come with us, K’ovib?” Bedford asked after dispatching the Private Whelan.

“No, friend Bedford. We must take word back to Queen Q’theletockus of danger from Roozans and Saltators. Will help her understand if I take Saltator prisoner with us.”

7.

NATHANIAL HAD experienced a variety of ship’s brigs but had never before spent time in a dungeon, so he had little against which to compare this experience. It occurred to him, however, that, were the pending charges against him not dropped back home, he might soon have numerous additional similar venues to review—assuming they escaped from this prison, of course, which did not seem very likely. At least they had finally been fed, and reasonably well. The hot mushroom and fish chowder which so far had supplied both their meals was filling and not entirely unpalatable, particularly for hungry men.

For that matter, the treatment, if not rising either to the level of polite, or even considerate, was certainly no longer brutal. If, as Stevenson had said, the plan was to use them for heavy construction work, it made sense to build up their strength, or at least avoid any further weakening. Hopefully the Drobate guards would take care to no further diminish their numbers.

As it was, there were almost a dozen ragged-looking Russians already in the dungeon when their contingent arrived. The Russians from their own party greeted them, some with very sentimental affection, finding friends long since believed dead. Nathanial found it touching, although with their numbers increased the Russians drew apart from the British, and whatever sense of shared hardship they had felt before seemed to dissipate. The political balance of their small nation had shifted.

As much as Nathanial wished to resume his conversation with the friend he had thought lost, Stevenson fell into an exhausted sleep almost as soon as he finished his meal. For his part, Nathanial’s muscles ached but he felt no drowsiness yet. Several of the others had laid down to sleep as well, but Captain Folkard remained seated on the bench which lined three sides of the large cell which held all of the humans. He sat quietly, staring off to one side but at nothing Nathanial could see.

If anyone could bridge the gulf between the British and the Russians, perhaps draw them together toward the common goal of escape, it was Folkard. He alone spoke both languages fluently.

Nathanial crossed the cell and sat next to the captain, who looked at him with a slight start, as if waking from a dream.

“Ah, Stone. Get enough to eat?”

“Yes, Captain, and thank you for your courtesy in asking. You seem preoccupied and I hesitated to interrupt you, but I wondered, have you been able to read any further thoughts of the Drobates?”

Folkard shook his head. “Not the Drobates, no. But there’s something else—a sort of low buzzing, like a mosquito somewhere in the room but not right on you—do you know?”

“I’m afraid I don’t hear anything, Captain.”

“No, of course not. It’s not a sound, it’s…” His voice trailed off but he scratched the back of his neck as if it itched. “I have to get on,” he said softly, as if to himself.

“Get on, Captain?” Nathanial repeated and Folkard looked sharply at him

“Did you just read my mind?”

“No, Captain. You spoke to yourself. Out loud.”

Folkard closed his eyes and nodded, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Yes, of course, of course. It’s not you. Stevenson perhaps, but not you.”

“Captain, I think you should try to get some rest.”

“I suppose so,” Folkard answered. “They’re going to put us to work on the wall by the Sea Gate after our rest period.”

“Did they tell you that?” Nathanial said.

“Tell me what? Oh. The sea gate—yes, I suppose so. Or I overheard it—I don’t remember.”

“Why don’t you lie down, Folkard, and try to rest?”

The captain did so without further resistance and Nathanial went back to his former place and curled up, head resting on his arm, and tried to sleep.

Sleep did not come easily, however. Moments ago his principal concern had been for his friend Stevenson, too weak to protect himself. Now Nathanial suspected he had another friend—well, acquaintance, or more than that, say comrade—to look after, someone also much weakened but in a different way. But if Folkard, the man who had been their strength until now, was incapable of leading them to a plan of escape, what chance had they?

Chapter Seven

“An Escape!”

1.

CHIEF CHARLES cursed under his breath as the Drobate overseers struck a Selenite prisoner with enough force to knock it to its knees. Beside him K’chuk shifted restlessly but Charles put a steadying hand on his forelimb.

“Easy now. Won’t do them any good us getting killed or captured.”

“Yes, friend Charles. Knowing not make watching easy.”

No it didn’t. This was the second time they had lain in the rocks and watched the work party brought out. Was that two days? With no cycle of day and night it was hard to gauge the passage of time. Miss Somerset and Doctor Staples each had pocket watches but both had stopped working after the swim in the river. They’d lain up at the island for the better part of a day as well, gathering food and strengthening the raft. They’d even built a lean-to shelter to block the damp wind which blew down the underground passage. That was odd; Charles couldn’t remember feeling much wind anywhere else on Luna, but a persistent breeze followed the course of the river.

It was only a few hours after they’d left the island that they’d run a long but not particularly difficult rapids and the river had emptied into an enormous cavern, far bigger than the one holding Otterbein Base. The far side of the cavern was simply the glowing fungus of the roof extended right down to the water, so the cavern clearly stretched beyond the horizon—which was quite a bit closer here than on Earth, of course, so no telling how big the place was. One thing was immediately clear: they’d found the city.

Charles had looked back and seen three other distinct inlets into the cavern in addition to the one they had emerged from, all of them to the left of theirs. One of the inlets had no sign of white water, so it was undoubtedly the deep navigation channel the submersibles followed. The party had hiked down the right bank of the river originally, and so whenever the river forked, as it did numerous times, Charles always took the right branch. He’d done it to avoid getting lost in an underground maze, but the choice had saved their lives. The city sprawled along the right bank no more than a mile ahead. Charles had used the long steering sweep to skull the raft toward the shore and when they were close enough O’Hara and Gibbs had slid into the water and helped pull it toward the bank. They’d nestled in a small cove sheltered from direct observation from the city by a substantial rocky hill.

They’d camped. They’d explored the area around the cove. They’d inventoried their weapons and assets. They’d scouted the approaches to the city, found ways to sneak close in the towering rock walls of the cavern above the docks without being observed. They’d watched the work parties, including their people, emerge from the gate by the harbour and toil for hours rebuilding the wall. They’d gathered food and other items they would need for their escape, and Miss Somerset had been wonderfully useful in organizing all of that. They had every aspect of the operation figured out except for the most important part: how were they to overcome the guards and free the prisoners, overlooked by big gun mounts at the gate, and do it with only three sailors, three Selenites, and three Enfield revolvers? Charles had examined the problem from every angle he could think of, but he had begun to fear it was beyond his abilities. His old man wouldn’t like that much, but his old man wasn’t here trying to figure this out.

A small rock hit beside Charles and K’chuk and the coxswain turned in alarm, his revolver at the read. Instead of danger, Charles saw Leading Machinist O’Hara standing on the riverbank waving to attract his attention and pointing out into the river. Charles looked and saw another raft just emerge from the closest river outlet, the one they had come through themselves. This was a larger raft, better built, and with a more seaworthy look to it, about as wide as theirs but twice as long, with the logs all running bow-to-stern and with a tapered bow reinforced with additional cross-logs. Eight red-coated men occupied the raft, two standing and waving but six of them seated and manning long oars along with a man in muddy green. One blue-uniformed man, clearly a naval officer, stood at the rear of the raft at the long steering sweep.

Charles felt a wave of exquisite relief wash over him as he realized that in a few minutes he would no longer be in command.

2.

GEORGE BEDFORD felt his heart race when he saw Annabelle on the shore of the small cove with the other survivors. Only three men and two Selenites stood beside her—where was the rest of the party? Then Bedford saw another man and a Selenite making their way back from the broken high ground nearer the city and one emerging from the shadows of the cavern wall near the cove. Perhaps the others were nearby as well.

The six Marines at the oars pulled the raft closer to the shore. Annabelle stood there, right hand braced on Ordinary Seaman Fenn’s cane, and she simply looked at Bedford, her expression impossible to read. At length she lifted her left hand in greeting. He let go of the steering sweep with his right hand and lifted his cap to her, but that felt too stiff and formal so he waved it back and forth and smiled. She lowered her hand and wiped her cheeks.

The raft grounded and Booth and Moore jumped into the shallow water and pulled the nose of the raft up, helped by the three naval ratings on shore. The Marines shipped their oars and scampered ashore and Bedford followed them.

“Pull the raft well up onto the shore, men, and secure the stores,” Bedford ordered and then walked to Annabelle. “Miss Somerset, I cannot express the extent of my satisfaction at finding you alive and looking so well.”

She smiled ruefully and pulled the fingers of her free hand through her tangled hair. “You are a gallant liar, George Bedford.”

Bedford took her left hand in both of his. “No, Annabelle. Upon my honour, I have never seen a better sight than the one before me now.”

Their eyes met and she smiled, colour coming to her cheeks. Someone cleared his throat behind him. Bedford turned to face Charles, with Booth and Moore behind him, all of them smiling.

“I am also pleased to see you so cheerful Chief Charles,” George said. “Where is Captain Folkard and the rest of the party?” At that the happy expression slipped away from the petty officer’s face and he came to attention.

“Sir! Beg to report, Captain Folkard and four other members of the party taken prisoner, sir!”

“Damn! The Russians have them, eh?”

“No, sir, Drobates got ’em, holding them in that city just down river.”

“Drobates? Who the devil are the Drobates?”

3.

ANNABELLE WAITED while Charles, K’chuk and Doctor Staples related the adventures of the last few days, including the ambush of Folkard and the others by the Drobates, and then their voyage down the river to this cove. George’s eyes wandered during the explanation, apparently to take in the surrounding terrain, the camp, the health of the others in the party, but they kept coming back to Annabelle, which gave her a wonderful feeling of warmth. Soon enough, though, it was time to address the pressing problem facing them.

“They bring the work party out every six or seven hours and work them at least that long,” Charles explained. “I’d say a score of humans and half again as many more Selenites, with a half-dozen armed guards. There’s no cover of night to use to sneak up on them and our revolvers don’t have much range, so we—well, I was proper stumped there, sir.”

“That’s quite a large number of Selenites and men,” George answered, his brow furrowed in thought. “What were you going to do if you could get them free? Surely you would need more than this one raft with which to escape.”

“Oh, yes, sir, but the rafts are no good from here. The river would take them right past the city and under its guns, and even if we ran the batteries, there’s those submersibles to worry about. And we don’t know where the river ends up anyway. No, sir, beggin’ your pardon, but the river’s out. K’chuk found our escape route he did, whilst scouting around the camp for food. Go ahead, K’chuk, tell Lieutenant Bedford.”

“Found entrance in cavern wall to iron ribbon tunnel, friend Bedford. Iron ribbon tunnel goes back in direction of my home.”

“Iron ribbon?” George asked.

“I’ve seen it, sir,” Charles put in. “Like a rail tunnel, only there’s just the one big rail in the centre, instead of two.”

“Show me,” George ordered and the entire group trooped over to a section of the cavern wall.

A number of dripstones had at one time fallen and formed a rubble pile here which K’chuk and his two helpers had cleared to one side. The entrance proper was recessed into the cavern wall and down a short ramp.

George went down and stuck his head into the dark opening. “Too small for a public entrance so this must have been a maintenance access portal. It’s dark in here, no glowing moss. How are we to find our way?”

“Miss Somerset worked that out, sir,” Charles answered as Bedford re-emerged.

“Mister Charles would have thought of it soon, I am certain,” Annabelle said as she walked toward the collection of escape supplies, “but he was occupied with our security arrangements and scouting the enemy, as I am sure you understand.”

“Of course,” George said, falling in beside her. “Have you gathered some of the glowing moss to use? I thought its juices too powerfully corrosive.”

“Too much so for use to try to collect, given what tools we had to work with,” Annabelle agreed. “Besides, the moss grows too high in this cavern to reach easily and none of us are expert climbers. So we made these instead.” She gestured to the large stack of carefully made torches, each one a stout branch from a mushroom tree—as she now thought of them—with the ends wrapped in dried moss of the non-dangerous variety and secured by several lengths of vine. “We had no dry matches after our river journey, but we have nearly a hundred rounds of pistol ammunition. When the time came we would empty two or three cartridges of their powder onto this large torch, ignite it by firing a pistol directly into it, and then use this one to light the others.”

George looked at the torches and nodded thoughtfully. “As it happens, we have matches with us, but this is a clever and resourceful expedient. Very well, if you could get the prisoners here, you would light these torches…”

“Only a few of them, George,” Annabelle interrupted. “We do not know how long the tunnel stretches, so most of the torches we planned to keep in reserve, lighting them one after another as the others burn out.”

“Yes, quite a sensible precaution,” George agreed and looked at her with admiration so frank she felt colour again come to her cheeks. “So you equip a few with torches, take the rest as a reserve, and make your way up the tunnel toward Otterbein Base. What about pursuit?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Chief Charles spoke up. “K’chuk and I was working on that. His folk see better in the darkness and he found a place about twenty yards up the tunnel where the roof’s buckled. We cut those shoring timbers over there and planned to use them to hold up the ceiling while we worked at loosening the slabs up above. That way the rearguard could pull the props out and drop the tunnel roof behind us.”

George nodded thoughtfully. “We may have a more reliable means of bringing that ceiling down. We brought a dozen three-inch field gun rounds with us, courtesy of the Tsar. No fuses for the warheads, I’m afraid, but the shell casings are full of propellant bags. Stuff the powder from five or six of those rounds up into the cracks and gaps in that ceiling and I’ll wager it will come down handsomely. We’ll need to rig a fuse, of course, but that shouldn’t be an insurmountable problem. It appears all that remains is to actually secure the release of the prisoners. Colour Sergeant Moore.”

“Sir!”

“Break out the rations. These people look as if they could do with a meal other than mushrooms and it’s time we ate as well. No telling when we’ll have another opportunity. So first a quick meal of biscuit and bully and then, Chief Charles, you and I will have a look at that city.”

4.

NATHANIAL HEFTED the large granite boulder and for a moment considered throwing it at the Drobate overseer. That was merely a fantasy, of course. The Drobates were sufficiently agile to dodge a thrown rock, he estimated, and were watchful enough he’d be dead from one of those electric rifles before the boulder hit ground. Still, thinking about it gave him a dark pleasure with which he was unfamiliar.

“Not such big rocks, Stone,” Professor Phillips said. “The Selenites cannot lift them up onto the breach.”

Nathanial dropped the boulder and picked up a smaller one.

The humans gathered the rocks and deposited them at the base of the wall, if you could call it that. The Selenites could reach higher and place the stones in the gaps, although the men were actually stronger, a result of having grown up on a world with much stronger gravity. All that was true but Nathanial nevertheless felt a flush of resentment. Folkard worked wordlessly carrying stones, all but oblivious to his surroundings, had acted thus for the last two days and Phillips had stepped in to assume leadership, but by what right? He had mentioned it quietly to Stevenson the night before but his friend had only shrugged.

“Someone has to lead us,” he had said. “The Captain no longer can, and me? I am a follower. Professor Phillips is a leader.”

“And what am I?”

“That is for you to say, not I.”

The prison was cold and damp, and the Drobates provided no blankets, so the prisoners huddled next to each other for warmth when they slept. Nathanial and Stevenson did so as well each night—for he thought of it thus as the Drobates extinguished the electric light during their sleep period—but this time Phillips had joined them.

“The Captain sleeps fitfully, troubled by dreams,” he had explained as he dropped to the floor on the other side of Stevenson and made himself comfortable. “I’ll curl up with you two. We British have to stick together.” Sleep had not come easily to Nathanial after that, and fatigue may have contributed to his cross mood this work period. The next stone he picked up he considered throwing as well, but not at a Drobate guard.

Stevenson stumbled with the stone he carried and fell to his knees, trembling with weakness. Nathanial dashed to his side and helped him to his feet.

“Are you unwell?” he asked, suddenly frightened for his friend’s safety. If the Drobates thought him incapable of further work Nathanial shuddered to contemplate what they might do.

“My strength fails me. I fear I am not up to continuing. Perhaps with another day of rest and more food…”

Phillips joined them. “Still a bit weak are you, Stevenson? Here,” said Phillips, reaching in his pockets, “I have about my person a small quantity of the stimulant ephedra, which the Chinese call ma huang. I obtained it from Eastern sources before my departure to Luna. Its effects are somewhat ephemeral but it should provide the necessary boost of energy so that you can continue working.”

“May I ask why you carry this with you?” asked Nathanial.

“I thought it might prove useful and so it has,” said Phillips shortly, drawing a frown from Nathanial. Phillips carefully tore the end off of a folded triangle of paper and handed it to Stevenson. “Just knock this right back. It would be better with something to wash the powder down, but choke it down as best as you can.”

Stevenson did as instructed and made a face but managed to get it down.

“One of the guards is coming’” Phillips said. “Stone, go about your business and I’ll engage the guard, give Stevenson a chance to catch his breath.”

Nathanial did as we was told, feeling useless and stupid and somehow put upon. What is wrong with me? he asked himself and shook his head angrily. He should be grateful for the assistance rendered his friend, assistance which—if it worked—could very well save Stevenson’s life. Instead he felt this simmering, petty resentment which gave him no pleasure, no satisfaction. It made him feel small—because it was small.

Was it simply that he wanted Stevenson to think of Nathanial as his sole saviour, to be his hero? If so, what a selfish, foolish wish that was! And on what basis could he claim it? Had he failed to lead this group because Phillips had usurped his position? Of course not. He never led, did he? Annabelle had led them on Venus and he had followed. He had followed on Mercury too, and if he’d had half the brains he fancied he’d have done so on Peregrine Station as well, instead of joining the others in pooh-poohing Annabelle’s suspicions. God, how differently things might have turned out had he but the sense to listen to her! All those lives lost and Annabelle left a cripple, and never a word of reproach from her lips, never so much as a hint.

“Stop wool-gathering, Stone. The guards are watching you,” Phillips whispered from his side and Nathanial turned with a start, remembered the rock in his hands. He saw Stevenson handing his own boulder to a Selenite by the wall, clearly feeling stronger.

“Yes, of course. Sorry. And…thank you for helping Stevenson. Bringing that powder was quite clever. Unconventional, of course, but it may have saved his life.”

“It may save all our lives by the time we’re free of these villains,” Phillips answered and patted him on the shoulder in a comradely fashion.

5.

BEDFORD WOULDN’T have minded having Stone with him now. The young scientist might have had an idea what those two large weapons were in the gun towers to either side of the gate. The longer Bedford stared at them the less certain he was of their function, but they certainly looked like no field gun or rapid fire weapon he had ever seen. They clearly had range, however, or there would be no point in giving them that much elevation above the surrounding landscape. No gunner worth his salt ever gives a gun more field of fire than it can itself cover, given a choice. Otherwise you just give longer-ranged guns the ability to sit back out of range and shell your gun position with impunity. These guns could probably sweep the entire approaches from the hill shielding the cove to the city itself, well over a thousand yards. Bedford and his men could deal with six guards and free the prisoners, but that wouldn’t be enough. They had to silence those guns or they would never make it back to the cove.

They had worked their way forward through small ravines and dips in the ground, past clumps of mushroom trees and stunted scrub, to this vantage place, as close to the walls as they could move unobserved. The Marines had stained the white canvas covers of their cork helmets with lunar mud and turned them backwards so the metal badges would not catch and reflect the light. They’d rubbed mud on their pipe-clayed white webbing and red tunics as well, and several days of climbing through caverns and splashing through low pockets of water had given them a good head start in any case. They all blended in as well as possible with the grey-brown lunar landscape, but still could not move further without risking detection and thus losing the element of surprise. Fortunately the work party laboured on a stretch of wall closer to this jump-off position than the gate itself, perhaps a hundred yards. They could close half that distance in seconds and then open fire.

“What do you think, Jones? Can you keep the gunners away from those weapons while we make our dash?” Bedford asked.

Beside him the Welshman squinted at the towers and frowned. “I could do tha’; bit awkward, mind. Don’t know if I’ll hit anyone, but I’ll bounce enough bullets around that they’ll keep their heads down, I will. Unless they’re bloody fools! But then that’ll be their problem, won’t it?”

Bedford smiled. “Ready then, lads? Remember, quietly until they see us, then cut them down and no hesitation. Let’s go!”

6.

FOLKARD ENJOYED the mindless routine of carrying rocks to the wall. It freed his minds for other things, although of late his mind had been preoccupied with the soft humming in his head, both soothing and frustrating at the same time, which drove most of his other thoughts away. This, he had thought earlier, must be what opium addiction is like. If so, he now understood its appeal. The pleasurable caress of the Heart, for he knew now that is what this must be (it was the same feeling he remembered from his last mission to Luna), seemed stronger when he faced up-river. It felt better to walk that way, and worst to walk the other way, back toward the wall—not painful, but emotionally distressing, as if he disappointed the Heart when he did so. He hoped the Heart understood this was not his choice, but of course it must; the Heart understood everything, surely. That thought gave him a moment’s peace.

The thought-voices of the Drobates formed an annoying background murmur in his head, usually as unintelligible as actual voices heard at a distance. Suddenly his skull burst with urgent exclamations of alarm so powerful it startled him into dropping the stone he carried. Then rifles crackled behind him. He spun and saw men in greying-brown mottled clothing aiming and firing rifles toward him and he instinctively dove to the ground.

“Get down!” he shouted to the other prisoners, probably unnecessarily. “Take cover!”

An electric rifle buzzed and snapped and one of the riflemen jerked and collapsed back. More rifle shots, then they grey-brown soldiers advanced again, and there were no more answering electric rifle discharges. One of the advancing soldiers turned his grey helmet around and exposed a shining metallic badge.

“Let the bastards know who we are!” the man shouted, and the other turned their helmets around as they loped forward.

Folkard knew that voice! Those were mud-covered Royal Marine Light Infantry uniforms and that was Colour Sergeant Moore! Folkard sprang to his feet, actually rising a bit higher than he intended.

“Colour Sergeant! Over here!”

Moore trotted over and came to attention in front of him, rifle at port arms.

“Sir!”

Yes… What was he supposed to say now? Moore wanted something, orders perhaps. But what?

“Who is in command and what are your orders?”

“Sir. Lieutenant Bedford in command. Orders are: put the guards down and get the prisoners back to the escape tunnel.”

Escape tunnel? The other Marines were gathering around him as well. He had to say something.

“Um…it’s your detail, Moore. Carry on. I’ll…help get the prisoners organised.”

“Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, very good to see you again, sir. All right, you lot heard the captain, let’s get these prisoners moving.”

Nathanial, Phillips, and Stevenson already trotted toward them, faces split in huge grins, while the Russians drifted toward them, expressions a mix of hesitance, confusion, and excitement. A hundred yards out a seaman stood up and waved them on. “This way!” he shouted.

“Come on, chaps,” Folkard said to the three other British prisoners. “Let’s get these Russians and Selenites moving. We haven’t got long to cover that open ground before the Drobates swarm out of the city. Etot poot!” he shouted in Russian and waved the Slavs on.

7.

BEDFORD AND the storming party ran across the open ground as fast as they could in the low gravity. Rather like running under water, the problem was to gain traction and speed without rising too high in the air. Marine rifles crackled behind him and to his right, and then a single rifle shot rang out and he saw a stone chip knocked from the closest gun tower half a dozen feet below the lip. Jones would have to do better than that or they would likely not make it. Already a Drobate gunner stared at the battle below and then turned to man the gun. A second shot rang out and the gunner spun around and fell from sight inside the tower. Of course; Jones had deliberately made his first shot low so he could see the bullet strike and judge his correction accordingly. Another shot and Bedford saw sparks fly from the gun, then another shot and more sparks flew from a glancing blow on the farther gun.

To his right and paralleling them Bedford saw two Drobate guards running in apparent panic along a converging course for the gate. They were unarmed, probably having thrown away their rifles to run faster. As he watched, Charles paused briefly, took aim with his revolver and shot both of them.

The four of them pounded through the open gate and skidded to a halt—slid further on the low-gravity low-friction Luna than they would have on Earth, unless they had been on ice—and looked around for the tower entrances.

“There they are!” O’Hara shouted and pulled open the door of the far tower and disappeared in.

Bedford followed him after making sure Booth and Charles had gained entrance to their tower as well. He started up the odd stairway, a spiral ramp with pronounced transverse ridges, not really stairs at all but damned useful for traction going up. O’Hara, shouting a bloodthirsty Gaelic war cry, was already well ahead and Bedford scrambled to catch up. He heard a pistol shot ahead of him, another, the sound of a scuffle, and O’Hara crying out in pain. Bedford sprinted up the next turn and found O’Hara and a Drobate lying against the outside wall of the tower, limbs entangled with each other and both nearly covered with each other’s blood. He knelt by O’Hara, but he was already gone, a long steel-bladed knife buried to the hilt in the centre of his chest, the dying thrust of the mortally wounded Drobate gunner. Bedford closed the dead sailor’s eyes and picked up his revolver in his free hand.

He rose and climbed the last turn of the ramp. He emerged onto the bright light of the open-topped gun platform and saw a wounded Drobate—probably Jones’s handiwork―struggling to raise a rifle of baroque and exotic design. Bedford had no idea what its function might be and had no intention of finding out. He shot the gunner three times with his revolver. The rifle was so bizarrely attractive and at the same time sinister in appearance that Bedford holstered his own revolver and pulled the rifle free from the dead man’s hands, then slung its strap over his head and shoulder. He heard more pistol fire from the other tower and then saw Booth emerge. Bedford took off his hat and waved it over his head to Jones, the signal to cease firing. Then he set about examining the gun for the best place for his charges.

Gun indeed! It looked more like a miniature version of the aether propeller machinery on Sovereign. Whatever it was, it had precision sights, a nasty-looking business end, and the clear look of lethality about it. Bedford found several cable bundles leading to a wiring trunk set into the centre of the tower floor. He stuffed the explosive bags under the wiring and against the gun mount, took out one of the phosphorous matches he’d passed out to each of the storming party, struck it, and as the fuse flared to life he turned and dashed for the rampwell.

He half-ran and half leaped back down the circular ramp. He grabbed O’Hara’s jacket collar as he passed him and dragged his body behind him down the ramp, finding it no burden at all once he got it moving. Half way down, the tower shook from the explosion up above and a metal panel in the spine of the tower blew off with a loud clang, spewing giant sparks into the rampwell. Bedford ran through them and within moments emerged from the ground level doorway just as the other gun mount exploded.

Already the streets were filling with Drobates although he heard no shouted words of alarm. The crowd showed clear signs of panic, and its silence rendered the scene all the more surreal. A bizarre wheeled motor vehicle sped through the crowd, actually ran one of the locals over, and made speed toward the gate. Bedford leaned O’Hara’s body against the tower wall, drew his own pistol with his right hand, and raised both revolvers. As the vehicle drew close he fired both pistols until their hammers clicked on empty chambers. At least one of his bullets found its mark, as the car swerved to one side, then wildly to the other, and then tipped over and rolled repeatedly until it crashed into a building side and exploded in flames. Oddly, the building it collided with seemed none the worse for wear.

The door to the other tower swung open and Booth and Charles appeared. Both men gaped at the burning mechanical wreckage.

“Having fun, are you, Bedford?” Booth asked with a grin but then saw the bloody body of O’Hara crumpled by the doorway and his smile vanished

“We’re done here; back to the cove,” Bedford answered.

“I’ll bring along Paddy,” Chief Charles said and he lifted his shipmate’s body over his shoulder.

8.

“HURRY, STEVENSON!” Nathanial shouted the encouragement to his friend, although they made good enough time as it was. The Russians were in a poorer state. The Drobates had left most of them chained together in two groups of six or seven men each and arranged them as two long human conveyor belts, passing stone from hand to hand. Why the British and a few Russians had had been left to work on their own was, like so much about the Drobates, unclear. As Nathanial looked back at the struggling mass of men, tripping and falling on their chains as they tried to flee, he saw Folkard suddenly appear among them. The captain gave orders in Russian in the calm and confident voice Nathanial remembered, then gave an order, and repeated it as the group fell into line and began marching in step.

Closer to the wall, however, most of the Selenites still milled about aimlessly. Nathanial stopped.

“Stevenson, you go on and stay close to Phillips.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to get those poor beasts. I’ll be along presently.”

9.

BEDFORD FOUND Moore and his Marines spread in a skirmish line, withdrawing slowly and firing the occasional round toward the city. Bedford noticed the men leaned well forward when taking aim, fell into a half-crouch, and braced their right foot against whatever rock outcropping they could find—another necessity in the low lunar gravity to keep their rifle recoil from bowling them over.

Behind the skirmish line one Marine carried the body of another over his shoulder and Professor Stone and two naval ratings encouraged a gaggle of Selenites toward the stony hill and the cove beyond. Stone stood in the centre, spreading his arms wide and then bringing his hands in together toward his chest, and the two ratings did likewise. As he thought about it, it was a gesture Bedford remembered K’chuk using to summon workers.

“Report, Colour Sergeant,” Bedford said as he got to Moore.

“Sir! All prisoners freed and on their way back. Captain Folkard is with the Russians. Two of the prisoners, Burroughs and McKittrick, were killed before we arrived. Also recovered Able Seaman Stevenson from the last mission.”

“Stevenson? Alive? Now that’s good news. Casualties?”

“One, sir: Corporal Johnson, dead. I see you lost a man as well.”

“Yes, O’Hara from Chief Charles’s party.”

“Don’t like losing anyone, sir, but two casualties—it could have been worse.”

“I suppose you’re right, Colour Sergeant, and it still might become so. Look out there!”

A dozen armed Drobates spilled out of the gate at the run, came to a halt and raised their rifles. Before they fired five Marine rifles barked and two of the Drobate soldiers pitched backward to the ground. The others fired and one of the Marines cried out in pain and fell. Another four rifle shots crackled and one more Drobate fell, the rest running back inside the gate for cover.

One of the Marines writhed and twitched on the ground for a moment and then began simply trembling and moaning. Another knelt by him, felt his heart, and looked up in surprise.

“He’s still alive, Colour Sergeant!”

“Those electric rifles must lose some punch at this range,” Moore said. “At seventy yards one of them killed Johnson in his tracks. Pick him up, man, and fall back as close to those Selenites as you can. With your permission, of course, sir.”

“I’ll carry that wounded man,” Bedford said. “You’ll need every rifle you’ve got firing. There’s movement along the rubble wall, as well. Booth, take command of the rearguard.”

“Right. Heighway, Jones, fire at anything moving along the wall,” Booth ordered. “Keep their heads down.” He stooped and picked up the injured Marine’s rifle

Rifles crackled again and as they did so a curious siren blared from the city. It was a dreadful sound, the sort that one might imagine a banshee to make. It wailed in the harsh manner of a particularly vicious alley cat, yet had a peculiar metallic quality to it as though two sharp pieces of steel were scraping together, a high note followed by a low note and then repeated. Bedford looked around and could tell the Marines found it unnerving as well.

“I don’t much like the sound of that, men. I’ll try to hurry Stone and the Selenites. The sooner as we’re out of here, the better. Chief Charles, come with me. Revolvers aren’t any good at this range.” Bedford put the wounded Marine over his shoulder and found him surprisingly light. In some ways the added weight made it easier to run, keeping Bedford closer to the ground and giving him more traction.

Electric rifles had Moore said? He must have learned that from the prisoners. Well, Bedford had one of them over his back and saw that one of the Marines had had the presence of mind to pick one up as well. The scientists back in London would want to have a look at one, provided they managed to get out of here alive.

“Good thinking, Stone,” Bedford called out as he and Chief Charles came abreast of the scientist, “and good to see you in one piece. Stevenson, welcome back aboard.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You up to carrying this injured man?” he asked the slender rating.

“He’s very weak, Bedford,” Stone put in. “The prisoners were…”

“Right, then. Gunner Gibbs, you take him. Chief Charles, get Gibbs, the wounded, and O’Hara’s body back to the tunnel and assume command there until I arrive. This is quite an army we have here so start them moving up the tunnel at once. Don’t want a mob scene at that doorway.”

“Aye-aye, sir.” Charles answered as Gibbs took the injured Marine from Bedford and they started back at a trot.

“Stone, anything you can do to speed up your flock would be much appreciated by Mister Booth and the rearguard, I am quite certain,” Bedford said.

Stone nodded and made his arm motions quicker and more insistent, and backed up more quickly. The Selenites, many of them clearly suffering from starvation and abuse, nevertheless shuffled along faster, sensing the mounting danger either from Stone’s urgency or the ululating screech of the city’s siren.

Bedford took the opportunity to reload both his revolvers as he walked back toward the hill, which took all but three of his remaining cartridges, and when he was done he handed O’Hara’s pistol to Stevenson. “You’ll need this before we’re done here, I’ll warrant.”

“Lieutenant Bedford, look!” Chief Charles shouted from up ahead and pointed toward the river. A long, black metallic shape, like an angular humpbacked whale, slide quickly through the water and toward the cove.

“A Drobate submersible!” Stone exclaimed.

“Whatever the devil it is, it’s cutting our line of retreat,” Bedford said.

Chapter Eight

“A Desperate Struggle”

1.

THE SUBMERSIBLE, dark grey and wicked-looking, cut through the waves toward the shoreline. The single glowing yellow window on the raised pilot house, the only substantial part of the vessel rising above the wave-washed curved upper hull, seemed a sinister and alien Polyphemian eye staring directly at Annabelle. To her right, six ragged and bearded men appeared on the crest of the stony hill, cast panicked looks at the approaching vessel, and then leaped and tumbled down the hill toward Annabelle and the others clustered by the entrance to the tunnel.

The vessel grounded near the bank, its nose rising slightly up and out of the water to reveal its prow as a long, flat slab extending toward the shore, a sort of built-in gangway. A hatch clanged open behind the pilot house and then Annabelle’s view was obstructed by the running ragged men, now shouting in panic in an unmistakably Slavic tongue.

Annabelle held the large lit torch in her left hand and several smaller unlit ones in her right. Now she lit the small ones and held them out to the men running toward her. “Here, take these and turn right in the tunnel,” she ordered.

Of course they could not understand her words, but her gestures could leave no doubt as to her intentions. Staples and Henry stood aside to let them pass and the Russian prisoner babbled something to them and pointed down the tunnel. The first two took the smaller torches and the third made to take the large one from her.

“No! We need that to light the others!” she cried out and pulled the torch back with both hands.

“Here now!” Seaman Henry shouted and grabbed the fellow’s shoulder. The other three Russians fell upon him, striking him and pushing him away from her.

Annabelle’s assailant pushed her back hard and as she had no balance or traction with only one real leg, his blow carried her back against the cavern wall and her head struck rock with sufficient force to leave her senseless.

She found herself seated on the ground, back against the stone wall, with no recollection of having fallen. The torch was gone but the melee still swirled around Seaman Henry. The Selenites held back, unsure what was happening or what to do, and George’s original Russian prisoner recoiled as well, his expression stricken. As Annabelle watched, a Russian stooped and picked up a fist-sized stone with a sharp point on one end and then sprang at Henry and lifted the stone above his head to brain the seaman. Before he could bring it down a shot rang out and the man stumbled away, the rock flying from his hand. For a moment the fight stopped and all eyes turned to Annabelle.

She herself was nearly as surprised as they to see the smoking derringer in her hand. George Bedford had slipped it to her on board Sovereign before their departure and she had carried it in her jacket pocket since, in case of emergency. Now, as she sat there still dazed from the blow to her head, the weapon seemed almost to have come to her hand and fired as if by its own volition. The wounded Russian, blood streaming from the side of his head, groaned and collapsed to the ground.

A Russian was the first to recover his senses. He tore the revolver from Henry’s grasp, cocked it, and turned it on Annabelle with a face twisted with fury, desperation, and loss all at once. Annabelle turned her head and closed her eyes, but heard and felt the swift passage of a body close by and then the scream of the Russian. She turned back to look and saw him lifted off the ground, revolver dropped and legs twitching, K’chuk’s mandibles locked solidly around his neck, blood coursing from the lethal wound and sheeting down his body. As if on command the other two Selenites fell on the two remaining Russians who cried out in terror and ran away from the tunnel. The original Russian prisoner ducked into the tunnel and disappeared, following his comrades.

The fight stopped as suddenly as it began, however, when Annabelle heard a strange buzzing snap and one of the fleeing Russians literally jumped in the air, arms and legs working in an uncontrollable muscular spasm, and then fell lifeless to the ground. Another snap and a Selenite fell.

“It’s the Drobates! Some kind of rifles!” Seaman Henry called and took cover behind the stack of fallen dripstones, first recovering his dropped revolver from the ground.

“Friend Annabelle into tunnel, quickly!” K’chuk said.

“Capital idea,” another voice added and she looked up to see Phillips slide to a halt beside her. “I’ll help her. You chaps hold them off.” As Henry began firing his revolver, Phillips grabbed her arms and half lifted, half dragged her down the ramp into the tunnel, and this simple movement brought on waves of dizziness and nausea.

“No,” she managed, although as she slipped into unconsciousness she could not say what it was she wanted instead of this.

2.

CHARLES RAN past the two lines of chained Russians, now again stumbling and tripping over each other in panic at the appearance of the submersible. He bounded up the rocky hill by the cove and as he crested the mound he saw the Drobates swarming off the deck of the submersible, the ones in the van firing their electric rifles toward the entrance to their escape tunnel. A pistol shot rang out and he saw one of the Drobates pitch into the water from the submersible’s deck, and for a moment electricity arced from the water toward the vessel and shore, and steam exploded upward from where the soldier’s weapon fell into the river, but it passed in a moment and the Drobates continued to jump to shore.

“Sorry, Paddy,” Charles said as he lowered the corpse of his shipmate to the ground. Then he fell prone on the hilltop, finding cover behind a fair-sized stone, and began firing into the crowd of Drobates below. In a moment Gunner Gibbs, having left the injured Marine on the lower slope, joined him.

The Drobates below reacted with alarm at the sudden fire from their flank, but then fired up at the two sailors. Electric bolts splashed the forward slopes and Charles felt occasional tingles transmitted either through the faint iron content of the stones or perhaps their dampness. One bolt passed close over his head and the static electricity from it made his hair stand on end and the revolver shocked his hand so that he almost dropped it in pain.

His sixth cartridge fired, Charles slid back down below the lip of the hill to reload. No sooner had he broke open the revolver and ejected the spent casings than Gibbs let out a blood-curdling screech and twitched, then fell limp against the rocks, his hair burning. With no fire from the crest Charles knew the Drobates would race to the top and, once they had a firm hold on it, all the Marines and escapees behind him would be caught between two fires.

He raced to stuff cartridges in the revolver’s cylinder, his hands trembling, but before he could close the pistol he looked up and saw a Drobate climb to the crest, raise his electric rifle at him, and then tumble backwards as a pistol fired from behind Charles.

He turned and saw the slender rating who had been among the escapees, the man Charles didn’t recognise but whom Lieutenant Bedford had called Stevenson. No time to thank him now. He snapped the revolver shut and cocked it just as a second Drobate’s face appeared above the crest. He put a bullet between the fellow’s eyes and sent him pitching back. Charles scrabbled forward a foot or two and brought his head up for a quick look over the crest and brought it back just as fast, an electric rifle bolt again narrowly missing him and again raising the hair on his head.

“Two of them moving around the river side of the hill,” he shouted to Stevenson, “trying to flank us!”

“I’ll take them,” a different voice answered and Charles saw Lieutenant Bedford nearly up the hill and now moving to the right.

The pistol fire ended in the low ground by the cove—Henry must be dead or he was reloading. If the second was true, the Drobates would rush him. Charles rose up just enough to see the submersible, raised his pistol over his head, and sent two pistol shots down in the general direction of the enemy on the beach. That might keep their heads down; it was the best he could do for Henry right now.

More pistol shots from his right. That would be the lieutenant. Then three Drobates came over the crest at once, in a concerted dash. Charles fired and then rolled to the side as one of them aimed at him. Stevenson’s pistol barked as well and as Charles finished his roll he fired again, and again, and then his hammer fell on an empty chamber. He had the revolver broken open and the empty shell casings tinkled against the rocks before it registered on him that all three Drobates were down. He glanced to the right and saw Lieutenant Bedford still up; he looked to the left and saw Stevenson up as well. Six more rounds in the cylinder, snap it shut, full cock. He looked at his left hand and realised he’d burned it grabbing the barrel of his pistol to break it open. Odd. He hadn’t felt it at the time, and even now it didn’t really hurt; he just knew it was burned.

“They’re running!” Bedford shouted, his voice hoarse. “Finish the bastards!” He stood up and fired over the hill until his own revolver was empty, and then Charles stood up and fired into the much-diminished crowd of Drobates leaping back down the hill toward their vessel.

Charles stooped for a moment and pulled the unused blasting charges from the pockets of O’Hara’s jacket and then crossed the crest and began leaping down from rock to rock.

3.

BEDFORD RELOADED his own revolver, or at least shoved his last three cartridges in. To his left Chief Charles scampered down the hillside toward the submersible, where half a dozen Drobates struggled in the shallow water trying to board and escape. Several of them were wounded, Bedford saw, and all had left their electric rifles on the bank. No threat there. He turned his eyes to the entrance of the tunnel and saw only a silent heap of bodies, human and Selenite and at least one Drobate all jumbled together, but no movement.

Annabelle!

He ran and leaped down the hill, took a hard spill toward the bottom which twisted his left ankle and scraped his right knee, not to mention split his right trouser leg open from thigh to shin, but he leaped back to his feet and raced to the entrance.

Seaman Henry, Doctor Staples, several Russian prisoners, and all three Selenites, including K’chuk, were dead. K’chuk’s torso lay sideways across the opening and it bore the marks of repeated strikes from those electric rifles, blackened and burned patches of skin with spiderweb shatter lines in the carapace surrounding them. There was no sign of Annabelle, however.

Behind him he heard a muffled explosion, turned, and saw a cloud of black smoke emerge from the open hatch of the submersible. Chief Charles stood on the deck, lit another explosive charge’s fuse with a match, and dropped it through the open hatch. He then turned and leaped from the body-strewn deck onto the shore. Another explosion echoed from the submersible, rocking it in the water, and blew out the window in the pilot house. Bedford turned back to the abattoir by the tunnel entrance.

“Annabelle! For God’s sake where are you!”

“It’s all right,” an unfamiliar male voice called out from the inky interior of the tunnel, “I’m safe.”

“Where is Miss Somerset?”

“Oh, she’s down here as well. Took a hit on the head but she should be all right,” the man answered.

In the dim light by the doorway a tall dark-haired man offered Bedford his hand. Bedford saw the tangle of Annabelle’s skirt and petticoat on the tunnel floor behind him.

“I’m Doctor Howard Phillips, the resident entomologist at…”

Bedford pushed him aside and knelt by Annabelle.

“Oh, I say!” Phillips said in irritation.

“Annabelle, my dear, can you hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered open. “George? Is that you? Oh, thank heavens you’re alive!” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, and he enfolded her in his own arms. “K’chuk!” she exclaimed and pushed away from him. “He is in danger! The Drobates…” she stopped speaking as she saw the expression on Bedford’s face.

“I am truly sorry, Annabelle. He died protecting you, sheltering you against their electric weapons with his own body.” Her face creased in grief and tears appeared in her eyes. Bedford took her by the shoulders. “Others died as well, and more will join them unless I see to the withdrawal. A horde of Drobates have issued from the city and snap at the heels of our rearguard.”

“Nathanial?”

“Alive when last I saw him.” He stood up and turned to the man. “Phillips is it? I’ll thank you to get Miss Somerset as far up the tunnel as you can manage in the dark. I’ll see about getting some torches in here.” From outside the sound of rifle fire, which sounded muffled and distant before, grew suddenly sharper and louder in volume. The rearguard must have topped the stony hill. “For God’s sake, hurry! They are nearly upon us!”

4.

STAGGERING UNDER the weight of the wounded Gibbs, Stevenson passed by Bedford. “Good job, Stevenson,” Bedford said. “Take him up the tunnel and join the others.” Bedford heard Folkard shouting commands in Russian as the head of the column of chained prisoners stumbled and slid down into the tunnel. “Keep them moving, Captain!” Bedford called past them and he pointed the Russians up the tunnel. The man in the lead hesitated at the thought of entering the lightless subterranean bowels of the world, but the sound of rapid rifle fire from behind him made up his mind and he led the column shuffling forward. Bedford made his way out past the last man in the chain before the first man of the second group completely jammed the doorway. K’chuk’s body had been pulled aside, he noticed. Once out in the light, Bedford hastily shook Folkard’s hand.

“Very good to see you well, sir,” he said. “What are your orders?”

“If I am well it is all thanks to you, Bedford. This is still your show; carry on. We’ll sort out command later, if God grants us a later. Now see to your rearguard; they are hard pressed.” Folkard pulled the bodies of Henry and Staples over and gave an order in Russian, and the two men at the end of the line picked them up.

Professor Nathanial Stone reached Bedford and they shook hands. A somewhat reduced flock of Selenites followed him, badly straggling down the glacis of the hill and clearly on their last legs. Bedford had no idea how they would manage to get all of the Selenites into the tunnel in the time left.

“You follow Folkard’s Russkies in,” Bedford said. “The Selenites will follow you, God willing, and we’ll follow them. Here, take these with you.” He scooped up an armful of unlit torches and thrust them into Nathanial’s arms.

“But I cannot give the following gesture with my arms full!” he protested.

“Bless me, Stone, if they are not intelligent enough to follow you the last few steps to safety now, they can die here like dumb beasts. The passage is clear. Now go!”

Bedford looked up at the hill and saw four Marines prone atop it, firing over the lip of the hill. Chief Charles staggered down the last few feet of the hill with the body of a bluejacket over each shoulder and made his way through the press of Selenites milling toward the entrance. Bedford made to take one of the bodies from him—Gunner Gibbs, he saw, although he knew him more by his bulk than his features, which were twisted and blackened, and all of his hair burnt off—but Charles would not let go.

“Couldn’t leave Paddy and Gibbs,” Charles said, and Bedford saw tears on his cheeks. “They were the last of my lot.” He was right. Of the six ratings chosen from Sovereign’s crew to accompany Folkard, only Charles remained alive.

“Yes, well done, Chief. Push on through the Selenites if you have to, but get to Captain Folkard and follow his orders. If the Marines and I are overrun it will be up to you, Stevenson and Folkard to get Miss Somerset to safety. And some fellow named Phillips, as well. You know where the ceiling charges are. Blow them when the Drobates enter the tunnel. If they enter before we do, you will know we are lost.”

“Count on me, sir. I won’t let you down.”

Bedford turned and trotted toward the hill and then bounded up it in long leaps—safer going up than down. He found Lieutenant Booth and three Marine privates there, one of whom he recognised as Jones, all four of them firing regularly at the plain beyond. Two extra rifles lay on the ground beside them. As Bedford’s head cleared the crest of the hill his heart seemed to stop for a moment.

The plain between the city and the hill held thousands of Drobates, perhaps the entire population of the city, all trotting and shuffling toward the hill and the cove beyond it. The closest of them were no more than a hundred yards away, although the crowd was much thinner in front—only the bravest or most suicidal would have run so far ahead of the rest, and the Marines had further culled their ranks with fire. None of the Drobates Bedford saw had the electric rifles the soldiers had born, and he heard none of the distinctive sizzling crack of their fire, but many of the horde brandished long knives, pickaxes, or other improvised weapons. Some came unarmed, as if to tear them apart with their bare hands, and Bedford found that the most frightening prospect of all.

“Pick up a rifle and join in, Bedford,” Booth said. “There are plenty to go around.”

5.

NATHANIAL FELT his way along the dark tunnel wall with a shoulder, his arms encumbered with torches. Ahead of him he heard an echoing babble of voices, mostly Slavic, and the sounds of many shuffling feet. Then he bumped into someone.

“‘Ere now, have a care!”

“Chief Coxswain’s Mate Charles?” Nathanial asked. “Is that you? I have torches here. What am I to do with them?”

“Ah, Professor Stone. Glad you made it, sir. Take them further up and try to find Miss Somerset. She’ll know how to get them lit. Get well past here, sir. We have charges in the ceiling to cause a cave-in.”

Nathanial moved around the chief and again made his way forward. “Annabelle! Are you here? I have the torches. Annabelle!”

“Here, Nathanial,” he heard from up ahead.

He pressed on, repeating his cry, and then a hand closed on his and gave him such a start he nearly dropped his burden.

“Stone, it’s me, Folkard. I think Miss Somerset is just up ahead.”

Together they moved forward, Folkard groping forward with his hand to keep from running into the stumbling mob of Russian prisoners ahead of them. Within moments Folkard had herded the Russians further up the tunnel and Nathanial joined Annabelle, Stevenson, and Phillips.

“Have a care, Nathanial. There is an injured Marine here,” Stevenson said, and the direction of his voice suggested he knelt by the wounded man to shield him from being trampled by the other fugitives.

“Oh, Nathanial!” Annabelle exclaimed, “I am so happy to hear your voice. Why were you not here sooner? I was worried sick.”

“I couldn’t leave the Selenites behind. But here, I have torches and Chief Charles says you are their mistress.”

The squeaking, grunting mass of Selenites following Nathanial reached them and the leader stopped. Nathanial dropped the torch by where he judged Annabelle to be standing and then took the closer forelimb of the leading Selenite and encouraged him to walk further down the tunnel. He did so, and after repeating this with the next several, the entire pack seemed to get the idea and made their way past them in single file.

A phosphorous match hissed to life and the sudden light in the stygian depths of the tunnel caused Nathanial to squint, but he saw Annabelle gesture for a torch, Phillips hand her one, and the flame catch in the moss at the end. Within seconds a space about them was illuminated, although unevenly as the torch’s flame flickered and danced. Nathanial saw the lifeless bodies of three seamen and Doctor Staples stretched out beside the wounded Marine, all guarded somewhat from being trod upon by the barrier of the four living people here—five including him.

The tunnel was wider than the crowding would suggest, but was bisected by a single tall, heavy metallic rail; Nathanial, the other fugitives, and the Selenites had all stayed on the near side, crowding this side of the passage but leaving the far side clear.

“Captain Folkard, I nearly forgot. I took these from a fallen Drobate guard. They may unlock the chains from the Russians.” He fished the heavy key ring from his pocket and gave it to Folkard.

“Quick thinking, Professor,” Folkard said. “Well done.”

“Leave them chained!” Annabelle nearly spat. “They stole the lit torches, tried to kill Seaman Henry, would have had I not shot one of them.”

Folkard pushed the keys into his pocket. “We’ll see about their chains later. For now Miss Somerset is probably right, it might be wise to leave things as they stand.”

Nathanial heard men shouting, cursing even, and the clash of steel on steel joining the occasional rifle shot. The struggle had reached the entrance to the tunnel. He looked at the revolver thrust in Stevenson’s waistband and shuddered. His hand had hardly touched a firearm since the shot from the villain Le Boeuf had destroyed Annabelle’s leg, and had not at all since assisting in the amputation. Now the thought of doing so again made his stomach cramp and his palms sweat, but he felt useless just standing here. He took a deep breath.

“Stevenson, give me your revolver. I’m going back to help Bedford and the others. I’ll take a torch as well, Annabelle.”

“It’s empty, I’m afraid,” Stevenson answered.

“The devil! Chief Charles, have you any more cartridges?” Nathanial called down the tunnel.

“Only the six in my revolver now. Try the lads’ jackets,” he shouted back.

Stevenson paused for a moment, clearly reluctant to rifle a dead man’s pockets, but he did so and then he reloaded his revolver. “I should go,” he said. “I am the member of the Navy.”

“No, I’ll go,” Folkard said.

Nathanial snatched the revolver from Stevenson’s hand. “Don’t be daft the both of you. Stevenson is too weak to be of much use in a fight and the captain must remain behind to command if Bedford should―” he said but stopped short when he saw the stricken look on Annabelle’s face. “Besides, Captain, you alone among us speak Russian. Do not worry; I have no intention of doing anything grotesquely heroic, only bang away a bit from the sidelines and help cover their retreat.”

He took the lit torch Annabelle offered, pushed past the last but two of the Selenites, swung his legs over the central rail, and made his way toward the sound of the fight and the small circle of daylight at the entrance.

6.

NOTHING FOR Chief Charles to do but wait, and not long now. Lieutenant Bedford and the others would either break free and get back to safety or go down. A Marine came quickly back past him, one arm limp and the other pulling a more seriously wounded companion. Then the torch Professor Stone had carried and which illuminated a bit of the fight fell and went out and the flood of bodies was upon him, so much faster than he expected. He struck the match for the fuse and lit it, but then felt a terrible cold pain in his abdomen, as if his guts had turned to ice, and he staggered back against the wall. A Drobate pulled out the long knife which had impaled him and made to thrust again. Charles shot him and the Drobate fell back into another one, the entire mob lit in jerky flashes of arrested motion by the sparkling pyrotechnics of the sizzling fuse.

Charles shot another Drobate and put a hand to his abdomen, felt the blood bubbling out, and knew he was done for. Instead of frightening him, the thought left him strangely calm.

Just as well perhaps, he thought. A chief petty officer goes out with five ratings and comes back alone—no matter how good an explanation, he’d forever be a marked man in the fleet: if not a coward, then a Jonah. This way he finished clean.

A Drobate hand reached up and pulled the sputtering fuse out of the ceiling charges. No matter, he could still stop them. There’s nothing Horatio Nelson Charles can’t accomplish. He thrust the muzzle of his revolver in amongst the explosive charges overhead and pulled the trigger.

Chapter Nine

“An Underground Railroad”

1.

THE FIGHT after the explosion and cave-in had been short and nasty, fought in pitch black and choking dust against the four Drobates who were trapped on the human side of the collapsed wall of rock. Bedford had been knocked senseless by a falling stone and so had missed it, but when he awoke, his bandaged head cradled in Annabelle’s lap, Booth had described the action.

Privates Jones and Heighway had done most of the real fighting—rifles empty but sword bayonets fixed, they clubbed and stabbed three of the creatures to death. Annabelle had dispatched the fourth as he tried to seize her, shooting him down with the last round in the derringer Bedford had given her. He gave silent thanks for having done so.

He had regained consciousness a quarter hour ago. His head still pounded, he felt dizzy if he tried to stand, and he noticed that the ankle he had twisted coming down the hill was now inflamed and very painful. He, Folkard, and Lieutenant Booth now sat together in the flickering light of a relit torch and took stock.

Bedford and Booth retained their revolvers and Professor Stone gladly surrendered his to Folkard, who passed it on to Stevenson and instead took one of the electric rifles. “I may have a sense of how this works,” he said. Bedford wondered if this was his technical skill speaking or more of this lunar mysticism which seemed to take hold of his mind now and then, but he could not make out his captain’s expression in the torchlight.

Stone, once he turned over the revolver, retreated to the side of the tunnel and sat by himself, legs drawn up against his chest and arms wrapped around them. The fight at the tunnel mouth, before the explosion, had been—well, horrible. Bedford was a sailor, not at all trained for that sort of close-in fighting, and even the Marines had been shaken by the savagery of that desperate struggle. Stone had not been part of the actual physical press at the tunnel entrance, but had he not arrived with a full revolver when he did, Bedford doubted that any of them would have escaped with their lives. With rifles empty the five were reduced to bayonets and rifle butts against a mob which simply would not stop. Then Gordon and Booth were wounded and it was down to just Jones, Heighway, and Bedford. Just as the Drobates surged through the doorway by sheer physical mass, Stone arrived and shot, in succession, the first six creatures through the entrance, killed them, and clogged the entranceway, however briefly, with their bodies. He must have looked directly into each of their faces as he killed them; otherwise he would have missed with at least one or two shots.

Now Stone sat silently by the wall, holding his knees to his chest and staring into space with haunted eyes.

“Not the adventure you thought it would be, was it Stone?” Doctor Phillips said with derision as he bound Gordon’s leg.

Bedford lurched to his feet, fought off the wave of dizziness and nausea which followed, and limped the three steps to Phillips. “Shut your mouth.”

Phillips looked up in surprise and outrage. “How dare you? I’ll…”

“Shut your mouth or so help me God I’ll kick your bloody teeth out.”

“Good advice there, Doc,” Private Gordon said quietly.

If Bedford’s words outraged Phillips, Gordon’s stunned him. Perhaps the doctor expected fawning loyalty and gratitude from the man whose leg he bandaged, or perhaps he simply expected deference from someone so much lower in station. Bedford did not know which nor did he particularly care. Phillips closed his mouth and looked back down at his work.

Bedford walked over to Stone and crouched, put his hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Professor.”

Stone looked up at him, smiled weakly, and nodded. “You’d have done the same for me,” he said.

“I certainly hope I would have,” Bedford said. “Not that it makes it any easier. We’ve some food here and you look as if you could use a meal. We all could. The Drobates can’t get through that cave-in and most of us are too injured or exhausted to go any further right now. Captain Folkard, with your permission I recommend we sup, get some rest, and then set off when we’ve regained our strength?”

“Sounds perfectly reasonable. How far will your rations stretch, Lieutenant? We have quite a mob, counting the Russians and Selenites.”

Bedford hadn’t considered that. His concern, certainly his responsibility, was for the ten British and one American gathered here. Folkard seemed to have taken responsibility for the Russians as well, and Stone had risked his life for the Selenites.

“Miss Somerset and Chief Charles’s party, with commendable initiative, foraged a quantity of mushrooms. We’ll give those to the Selenites and split what tinned rations and bully beef we have with the Russians—a third for them, a third for us, and a third in reserve, if that meets your approval, sir. Lieutenant Booth, set up a guard rotation if you please. The wounded are excused duty but I think Doctor Phillips and Professor Stone can manage a watch. You don’t mind, do you, Professor?”

“No, of course not,” Stone answered.

Bedford did not ask Phillips for his opinion.

“I concur, Lieutenant,” Folkard said, “with one addition. Our numbers and strength are too reduced to carry our dead with us, much as it pains me to say so. We will bury them here, under the loose rocks of this collapse, and hold a service in their memory.”

Folkard of course presided and Bedford thought it an odd ceremony, including as it did prayers for the deliverance of the souls of the Russians who had attacked Annabelle and Seaman Henry, the Selenites who Bedford doubted any theologian worth his salt back on Earth would admit to having souls, and the Drobates who had fallen as well—either misguided creatures if you believed Folkard’s sermon, or demons incarnate in Bedford’s judgement.

Once the service was over, the guard sorted out, and rations distributed, Bedford limped over and slid to the floor next the Annabelle. They ate in silence for a while, both of them chewing and swallowing from duty rather than hunger. Bedford knew how physically and emotionally drained he felt; he could not imagine how Annabelle had managed this long without collapsing.

“Chief Charles’s party,” she said quietly at length.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You called it his and my party. Please just call it his. We all did what we could, but Folkard left him in command, and he did a splendid job. We would never have made it here without him.”

“Of course.”

“They are all dead now, all but me: Charles, O’Hara, Gibbs, Staples, K’chuk, and his two retainers. I didn’t even know their names. That doesn’t seem right, does it?”

“Try to get some rest, my dear,” Bedford said and patted her hand. She took his hand in hers and rested her head on his shoulder. Within moments both had fallen into a deep slumber.

2.

NATHANIAL STUDIED the rail tunnel by flickering torchlight. Although the design was different than a terrestrial rail line, the function was clearly the same. The tunnel was lit by electrical lamps, or rather it had been, although there was no power to them now and many of them appeared broken in any case. Through the gloom and flickering torchlight he gauged the underground railroad as long neglected by the Drobates, at least with respect to its original function. The roof was a breeding ground for lunar spiders, whose webs covered the lamps. From somewhere down the tunnels came the flapping and squeaking of a family of lunar bats. The tiles which adorned the tunnel walls were cracked and, in some places, missing altogether. Nathanial found the pervasive sense of dilapidation oppressive.

That said, the centre of the tunnels, near the single rail, seemed comparatively free of spider webs and debris. He judged the tunnels were used at least for foot traffic on occasion. On the first trip to Luna some men has seemed to simply vanish from the underground tunnels, and K’chuk had hinted that the Drobates had been responsible for the abductions, which this trip had certainly confirmed. Could these derelict rail tunnels provide access to the caverns and passages which honeycombed the ground near Otterbein Base? It was an attractive hypothesis, made all the more likely by K’chuk’s apparent familiarity with their design. What had Annabelle said he called it? The iron ribbon tunnel—as good a description of a monorail train tunnel as any.

Directly in front of the group, however, the tunnel forked to right and left, one heavy rail following each branch but without any sort of elaborate switching mechanism at the junction. Nathanial supposed they must have switched the trains electronically, perhaps electromagnetically, running the current through the track the train was to follow. The important question was which would take them to the vicinity of Otterbein and which would snake off aimlessly? Both tunnels seemed equally decrepit and equally travelled.

“Neither direction seems especially promising,” said Nathanial.

“We should go left,” said Folkard automatically.

“I would agree, sir,” said Stevenson, who was considerably revived after a meal and a few hours sleep. Nathanial suspected that renewed hope, and the company of friends, had done as much to revive him.

Nathanial was about to question the merits of relying on psychic instincts but saw little point. Folkard was in command again so he would do as he saw fit. In any case Nathanial had no more wisdom to offer on the subject; if forced to choose between the two tunnels, he’d probably have flipped a five shilling piece, if he’d had one. Bedford’s attention was occupied by Annabelle. She had lost her cane in the fight at the tunnel and Bedford had become almost as lame as her as his ankle had swollen, so now the two supported each other. Twelve surly Russians in chains occupied most of the attention of Lieutenant Booth and the three Marines. Phillips walked by his patient, who rode one of the stronger Selenites, although in truth almost any of the humans would have been better able to carry him. Private Williams walked by the doctor as well, still unsteady of hand and uncertain of balance, but uncomplaining of either. That left Stevenson, and Nathanial was content to walk with his friend in companionable silence at the head of the column.

As the march wore on, however, it became apparent that the group, despite a meal and a few hours sleep, retained very limited stamina. It had been some years since Folkard had had to march in this fashion and Bedford’s leg grew worse with every step. Stevenson, the only other naval man, had suffered from a ghoulish array of tortures over a number of months which had left him a long way from his physical peak; Annabelle, of course, struggled along, but without use of a cane her leg had begun to feel as if the bottom was again chafing, and every step brought slightly more pain. The Russians shuffled along morosely and the Selenites had begun to straggle badly as well. Phillips and Nathanial, apart from the occasional stint at the wicket or at the tennis court, were more academic than Olympian, but still fared better than most of the group, which suggested to Nathanial how dire the situation had become. Only Lieutenant Booth and his two Marines seemed untouched by the growing fatigue.

As there was no pursuit, they gradually reduced their pace to accommodate the weaker and more battered members of the party, but Nathanial worried at their progress. How far had they come down the river? How long would it take to walk back using this tunnel? They were all but out of food as it was and without prospect of foraging down here—unless one fancied spiders and bats, and it might come to that.

Within the hour the tunnel broadened and they came to a derelict station. A second line led from this station, perhaps in the direction of a residential area on the outskirts of the city. The party, by now desperate for rest, staggered across the station and onto the platform, while Booth sent his two Marines trotting off to explore the depths of the station.

Stevenson fell to the ground and Folkard, who attempted to pull him up, clearly lacked the strength to do so. Nathanial lifted his friend to his feet and helped him up onto the platform, but exhaustion was not his sole handicap. Nathanial saw Stevenson’s eyes flit nervously about and Folkard fidgeted as well.

“What is it?” Nathanial asked.

Folkard and Stevenson exchanged a glance, then the captain answered. “A buzzing; an uneasiness. A feeling similar to those I had around the Drobates.”

Bedford, Annabelle, and Booth joined them. “Drobates did you say?” Bedford asked.

Folkard looked around the empty station and scratched his scalp in thought. “Not right here, but nearby. Not the huge buzzing host of the city—perhaps only a handful, or they are further away… I cannot put my finger on it, but I sense they are in the direction we wish to travel.” Stevenson nodded his assent.

Nathanial joined Stevenson on the floor of the station and stretched out.

“In that case, Captain,” Bedford said, “I propose we rest. We clearly need it, and perhaps the Drobates ahead will move on while we do so. Alternatively, I’ll send a couple of the men to find out if the station egress gives us access to the river or at least some forage for the Selenites. I grant these are far from luxury accommodations. Nonetheless, if the worst thing that we are likely to encounter by sleeping here is lunar bats, I feel it is likely to be the safest area in the entirety of Luna.”

So they rested for a while, the Russians by necessity in a tight bunch, but by choice a distance away where they spoke in low voices and cast furtive glances at the English. After a quarter hour the two Marines returned with word that the passage from the station up to whatever cavern or tunnel it connected to was entirely blocked by fallen dripstones and rubble of considerable size. They did bring back a half dozen polished metal rods, each about four feet long and topped by elaborate pointed designs. They had pulled them from a broken and buckled metal fence, and Private Jones had reasoned they would make good walking staffs, particularly for Annabelle and Bedford.

“Wouldn’t make a half-bad spear, either,” Bedford said as he hefted it.

Chapter Ten

“A Series of Laboratories”

1.

WHILE THE majority of the group slumbered, Nathanial found sleep elusive. Although his body ached with fatigue, his mind raced. The combination of astonishing sights and danger-induced adrenaline was not one conducive to sleep. As a scientist, he wondered about the gyroscopic vehicles, the submersible and the electrical weapons that the Drobates possessed. He wondered about the potential energy source that the endless illumination of the fungi might provide, and he wondered about the Drobates’ curiosity concerning Annabelle. As a human, he mourned the loss of almost all of the men who had come down the river with him, as well as the three Marines who had lost their lives rescuing him, men with whom he had not had even the opportunity to become acquainted. He mourned particularly for his friend K’chuk, and wondered at his noble sacrifice to save his friends, friendships which stretched between species and worlds.

But at the same time, the faces of the six Drobates he had killed haunted him. Who now mourned for them? He and his companions had seen only the dreary façade of Drobate life, the callous cruelty of its officials, the neglect and decay of its public spaces. But life went on in the city somehow, which meant that behind the façade there were people who went about their jobs, raised families, lived and loved and mourned each other’s deaths. How well did people sleep in the city this night, who saw the empty place on the bed beside them?

Restless, he turned in the direction of Stevenson, only to find the man absent. Propping himself up on his elbow, he cast his eye around the dark station to hear Stevenson returning. He sat down and had a number of tins in his arms—tins of a very different design than their own bully beef rations, but which appeared to be of a similar purpose.

“I found these in what appears to be a market stall,” offered Stevenson by way of explanation, taking a seat next to Nathanial. “I sampled one of them—tinned mushrooms. I know our own rations are nearly exhausted but we need to eat. Perhaps I might ensnare an albino bat, should you find this disagreeable to your palette.”

Nathanial smiled. “Do you not feel that eating tinned produce in a railway station abandoned some years ago poses rather more of a threat than the bats?”

“That is why I experimented on myself first. It appears to have been preserved astonishingly well given its age.”

“How have you been able to get into the can?” Nathanial asked.

At this, Stevenson showed him a concealed blade of curious aspect. “I took it from the Drobate which Miss Somerset had slain,” he said. “It is rather a tarnished metal, however; something of a badly-preserved antique, I think. A superior being these Drobates may be, but they must have inferior skills at the forge.”

“They do seem something of a decadent group, all things considered. One wonders what their city would be like in the hands of more capable citizens.”

“Such as the British, do you mean?” Stevenson asked. “As if London is any more of a paradise?”

“There is room for improvement in all our cities, yes,” said Nathanial. “But ask the Indians, the Persians, the residents of Zanzibar. From what I can gather in the London papers, all of these people have found their lives immeasurably improved since the British have, ah, intervened. Venus and Mercury, too: those people’s standard of living is manifestly better for the presence of the British. You must have faith in the Empire, Stevenson. You are, after all, charged with defending it.”

They sat for a time in a companionable silence. After a time, Stevenson asked; “You have been to Mercury and Venus? Might I take from this that you have been travelling with Sovereign since last I saw you?”

Nathanial gave him a rueful smile. “Would that it were so. I would not have had nearly the amount of adventures and Miss Somerset would still have a full quota of limbs.” He provided Stevenson with a brief summary of his activities between his visits to Luna, from his encounters with spectral characters on Mercury to his trek across the Martian deserts. “For someone as venturesome as Miss Somerset, it has been quite the adventure. For my part, I have been hugely anticipating my return home ever since I received that letter requesting my help on Venus. To think that I now face a return in shackles! But I forget myself: how has your time on Luna been spent?”

Stevenson grimaced. “Believe me, it has been an ordeal unlike any other. When I reflect on the last few months of my life, I admit I do wonder whether I was right to choose the Navy as my preferred career choice.”

“The Drobates punished you both physically and mentally, I understand?” Nathanial asked, to which Stevenson nodded by way of confirmation.

“I shan’t detail the ways in which the Drobates tortured me physically. Needless to say, they were interested in the physical limitations of the body. You’ll remember that when we met, the Drobates were attempting to heal as much as they were attempting to harm. Such is the way they choose to test the body’s capacities. With regards to their psychological experimentations, they were interested in the limitations of the mind. Some of these experiments involved deprivation: of light, of sound, of company. Some of them were an excess of these same properties. Some of the men quickly went mad, others died from the physical torture. Challoner and Clements became insane in short order; what happened to them after this, I know not. Dead, no doubt: the Drobates ruthlessly discarded those who had outlived their usefulness. Burroughs mentioned having seen them.”

“Yes, but not alive, alas,” Nathanial confirmed, and briefly outlined the circumstances of their capture.

“Barbaric, but no more than one would expect. I cannot explain how I survived when Challoner and Clements could not endure it. I had not considered myself more resilient than them; it seems perhaps that, of late, I have learned more about myself than I was anticipating.” Stevenson paused for a moment. “It gives me no pleasure to report that both the men and the Selenites became impressionable after a few months of this. You’ll have heard how, on our first visit to Luna in pursuit of Miss Somerset, we were set upon by Selenites? Knowing what you now know about the regular behaviour of the Selenites, does this not strike you as odd?”

Nathanial sat up. “Do you mean to say that these Selenites were psychologically influenced by the Drobates?”

Stevenson nodded once more. “I hardly believed that the Selenites were capable of good at first. It was only later I learnt that those who had attacked the Annabelle were acting under influence. There are many things on this moon that can influence one’s mind. These Drobates are dangerous. They worship science, yet they know little of its methods and will stop at nothing in their pursuit of information. They have none of our consideration for proper behaviour and will happily compromise one another if they feel that it interferes with their learning. In any case, they were specifically interested in the mental stamina of a human, of their life expectancy, of their breeding habits. I rather think, Nathanial, I confounded their expectations in some of these areas. I discovered an aptitude for telepathy, which I kept carefully secret from them. Were it not for this, I fear I would have gone mad, the same as Challoner and Clements.”

“I am glad that you did not,” Nathanial responded, rather quicker than he would have liked.

For a few moments silence sat between them, neither men quite looking at each other. Nathanial did not wish to deduce what was going through Stevenson’s mind, but for his own part he was rather pleased to hear Stevenson address him by his Christian name. Talk of his travels reminded Nathanial of Arnaud, no doubt still on Mercury, discovering new and fascinating things about the rock that made up that world, and a strange conflict echoed inside Nathanial’s…heart? Perhaps. There was certainly confusion abounding within.

He looked to the ground, and said, “Sovereign has suffered enough loss of life without you going in the same direction,” in the hope that this would clear things up for both himself and Stevenson. “Do you think that the Drobates can be stopped?” He looked back up, to find Stevenson smiling at him.

For a brief moment the two sat there in silence, their eyes locking. Perhaps things were not as simple as Nathanial had hoped. Stevenson was the first to look away, however. Nathanial’s eyes still lingered.

“Stopped? I suppose so, but I think we would be better advised to try and survive them, rather than to defeat them,” Stevenson said. “We were, after all, in their city. Even if you believe that you defeat them and that you gain control of them, the opposite is true. Those who lead the Drobates find themselves under perennial threat. In all, they are, I believe, driven by much the same things that we are: they want to learn what they can, they long for power, and they want control of a shadowy force central to Luna.”

“The Heart,” Nathanial said quietly, “the Selenites’ Holy of Holies. I have been there, though I admit I know little of its ways. I believe that it also carries some variety of psychological influence, which seems to result in the irrational behaviour of those sensitive to it. It drove nastavnik Tereshkov quite mad, although I hear his sanity was in question even before he came to Luna.”

“Were it not for the Heart,” said Stevenson, “none of us would be here in the first place, then. Admit it, Nathanial, Britain would have little interest in this rock were it not for the Russian stronghold here. Russia’s sole reason for being here is the desire for power that the discovery of the Heart hints at. Why, even Doctor Grant must have knowledge of the Heart to choose to explore this depressing moon for as long as he has done. Without it, Luna is nothing more than an empty land with a number of caverns and some unusual wildlife.”

“As we all once believed. I imagine the same could be said of California: largely desert, some curious mountains and nothing much of interest were it not for the enormous quantity of gold beneath its surface. It’s curious what men will do when faced with something desirable, wouldn’t you agree?”

Stevenson yawned and met Nathanial’s eye. “Men will take leave of their senses when faced with anything attractive, Nathanial. That’s what I think, at least,” he added with a hint of a smile.

“Quite so,” said Nathanial, smiling himself. “Now, enthralling though our conversation is, I feel the adrenaline has worked its way out of my system and this leaves me with mere fatigue. I suggest we rest, breakfast on these peculiar canned foods, then seek our escape from this railroad with a view to resuming our pursuit of Doctor Grant. We have been forced to deviate from our original mission somewhat and I feel Captain Folkard will be as keen as I to resume our quest.”

“Very good. Good night, Nathanial,” Stevenson said slowly, life finally returning to his blue eyes.

“Good night, Erasmus,” Nathanial returned, his heart now lighter, although no less confused.

2.

THE POCKET watch which Annabelle Somerset kept on her person had been a gift from her parents in 1879. It had been an unusual gift to give to a girl for her tenth birthday; yet Annabelle had been an unusual child. She had shown it to her uncle, who had shown her how to wind the watch, and from then on she ensured that the watch told immaculate time. During her time with the Chiricahua, she had taken great pains to ensure that the watch was concealed at all times so that the Apaches did not take her only remaining link to her family. When she was finally freed from the captivity of the Chiricahua, she had changed so much both physically and mentally that it was only the watch that confirmed that she was, as claimed, the presumed-dead Annabelle Somerset.

Now it had stopped running, a victim of her plunge into the River of Life.

What difference did a watch make? It was just gears and springs and a metal casing. She had lost her leg. Her dear friend K’chuk was dead, along with so many others. Only a silly fool would weep over a broken watch, and yet she felt her throat grow tight as she looked at it again.

A symbol of where her losses began.

A little of the luminous moss had penetrated the ruined station and so there was a very faint ambient light to which her eyes had become accustomed overnight. She turned back to the group, who seemed to be stirring. No doubt their backs, shoulders and necks would ache from a night spent on the floor of a train station; they would be complaining about various aches for the remainder of the day. Beside her—but removed enough that they would not touch in their repose, for propriety’s sake—George slept, snoring softly. Annabelle smiled.

Before this journey, her feelings toward him were natural enough, and she supposed rather ordinary. A handsome, confident man who filled a uniform out exactly the way one wanted it filled, a man of action who, unlike so many others of his sort, actually seemed to have a brain in his head. She felt what any sensible young woman would, she supposed. Attraction, even a bit of infatuation. Something had changed along the way, however.

She had seen him assume responsibility without a hint of self-importance, and she liked that. She had seen him suffer injuries and carry on cheerfully, and without the hint of martyrdom so many found it impossible to resist. But perhaps the defining moment for her had been when Phillips tormented Nathanial back in the tunnel and George had risen to his defence. Nathanial sometimes needed protecting, but more to the point, he deserved protecting, had earned it in full measure. When George Bedford, his head wrapped in a bloody bandage, stood up on his injured leg and hobbled over to Phillips, when he had threatened to thrash a man who stood an inch or two taller than himself, a man of athletic build and uninjured, while George could scarcely stay on his feet, her heart warmed in a way she never recalled having felt before. It was an easier thing to play the hero, she reflected, when healthy, rested, and mounted on a great white horse.

Nathanial stirred. It seemed he had spent some of the night in restless tossing and turning, for the position from which he awoke was perilously close to encroaching upon Stevenson’s personal space. Annabelle frowned at this, but let it pass without comment as, rectifying the error quickly, Nathanial climbed to a seated position and looked over at Annabelle.

“Good morning, Annabelle, if it can be considered such,” he said. In order to further the conversation without disturbing any late sleepers, he moved across to where Annabelle was seated.

“I suspect that morning is right. Have you no idea of the time?”

“None. You?”

Annabelle shook her head. “My pocket watch has been with me for ten years, yet it has at the last betrayed me.”

Nathanial nodded. He looked across at the still-resting Stevenson, then back at Annabelle, his face contorted in thought. “Annabelle, there is something I have been meaning to say, something which weighs heavily on my conscience. I cannot help but think that, had I but taken your suspicions on Peregrine Station more to heart, or done so sooner, your current…condition… Well, I am dreadfully sorry. So dreadfully sorry.” He looked down in shame.

Annabelle suspected Nathanial felt responsible for her injury by virtue of having been named her guardian, but she never dreamed his burden of guilt was as heavy, or as specific, as this. She took his hand in hers. “Nathanial, no one could ask for a truer friend. I would have died but for you, more than once—on Peregrine, on the cutter, and how many times on Mars? I cannot even count them. Do not torture yourself with might-have-beens. The bullet which took my leg came from Le Boeuf’s gun, not yours, and the blame is entirely his. Never forget that.”

The words were barely out of Annabelle’s mouth and Nathanial had not yet moved his lips to respond when Folkard, in one movement, went from being entirely unconscious to awake in a seated position. It was clearly the awakening of a man accustomed to waking up rapidly when called to duty.

“My preference would be for two slices of toast, a black coffee and a series of prayers before I commence my activities for the day,” he announced at once. “As I fear that none of these options are available, I suggest that we break our fast with the last of our rations and try to find some potable water. Unless Ordinary Seaman Stevenson would care to share his find of the night with us?”

Stevenson, still attempting to wake up, gaped in surprise at the Captain.

“Really, Stevenson,” Folkard said, “my eyes are not yet as old and cataract-ridden as to miss the market stall which stands against the wall. When I noticed upon waking that it was disturbed, I naturally assumed someone did some foraging. The mess bag which you appear to have accumulated overnight, and the two empty tins there at your feet suggest the one responsible. Your captain sees more than he may be letting on, Stevenson. I would advise you bear this in mind.”

At this a strange look passed between Stevenson and Nathanial; it lasted barely a fraction of a second, but it was enough to pique Annabelle’s interest.

Bedford rolled over blinking, scratched his scalp, and smiled broadly at Annabelle. “Did I hear something about breakfast?”

“Eras…ah, Mister Stevenson found some tinned food last evening after the rest of you had gone to sleep,” Nathanial explained, “and as neither of us died during the night, I pronounce it safe, and not significantly worse to the palate than that awful tinned bully beef. How much more is there?”

“Perhaps two dozen cans,” Stevenson said.

“Fetch them, lad, and we’ll see about distributing them to the Russians and the Selenites, if the contents are palatable to them,” Folkard ordered.

The breakfast was rudimentary and was curiously acidic to the taste, but the group, who had gone without food for some hours, devoured it greedily. Having found a crumbling but nevertheless still functioning decorative fountain to provide liquid refreshment, the group ate and considered their next move.

Annabelle watched Nathanial take several tins of food to the Selenites but returned with them uneaten, his brow furrowed with concern. Their numbers had dwindled during their rest as several wandered away into the tunnels and two had died as they slept.

In the meantime, George and Folkard debated what to do about the Russian prisoners. Folkard was inclined to unchain them. The hostility to Annabelle and Henry at the cave entrance he inclined to put down to panic, and the situation now clearly made them allies, however temporarily, against a common foe. George disagreed.

“With respect, sir, the evidence we uncovered after you disappeared is unsettling. The Russians appear to be reorganising for an assault on Otterbein Base.”

“Is that so?” Folkard asked, his eyes narrowed. “Well, since we’ve had little chance afforded to us for a full report, perhaps now would be the time?”

Bedford nodded sharply. “Yes, sir,” he said, and outlined the events that had transpired from the attack of the red Selenites on Sovereign up until the moment he and the Marines had discovered Charles’ party along the shore of the River of Life. “So you see, sir,” he concluded, “even if these men know nothing of the plans, should we encounter Russians in strength, who will surely be hostile, these prisoners would be bound by patriotic duty to help them.”

“It hardly seems right, keeping those men chained up like slaves,” Folkard said, “but you’re right of course. I did not meet Colonel Harrison when we arrived. Is he up to defending the base?”

“If anyone can lose the base, Harrison is your man,” George answered. “I left Major Larkins there with half our Marines, and hopefully Harrison will have the brains to listen to Larkin’s advice, but honestly I cannot say what will happen.”

So even if they made their way back to Otterbein, they might only do so to march into the arms of the Russians. Annabelle found that unsettling, but only in a remote sort of way. The current problems were so daunting this other one seemed remote and theoretical by comparison.

Folkard and Stevenson both agreed that the vague buzz of Drobate thoughts remained unchanged, but if a Russian attack on Otterbein was in the offing they could not afford to wait any longer.

Much fortified by food, rest and sleep, they lit one of their last four torches and set out down the tunnel. The dwindling supply of torches was another reason to make haste. The walking staff the Marines had given Annabelle was a considerable aid and let her take much of the weight off her sore stump. She could tell that it helped George’s swollen ankle as well. All of the other English used them except for the armed Marines and Private Gordon. They could no longer find a Selenite strong enough to carry Private Gordon, but Doctor Phillips and Private Williams took turns carrying him.

3.

AFTER PERHAPS two or three miles of walking they found the going unexpectedly blocked by what remained of a railway train, which took up much of the line before disappearing into the tunnel in front of them. The tunnel itself had suffered some structural damage, and masonry had collapsed around the front of the train, which allowed for no inspection of the engine. The carriages had given into the disintegration of the years: copper oxide polluted their surfaces and the circular windows along their sides were largely shattered. Unintelligible graffiti had been crudely daubed on their sides at haphazard junctures.

“It seems our path goes no further,” declared Folkard. “It’s a good thing we prevented pursuit; otherwise we would be trapped here.”

“We are trapped here,” Nathanial said, “unless your intuitive grasp of the lunar landscape can again come to our aid.”

Annabelle strode off in the direction of a doorway, all but invisible under years of dust and spider webs.

“You do get used to her wanderings,” said Nathanial apologetically to Bedford, then cried to her. “Annabelle, please be cautious! You have no way of knowing what’s behind that door!”

“Given that the hinges have rusted, the doors are covered in spider webs, caterpillar trails and paintings of what appear to be naked Drobates, and in light of the fact that this door is wanting for a handle, I doubt anyone has gone through here for quite some time,” came the reply.

Bedford hastened behind her at the best speed his ankle would allow. “Annabelle, please let me deal with this,” he said as Annabelle reached into the hole where a handle would be expected to sit. She stepped aside with a smile. Bedford examined the hole, inserted the butt of his metal walking staff and used it as a lever, at length managing to pry it open with a shriek of rusted hinges.

Light flooded out and all of them stood for a moment with eyes closes or squinted nearly so until their pupils adjusted to the unfamiliar brilliance. Folkard then detailed Booth and the Marines to keep the Russians and Selenites back. The rest of the party went through the doorway.

Much to Nathanial’s surprise, the doorway opened onto a long, dusty corridor which appeared to parallel the rail tunnel.

“If we follow this, we should be able to get back to the rail tunnel further down,” Bedford said, which made sense and so they set off, with the Russians and Selenites bringing up the rear.

After perhaps a quarter of a mile they came to another rusted door which looked as if it opened onto the rail tunnel, but it would not yield to them, even when Bedford and Phillips both put their shoulders against it and braced their feet against the opposite corridor wall. There was nothing for it, they agreed, but to go on, but Nathanial sensed that the corridor gradually curved to the left, taking them away from the rail tunnel—or perhaps paralleling it, if it also curved. That was certainly possible, although they walked quite some distance without seeing another access door.

“Have you noticed,” Phillips said after twenty or so more minutes of walking, “how the dust seems almost artfully arranged on the floor?”

They stopped and Folkard went a little ahead with the torch, where the dust was not yet disturbed, and examined it carefully with the torch. “It is hard to be certain,” he announced shortly, “but I believe Doctor Phillips may be correct. The dust looks to me as if it has been blown onto the floor rather than having simply settled there. We should be cautious. Before we go further, we will tie rags around the bottoms of those metal walking sticks; they make a frightful banging.”

They did so and resumed walking, and after another twenty minutes the passage ended in a blank wall.

“Absurd!” Phillips exclaimed. “What idiot would build a corridor miles long and have it simply end in a wall?”

“None,” Nathanial answered. He had begun working his way back along the wall, feeling for irregularities, and within a few yards found three circular indentations low down in the wall. “Ah!” He pressed three of his fingers in the indentations, felt a metallic instead of stone surface beyond, pressed, and heard a distinct click.

He snatched his hand back as a small doorway sank into the floor and revealed a sterile corridor of the sort one would find in a hospital or sanatorium. He could hardly have been more surprised had the doorway opened onto another planet at the opposite side of the universe; it seemed almost as if that was exactly what had happened. Light from a series of electric lamps at regular intervals flooded the corridor and briefly dazzled the group, who had become accustomed to peering at each other in the weak light of the railway and, before that, squinting in the intrusive glare provided by the fungi. The corridor was as clean and tidy as a shrine. To their left, right and immediately ahead were further doors. All bar the door on the left were closed.

“Well, this area is still in use,” concluded Nathanial, “but in which direction should we head?”

“I would speculate that the central door, being as it is the largest, would be the one behind which the occupants lurk,” said Folkard. “But I wonder if it might not be prudent to assess the contents of the other rooms first, so that we might get an idea of our potential opponents.”

“Or allies,” Nathanial added. “We don’t yet know that the inhabitants are hostile, Captain.”

“Don’t be daft, Stone,” said Phillips. “We have no facilities down here and the Selenites have never built anything so elaborate. Whoever maintains this facility cannot be friends. But here we are at the open door so that we may see for ourselves.”

Large work surfaces for experimentation dominated the room, with charts and boards scrawled with unreadable language on the walls. A large electric screen dominated the far wall, displaying numbers of some sort, although it offered no indication of what it was measuring.

The room’s most distinctive feature was its disarray. Mysterious machinery and unfamiliar crystals cluttered the work spaces. Some of the technology was common to Earth: clockwork parts and coil springs here and there. Other sorts, which appeared to be nothing more than thin boards covered with silver-painted patterns, offered no suggestions as to their purpose or workings. It was a researcher’s dream, and Nathanial almost found himself rueing the lack of time they would have in the room.

“A rather unusual collection, to say the least,” he said, giving a cursory glance to as much as was possible. “There are so many different disciplines here that the overall effect is one of total anarchy. Yet I suspect that to say this, would be to do the room a disservice. Inspect a little closer and it feels almost cohesive.”

“Do you see the organisation of the wires in this machine?” Phillips asked, holding up a hunk of machinery that appeared to be encased in glass of some sort. “You’ll note that there are a number of thin wires connected broadly to this thicker wire in the middle. Unfortunately both the top and the bottom appear to be missing so I am unable to draw any real conclusions; the design in large part resembles the veins in a human arm, or perhaps a thigh.”

Nathanial rifled through a series of boxes precariously stacked atop each other. He rummaged through a number of cogs, nuts and bolts, along with the occasional glass sphere, but could find nothing that attracted his interest specifically.

Folkard, Bedford, Stevenson and Annabelle allowed the two scientists to go about their investigations for a time, until Folkard finally wearied.

“Professor Stone, can I ask what necessitates this delay?”

Nathanial turned apologetically to Folkard. “My apologies, Captain. It was my understanding that you wished to gain information on the inhabitants of this particular maze.”

“Yes, but at more haste than this, man! What impressions do you have thus far?”

“The disorganisation is consistent with that of the City of Light and Science,” Nathanial began, “and there is a range of technology with which I am, as yet, unfamiliar. Certainly it is most likely that Drobates could be behind this project; it is equally unlikely that this is some Russian or German technology which is yet to be published in the science journals—it has too little in common with anything I know of. The technology I find bizarre and the clutter maddening, yet in a way this room holds its own peculiar logic, which does remind me of laboratories I have served in. I simply cannot put my finger on where. In short, Captain, I can offer no definite conclusions.”

He stopped a moment and walked over to a cylindrical container which might be used in Britain to hold umbrellas, or else riding crops. In this particular container, however, stood something else entirely.

“Could it be?” he asked himself, and turned his back to the group briefly as he fished through the contents.

“Could what be?” asked Folkard. “Stone, just what is it you expect to find in there?”

“Something that may be of use to the mission, or at least something that might be of benefit to one of our party,” said Nathanial, retrieving the item and turning, with a smile, to the group, with his prize cradled in his arms.

When Annabelle saw what it was that he was holding, she couldn’t help but return the smile.

Nathanial held a prosthetic leg.

4.

“A PROSTHETIC leg! It cannot be!” gasped Annabelle, striding towards Nathanial.

“Indeed. And do you not find the design familiar?”

Annabelle took the leg off him and examined it. “Why, it is very similar to the sketch you showed me. Remarkably so, although the proportions are different.”

“Yes, as this was clearly intended for a Drobate, not a human,” Nathanial said with an indulgent smile.

Annabelle frowned, then her eyes lit up in realisation. “Can you alter this to work for me?”

“Well, of that I am not certain. It’s not exactly the same, of course, and so even were it the correct length—and it looks quite close in that respect—the position of the knee is different and may prove awkward. That assumes, of course, that we can discover how to make it work at all. But look,” he said, and took the leg from Annabelle. “This leg design uses a series of opposed springs which store and discharge energy at different points in the leg’s motion. You see, as the wearer leans forward in their stride, the ankle bends, but provides resistance, then unbends to propel you forward.” He demonstrated by placing the foot of the leg on the floor and walking it forward. “As I had proposed, this has opposed springs in the artificial ankle and produces a similar effect.”

Nathanial handed it back to Annabelle, who studied it cautiously. “I would suggest we take that back to Sovereign. Perhaps I can find a way to modify it and securely fasten it in place of your current prosthetic.” Nathanial turned to Captain Folkard and the others, who had stood by silently as Nathanial had demonstrated the use of the leg. “Now we can adjourn to the room directly across from this one and have a look there. Captain, if you are amenable?”

Folkard nodded his consent. They crossed to the second door and as soon as Nathanial opened it his nostrils filled with an appalling stench. The room was another laboratory of similar design to the previous one; yet while that room had been scattered with the debris of mechanical parts, this one was littered with mutilated and dislocated body parts.

Annabelle gasped, and retreated out into the hallway and Bedford immediately joined her.

It was difficult to tell, in many places, from what living creature the viscera had originated or even where it begun and terminated: in many places the unfortunate cadavers had been crudely fused with some of the mechanical technology from the previous laboratory. Some attempts at preservation had been made by means of sealing heads and other parts in jars; overall, however, the impression was one of a terrible necrosis.

Stevenson, the weakest of the group, had to make his way to a sink at the back of the room in order to be violently sick.

“This grotesque cornucopia can scarcely be countenanced!” gasped Folkard. “How many creatures were killed to satisfy the curiosity of this madman? If one of you would be so kind as to furnish me with a match, I propose this horror is burnt to the ground.”

“I feel that would be unwise, Captain,” said Phillips. “Beneath the reek of putrefaction is a number of smells which suggest highly flammable chemicals. We would barely have time to strike a light before becoming engulfed in a fireball. This is to say nothing of the attention that such an act would surely attract.”

“If their anatomical students are anything like ours, they murder no one, rather cut up the already dead, which may account for the stench,” Nathanial observed. He had taken to covering his mouth with a handkerchief, and examined one of the bodies. Its head had been removed and much of its torso was beneath a sheet. It had taken on a curious hue. “Phillips, can you share any thoughts on when these bodies might have been brought here?”

“There’s simply so many different elements here that it would be difficult to hypothesise,” answered Phillips. “For a start, I know nothing of the rate of decay of a Drobate corpse but I think it reasonable to speculate these are Drobate corpses—mostly. These are Selenites over here, and I think the remnants of some bats in those two tubs.”

“I think we should leave this room as soon as possible. Stevenson is clearly not well enough to continue, the scent would make any of us ill over time,” Nathanial pointed out. “I should make this comment, however: the freshest corpses, such as they are, display an attempt at fusion technology which is vastly superior to those of their predecessors. You’ll note that the arm here joins seamlessly with the metallic elements below the elbow, serving almost as an endoskeleton. Really, this is quite years ahead from anything comparable on Earth.”

“You scientific men have had quite enough time to explore these monstrous rooms,” said Folkard. “To what conclusions can we now arrive?”

“I feel that we are looking at the work of an advanced civilization, possibly the same race which built the City of Light and Science…”

“Yes,” said Phillips, “it’s perfectly clear that the Drobates are not capable of building such a city. You have seen the state in which they live, clearly not in a manner that would suggest the knowledge needed to build the city. It is more like they are squatting, using the technology left behind.”

“Possibly so. Either that or they have lost the knowledge used to build it in the first place? It would not be the first time the descendants of a great civilization fell into degeneracy. I would further add that a scientist from our own planet has been working in this laboratory.”

“Nathanial!” Annabelle exclaimed, “are you suggesting that Uncle Cyrus would…?”

“I might hypothesise that this scientist,” Nathanial continued, not wishing to get into such a conversation with Annabelle at this juncture, “has only been recently added to the group, hence the improved care and attention to detail indicated in these later works; really, however, this is speculation. All that remains, I fear, is to take our chances behind the remaining door.”

The group hurried out of the deathly museum and hastily closed the door behind them. There was every possibility that the third door contained a still greater horror. Bedford and Stevenson unholstered their revolvers as they stood before the door, awash now with a trepidation which far exceeded any that they had felt earlier in their mission.

“Booth, be prepared to cover our withdrawal if necessary,” Folkard ordered the Marine Lieutenant standing at the opening to the rail tunnel. Then he opened the door.

At first glance, it seemed as though the room was completely unoccupied. The work surfaces were clear and it seemed as if the majority of the laboratory apparatus had been removed. Compared to the chaos of the preceding laboratories, Nathanial found the order and simplicity of this one eerie.

A sound from the back of the laboratory caught Nathanial’s attention and he turned to see a door opening. Three Drobates entered.

The Drobates wore long white robes which buttoned up at the front, giving the robes a curious appearance of being both laboratory coat and papal smock. In their hands they carried instruments which glowed and blinked, clearly powered by electricity, although Nathanial could see no power cords linking them to a power source. The central figure was the shortest and boasted less developed muscles than the hulking specimens at either side of him who, while dressed in the same uniform, looked as if they were a private guard.

As one, they silently moved towards the group, who cocked their weapons, not allowing their eyes to drop from the Drobates for a second. The meeting would have almost certainly ended in gunfire were it not for a less graceful entrance behind them. The group, Drobates and humans alike, turned in the direction of the entrant.

The Drobates regarded him with evident reverence, the humans with mere astonishment. The newcomer was human, fast approaching his final big adventure in life; a man who was greatly changed from his days on Earth but still immediately recognisable.

“Uncle!”

“Ah, Annabelle my dear, I expect you’ll be here for me,” said Cyrus Grant.

Chapter Eleven

“The Insane Scientist”

1.

“UNCLE CYRUS!” cried Annabelle, forgetting her previous reservations about reuniting with Grant in the sheer joy of seeing him again. The Drobates allowed her to pass as she hurried towards her uncle, reaching him at last in an embrace.

“We were beginning to think that you were lost to us,” said Nathanial, greeting his erstwhile colleague with a handshake.

“Quite on the contrary, Stone,” replied Grant. “I feel that I have found a place in this universe. More so than ever! But I see that you are not alone. Doctor Phillips, we meet again. I trust Otterbein Research Base sends its regards?”

“Rather it has sent some men in pursuit of you, Doctor,” replied Phillips coolly. “You are, after all, absent without leave.”

“Rubbish,” he replied. “My posting was to Luna and, as you can clearly see, I am still present here.” Grant regarded Captain Folkard, Bedford, and Stevenson. “My work here is leagues ahead of the work that I was doing in that base. You British worry over such trivial matters! But I forget myself. I see you have already met Naporrow Bing?” He indicated to the shortest of the three Drobates, who bowed his head in recognition. “My best scientist here. A brilliant mind, you know. These two others are Bing’s acolytes, loyal almost to a fault, but solid hands. But I am getting ahead of myself. Miss Newton, if you would prepare the tea? Mister Bing, Miss Nardo, as you were.”

All three of the Drobates, in response to this, trooped out of the room, leaving Grant alone with his guests. Grant pulled a number of tall stools towards one of the laboratory tables, inviting the group to sit down.

“First, Doctor, we have a larger party waiting out in the rail tunnel,” Folkard said. “Is there a larger chamber to which we could move them? Some are Selenites and other humans, thirty-five all told, including us.”

Grant frowned in thought. “So many? Well…I suppose so. Yes, bring them through here.”

Folkard passed word to Booth and the odd parade of survivors followed Doctor Grant in single file through the far doorway, down a long corridor, and eventually to a large open room without furnishings save for several stacks of light-weight metal packing cases along one end. At least it was warm and well-lit.

“Booth, get the party settled and distribute all the remaining rations,” Folkard ordered. “You’re in charge here. Stevenson, you stay here with the others and take a rest. You are looking a bit pinched. We’re going to have a word with Doctor Grant and get some answers, but while we are gone keep your eyes peeled, Booth, and don’t for a moment forget we are among Drobates.”

“Sir.”

Grant led them back to the original laboratory room and their stools. “Miss Newton will be along with the tea shortly,” he declared. “Not her original name, of course. I thought it would be humorous to rechristen the Drobates using names of my favourite scientists. Newton you should already know. Leah Nardo, of course, is the other name. A trifle, I grant you. You will, I trust, permit a foolish old man his indulgences.”

“Indulgences, Grant?” Bedford exclaimed, his voice strained. “Why are you even associating yourself with these devilish creatures?”

Grant eyed him curiously. “I can see that you have no scientific leanings, Lieutenant. A scientist would never draw a conclusion based on such limited evidence. Particularly not one awash with this sort of jingoism.”

Bedford bristled. “Now see here, Grant…”

“No, Lieutenant, I invite you to see here. You’ll note the Drobates have treated you with respect since you invaded my laboratory. No doubt you have encountered others who are rather more hostile to you and your men.”

“Many of our men have been lost to Drobates, Doctor. In addition, we have lost your former colleague, Professor Staples, to these creatures. Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, back in the other room, not to mention those chained up Russians and the Selenites who made it this far, underwent extensive physical and mental suffering at their hands. You saw, surely, how Stevenson shrank away from these monsters?”

“I am sorry to hear of your losses, Lieutenant. The loss of Staples, also. An inconsequential man, perhaps, but nevertheless, undeserving of death. Doctor Phillips, my condolences. But here comes Miss Newton with the tea.”

The sight of Newton shuffling in with a tray of tea as if she were a butler in the colonies was so absurd that it would be comical were it not for the air of menace that the creatures exuded. She distributed the cups and the pot among the baffled men and Annabelle, then turned to Grant, awaiting further orders.

“Thank you, Newton. You are excused,” he said. At the departure of the Drobate, he turned to the group. “You’ll note that the larger Drobates are female. Broader brows, you see, slightly bluer in hue. They also happen to be the more intelligent. That the female is larger than the male is consistent with many insect and fish life forms on Earth; that the female is more intelligent than the male is consistent with all species on Earth.” At this, Annabelle was unable to hide a smile. Grant continued. “But I’m digressing from my point. We were, I believe, discussing the nature of the Drobates. It’s certainly true that their methods are somewhat unorthodox by Earth standards. Captain Folkard, Lieutenant Bedford, I sympathise with your losses at the hands of the Drobate soldiers.”

“It wasn’t just the soldiers,” Bedford said. “I could understand that. But after we blew up the big guns at the gate…”

“You did what?” Grant demanded, suddenly alert. “You destroyed the two guns guarding the gate? What happened next; tell me everything.”

Bedford did so, with a few additional details provided by Folkard and Phillips. Annabelle remained silent throughout, studying her uncle carefully.

“Well, that explains it,” Grant said when they finished. “The Drobates can be savage if aroused, but they generally do not much bestir themselves. But the guns… Those guns are more than simply lighting cannons capable of destroying a vessel at over a mile range; they are also the spiritual guardians of the city. Think of them as the carved gargoyles on a cathedral, or those enormous spirit animals found at the gates of Chinese temples. That is why the populace turned out en masse, and why they attacked with such unbridled ferocity. In a sense you destroyed two of their gods, although lesser ones.”

That hardly seemed plausible to Nathanial, and yet the violence of the attack, and the manner in which it was driven home—without apparent concern for losses—required some extraordinary explanation, for it was certainly an extraordinary event. “You mean to say they worship machines?” he asked.

“No, not precisely; they worship science, but over the generations, and as their understanding of scientific methodology deteriorated, their reverence for science itself was supplanted by worship of the physical artefacts and symbols of science, a sort of idolatry if you will. Their theologians will tell you the objects are merely symbols for the knowledge which lies behind them, but to the common man or woman the distinction is meaningless. Of course, at the centre of their belief system is the Heart. I learned that a part of the Heart was located in their most sacred of temples—or rather the temple was built around that part of the Heart. I even saw it. It is, however, dead.”

“Dead?” Folkard exclaimed. “How can that be? If all of the separate parts are of the whole, does that mean the Heart itself has died? Surely not, for I still feel its vibrations, even here.”

There was a desperation to Folkard’s words which surprised Nathanial. He spoke of the possible death of the Heart with genuine anguish, as he would have about a loved one.

“Calm yourself, Captain,” Grant said. “The Heart is not dead, but the part the Drobates worshipped is certainly dead. How can a part be dead and the whole still live? Rather like my niece Annabelle still lives, while obviously one of her limbs has died and been replaced with that rather odd peg… Wherever did you find that, my dear?”

“A friend carved it from the bough of a Martian blackwood tree. I did not think you had noticed my injury, Uncle.”

“Of course I did. A scientist lives by his powers of observation. I also note you have found a Drobate prosthesis. An adequate design although hardly inspired, given the technology available to them. I suspect Nathanial will be able to make something of it.”

“You know a great deal about them, Doctor,” Folkard said. “How did you escape?”

“I follow the Shining Path,” Grant said, smiling. “Naporrow Bing was assigned to study me. Having established a telepathic connection with him, I entered into an arrangement with Bing, whereby I would show him and his people the secrets they were seeking in exchange for my freedom. They are now fugitives, of a sort: former science priests.”

“And what does that make you?” asked Folkard.

“Me?” Grant smiled beatifically. “I suppose you would say I am a prophet.”

2.

NATHANIAL FOUND the Drobate tea acidic to the taste and soupy in texture, but it warmed him and he found it strangely satisfying. Once the tea was poured out to everyone, Grant settled back and looked at them over the rim of his mug, steam for a moment shrouding his face. The image disturbed Nathanial.

“I realise, of course, what you are thinking. A man who allows himself to be branded a prophet is liable to be branded a heretic. Yet it was absolutely necessary in order to facilitate my escape, surely you see this. Who among you would not take on a lie about themselves in order to evade death?” At this last, there were some uncomfortable glances among the group. “I thought as much. Now, Bing is a rather perceptive character and was able to facilitate my exit by explaining to the prison wardens that, rather than being put to work in menial physical labour, I might be of some use to the Science Priests and help them with their experiments. The Drobate lives in fear of the scientists, as you may imagine, and permitted the group to take me. All that prevents the scientists from ruling outright are the schisms in their faith: electricity, chemistry, biology, and one which purports to draw energy directly from the building blocks of matter, but hasn’t actually done so for more generations than anyone can remember—a lot of flummery if you ask me, but it may have been based on something real at one time. The point is, these factions are jealous of each other, and their division allows the civil governors and councillors to retain control.

“Little do they know, however, that an alliance of some of the younger priests of the biological sciences and the electromagnetic cult have made common cause and work against them. They plan to take the Drobate city from under their noses! To this effect, we work on the research we have engaged in here.”

“This will be the ghastly spectacle we witnessed in the other rooms, no doubt?” asked Nathanial, looking with sympathy at Annabelle, who listened to her uncle with scarcely-concealed disgust.

“Much of that is the work of the biologists, of course, and some of it has produced a better grade of prosthetic, for which my niece should be at least a little more grateful than I perceive she is.” Grant looked at Annabelle pointedly, then continued. “Beyond that, they have made some remarkable advances in enhanced performance with mechanical replacements. You curl your lip, Captain Folkard, but surely you must appreciate the potential military advantage of hybridized men, able to run faster and longer, carry heavier loads, hear better, perhaps someday even be modified to see better? The battlefield would benefit in countless ways from the knowledge of which we stand on the precipice!”

“You sound like another doctor of which I’m familiar; I believe Shelley documented his tales,” noted Nathanial wryly.

“Perhaps. My men may be conducting experiments which you consider ghastly; so too did all radical scientists. It will no doubt confirm your view if I tell you some of the work in those labs was my own.”

“Your own?” Annabelle cried out. “How could you debase yourself thus, Uncle? You who dreamt of a real city of light and science, not one of superstition and torture and…and abomination.”

“Call it what you will,” he answered with a dismissive wave of his hand, and Nathanial was again struck by Grant’s apparent lack of emotional attachment to his former friends and family. “My assistants and I have made rigorous examinations of every large form of lunar life known to us, and there are similarities in all of these life forms—subtle to be sure, and sometimes detectable only on the most basic biochemical level—which suggest they have all sprouted from a single tree of life. All bear these similarities save only one: the Drobates.”

Nathanial felt a flush of excitement and sat forward. For the first time he found himself genuinely interested in Grant’s work, rather than simply morbidly fascinated. “You mean to say the Drobates are not native to Luna? But where then? They do not seem capable of navigating the aether, or even aware of its existence.”

“Nonetheless, my point is this: the City of Light and Science is some way from its original purpose. Its inhabitants provide neither science nor illumination. The city is thousands of years older than any city on Earth, and its inhabitants merely a shadow of their former glory. The Heart, in its infinite wisdom, tells me this.”

“Mere observation can tell you that much, Doctor,” Nathanial pointed out. “When next the Heart chooses to whisper in your ear, pray ask it where the Drobates originate. We have seen no evidence of anything like them on any of the inner worlds.”

“Precisely,” Grant agreed. “So their secret must lie beyond the inner worlds.”

Something was niggling away in the back of Nathanial’s mind. A remembrance of… Ah! “Wait! Remember when we last met? You agreed with me that the glow which intermittently emanates from the Gorge is the Heart, attempting to communicate with… The place from where the Drobates originate? Is that possible, Doctor?”

Grant’s eyes lit up. “Brilliant deduction, Professor! Yes, yes, I think very possible.”

For a few moments there was silence, as the small party took in this new revelation. No doubt Bedford and Folkard were considering the military implications, and Annabelle simply looked on her uncle with pity, but Nathanial understood the real implications. Life beyond the asteroids. Secrets thus far beyond anything humanity had ever dreamed.

“But there is a more immediate goal for my Drobate allies,” Grant began once more. “Though we work in secret and in exile, it is our goal to restore the city to its former glory and to repair the machines that lie in rusting heaps beside their roads. Perhaps at that stage, the Empires of Great Britain and the Drobates might collaborate for their mutual benefit.”

He paused there, and not without reason. The look of affront on Folkard’s face mirrored that of Bedford’s. Nathanial, however, could see the benefit of such an alliance.

“You will surely now agree that the work done by the Drobates under my supervision is not the evil that you consider that it might be?” Grant asked. “I certainly warrant that you may have lost a number of men at the hands of the Drobates and you might even have suffered personal indignities at their hands, but I beseech you, do not judge an entire orchard by the failings of one or two bad apples. Between the idea and the reality falls the shadow.”

“Who said that?” Annabelle asked.

“I did, just then. Really, you must learn to listen, Annabelle,” replied her uncle, finishing his tea. “You seem shocked that I suggest an alliance with the Drobates, Annabelle. You may remember that you reacted in a similar way when you first saw the Selenites. They quickly became our allies, did they not?”

“And what about now? It looks as though you have neglected the Selenites entirely in favour of these creatures,” she answered.

“Annabelle, the Selenites are loyal enough and perfectly amiable, in the same way that cattle on a ranch are perfectly loyal and amiable.”

“Cattle?” said Annabelle, aghast.

“Even you must admit that for a group whose leaders are called Retainers of Knowledge, they are curiously ignorant. They retain knowledge, yet they know nothing of how to use it. They cannot possibly be regarded as intellectual equals. Stone, have you encountered a Selenite tool that has left you foxed? Captain Folkard, would you consider K’chuk a captain of equal wit and cunning to the mighty Jacob Folkard, master and commander of HMAS Sovereign? I think not. The Selenites are little more than savages and they worship the Heart with no more understanding of their reasons than the Incas worshipping the Sun. They worship the Heart, yet they do not question it. They could, should they wish, gain enough information to make tools, weapons, clothing even, yet they choose not to. They act as if they are slaves to the Heart. Now, Professor Stone, you who are so diligent at drawing conclusions—why do you think that might be?”

“Why, they fear the Heart,” Nathanial replied. “They are not as intelligent as the Heart and this daunts them. They treat it with respect and with awe. This is hardly a revelation, Doctor. The Selenites are only acting in the same way that an infant might approach its mother.”

“An ironic comparison!” cried Grant. “For you see, the Heart is their mother. The entire species, created from nothing by the Heart, using only the influence of the hive insect colonies that once infested Luna…”

“Doctor,” Folkard said, “we already know all this. We discovered this on our last mission here, do you not recall?”

Grant looked at the captain blankly. It seemed to Nathanial that the old man was losing his mind in more ways than one.

“You know nothing!” Grant waved about him. “The Selenites are but the youth of the species. That is why they carry on so idiotically. But the Drobates,” he continued, becoming more excited and animated as he spoke, “here is a species that goes back for millennia. Here is a species that offers real promise of intellectual merit. Favouring the Drobates over the Selenites is nothing more than an intellectual choice; a choice of the Mona Lisa over the cave painting.”

“Whether or not the Selenites were created by the Heart,” said Annabelle, clearly tiring of Grant’s dismissive attitude, “you’ll surely concede that they are wily fighters, Uncle. Without them, we might never have taken Otterbein Base or rescued you from the machinations of Tereshkov. K’chuk saved our lives against the Drobate soldiers in the City of Light and Science.”

“Ah, K’chuk,” Grant said, and for a moment there was a nostalgia in his voice. “Where is he now?”

Annabelle looked at her uncle with ice in her eyes. “Dead.”

If this revelation had any emotional impact on Grant, Nathanial saw no evidence of it. Instead he simply rose to his feet. “Well, we hardly have time for such pleasant chats. You may be aware that there are a number of enemies seeking the Heart. Some seek its knowledge, and would do evil with it. Others seek to harm the Heart, and as we now know the Heart, or parts of it, can die. The Russians have a hand in this, and one of our old rivals has assembled his own army and intends to reach the Heart. Two days past we sent word to the City for an armed party of our friends to join us to defend the Living Heart. We have heard nothing and have to assume the messenger was taken and made to talk. That means there may be a detachment of Drobate soldiers from the City on its way as well. Naporrow Bing and his assistants and I had little hope of acting on our own, but your party is numerous enough to make a difference, particularly if we can get the Selenites to accompany us. The Russians, of course, will have to be dispatched.”

“Killed?” Annabelle asked.

“Of course. It is only logical, as we cannot leave a guard and we cannot release them.”

“No,” Folkard said. “They are adversaries, but they are also men and have not raised their hands against us.”

“Very well, have it your way. There is no time to argue. We can leave them in a side chamber, outside the laboratory complex, with a supply of food. But now we must, absolutely must, proceed with the utmost dispatch to the Heart and ensure its safety. This is no time for dallying. For the sake of the Empire—no, the sake of the future!—we must get to the Heart and ensure its safety.” With that, Grant turned on his heel and marched towards the doorway at the back of the room, urging the group on with an impatient wave of his hand.

“If it is to be a fight, you had better show us how these two electric rifles work,” Folkard said. “Which section of the Heart do we seek?”

“The one beneath Otterbein Base,” Grant said. “The one originally familiar to all of us. The Heart will only respond to questions, unless it suits it otherwise. My quest for the part of the Heart here in the City was in vain, but because of my studies since then I now know the questions which need asking.”

Chapter Twelve

“To the Heart”

1.

“I HAVE only been with the Drobates for a short while, of course, yet I feel that I am on the cusp of a great discovery,” Grant said, apparently for his own benefit rather than anyone else’s. Folkard kept up with him, but Grant had lapsed into one incoherent mumble too many for his liking.

They walked along a passageway shown them by Naporrow Bing, one clearly excavated rather than a product of natural forces, but one faintly lit by glowing moss on the ceiling, perhaps deliberately introduced as no other means of lighting was in evidence. The passageway ran long and straight with no branches, or at least none they had come to yet. Folkard had heard from Bedford the warning K’chuk had given all those months ago: Drobates inhabit walls. Between their concealed passages and their submersibles, the Drobates led a secretive life indeed.

The passageway was only wide enough for them to proceed two-by-two, with Bing and Grant leading the group, and Stone bringing up the rear of the humans to lead the Selenites. Honestly, Folkard had no idea what use the Selenites would be without a Retainer of Knowledge to order them into battle. They seemed willing enough to follow Stone, but their confusion and exhaustion accounted for much of that, and neither of those traits would stand them well in a fight.

“This is familiar—too familiar,” said Stevenson. “I was dragged along a similar corridor when I was seized by the Drobates.”

“Most likely,” said Grant, matter-of-factly. “Quite probable it was this very passageway. Hopefully we encounter no further Drobates in this journey: the route is too narrow for both groups and I would hate to engage in a skirmish and compromise our position.”

“None of us would be overjoyed at the prospect of a battle, Grant,” said Folkard. “As much as anything, we are short on ammunition. What about these Drobates: what do they fight each other with?”

“Curiously the matter has not come up while I’ve been with them,” said Grant, fascinated by the question. “There are other settlements of Drobates, more primitive ones which live by fishing the River of Life and cultivating edible fungus, but with no scientific pretensions. How well they get along among each other I have no idea. Perhaps we shall have the opportunity to find out.”

From this point forth, Folkard kept his own counsel. So too did the rest of the group.

He had always thought that he was singularly lacking in any tendency towards the psychic, but his experiences here had forced him to re-evaluate that judgment. He could swear to feeling an odd sensation: akin to nervous trepidation, and perhaps it was nothing more than that. At the same time, however, hints of knowledge from the darkest ages, pre-dating human experience, played at the fringes of his consciousness.

For a while now, since leaving the City of Light and Science, he had been entertaining the notion that the Heart had been…not calling him exactly, but certainly urging him on. He remembered he had had a similar feeling last time he was on Luna and was suddenly stricken with a longing to indulge in it, to fill himself with the knowledge that was hinted at—and to never leave it. He imagined for a moment that he saw a glow ahead in the passageway, but as they neared he realised it was an illusion, or perhaps a psychic allegory. The Heart was ever closer.

2.

BEDFORD HOBBLED on, taking most of the weight of his right ankle on the metal walking staff, and wishing mostly that he was healthy enough to render better assistance to Annabelle. She had her own staff, of course, and never mouthed a complaint nor gave a look other than cheerful optimism when they exchanged glances, even though her brow was creased with pain and fatigue.

“Will this tunnel never cease, Grant?” asked Stone from the rear of the column. “The Selenites grow weary.”

“In a way, Professor, the tunnel does indeed never cease; it branches and joins others and eventually forms a circuit back to the City, after all. Nevertheless I do believe we are finally at our destination.”

Stone and Annabelle exchanged a glance in the gloom. Both, although worried that Grant had taken leave of his senses entirely, realised that it was best not to question how he was aware of their location in this dim light. Clearly he was operating on a level that went beyond the five senses. Or perhaps Bing, their guide, had simply told him this in his silent language. Grant’s next words seemed to confirm this.

“Mister Bing, if you would be so kind as to enable us access to the Heart.”

There was a sound from the general vicinity of the senior Drobate which sounded as if he was merely tapping on the wall. At the fifth tap, however, a large part of the wall to their right fell silently away, allowing light to pour into the tunnel and briefly dazzle the group.

“A concealed wall? Ingenious!” remarked Phillips. “I understand the pyramids operated along the same lines. No doubt for the same cause: to protect their treasures.”

Bedford, while impressed by the ersatz wall, did not reply to the doctor directly, too concerned with the sight that greeted the group.

The Heart was there, of course: a giant metallic wall that reached the length of the cavern, disappearing into the solid rock, awesome in both scale and significance. Yet Bedford’s eyes were not drawn to the Heart immediately, but to the rabble that waited for them. He pushed Annabelle behind him and drew his revolver from his holster.

“Saltators!” he growled to Lieutenant Booth and the Marines, to his right now and still sheltered inside the passageway. Saltators, yes, but among them, perhaps their leader, stood a being which defied categorization.

It appeared to be an experiment more hideous even than those of Bing and the rest. A human physiology was still apparent, and the jaw and bone structure seemed largely unchanged, but the skull was larger than expected and the skin was taking on a bluish tone that was positively inhuman. Inhuman, indeed—it was the skin tint of a Drobate. But while it was impossible to understand the origin of the creature in front of them, Bedford realised immediately from the untamed hair and the imperial coat of arms at the creature’s breast that it already had a name; one with which he was familiar.

“How nice that you have brought your friends to witness my final triumph, Grant,” said nastavnik Vladimir Tereshkov.

3.

“VLADIMIR, WHAT has happened to you, man?” asked Grant in disbelief, a sentiment Annabelle agreed with entirely.

“What has happened to me?” Tereshkov answered. “I am on my way to becoming the most advanced species in the Solar System. The Heart has chosen me, not you, to elevate. Ha!”

Annabelle wondered at the fluency of Tereshkov’s English. Despite the thick Russian accent and deformities of his features still he spoke with perfect clarity. She also wondered at the familiarity between Tereshkov and her uncle; despite the situation Grant and Tereshkov spoke as if they were old rivals, not bitter enemies.

“You know, you and I are not so different, Cyrus,” Tereshkov said. “Both of us want to find the origin of the Drobates. Both of us now know this information lies within this part of the Heart. Both of us have discovered the secret of the Selenites and used it to learn more.”

“But not like this!” Grant cried. “You have visited the Mother Wall, haven’t you? The place of origin of the Selenites, their Holy of Holies, and let it toy with you as we would creatures that swarm and multiply on a microscope slide. Have you lost your senses entirely?”

Tereshkov waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Let us not have this conversation. I am well aware, then, of your experiments with these Drobates. The only difference between us is that you prefer to test on cadavers and I prefer to experiment on myself. Typical American cowardice.”

“Or typical Russian lunacy,” interposed George. “Come, Tereshkov, what exactly do you intend to achieve here? The supremacy of the Russian Empire? Your men have surely abandoned you if you are taking refuge with these characters.” At this last, he gestured to the grotesque red Selenites, a type Annabelle had never seen but which George had a moment earlier called Saltators.

“It is true that the Russian presence on Luna has been, ah, reduced somewhat,” replied Tereshkov. “Still, I have the ship mounting the aether propeller governor of my own design and in the last three months it has made numerous trips back and forth from Earth, ferrying reinforcements, as well as heavy weapons which will break the resistance of your British garrison. The Tsar—the entire world—will certainly gather around in fascination once I reveal my secret. I have gained some interesting information—very interesting information indeed.” He threw back his head and laughed at this cryptic statement.

Annabelle looked around the group. It appeared that Folkard and Stevenson were still lost in some sort of trance at the sight of the Heart. She remembered that Stevenson had never seen the Heart before and wondered at the control the Heart must be taking of the young man’s mind. While Phillips, likewise, had never seen the Heart before, he seemed content to observe rather than fall to the Heart’s charms or to engage the lunatic Russian in futile debate. No doubt the fusion of human and Drobate physiology fascinated the biologist, to say nothing of the red demons that surrounded him. Lieutenant Booth and the rest of the party lurked out of sight in the passageway, awaiting developments, although she heard a soft whisper of metal on metal, as the Marines drew their long bayonets and then two clicks as they seated them on the ends of their rifles

“You really expect the Russian government to take an interest in the views of a madman who physically resembles a nightmare?” Annabelle asked.

“I am certain of it. Who would not be intrigued by the prospect of travelling beyond the asteroid belt and to the outer planets?”

At this, even Folkard and Stevenson snapped out of the trance they seemed to have slipped into.

“The outer planets?” asked Folkard. “Impossible. It cannot be done.”

“Impossible is merely a challenge to the scientist, Captain,” Tereshkov reproached. “What would you say were I to tell you that it had already been done?”

“Already done?” Folkard was aghast. “Not by the Russians?”

“I admit not. Only a matter of time, but not yet.” Tereshkov waved Folkard’s question away. “My purpose here is to gather this information from the Heart. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Surely we are not to believe this rot,” George said to Grant. “Look at the man and tell me that he is not insane. Why is it that we are prepared to believe that the Heart boasts this information? You think your Gorloff Gun and a field gun will overcome Otterbein?” he asked the travesty which had once been Tereshkov. “Yes, I know of them because I found your ammunition caches, and Sovereign’s Marines have by now uncovered the rest of your surprises. Another failure, Tereshkov. This scoundrel is merely playing for time with this talk,” he said, again turning to Grant. “I put it to you that the Heart cannot possibly offer clues to escaping the asteroid belt.”

“The Heart knows all,” murmured Stevenson.

“The Heart holds all the secrets of the universe,” confirmed Folkard.

Annabelle looked from one man to the other. On Mercury she had seen Hermes communicate through telepathy, was the Heart now doing the same thing? “Uncle?” she said, turning to Grant. “You know the Heart better than any of us. Surely this cannot be true?”

“The Heart is omniscient, I’m afraid,” said Grant, “or at least seems so from our rather less exalted perspective—second only to God. It is entirely possible that Vladimir has become privy to the information that he claims. This is why I left the research base, my dear,” he added, placing a hand on Annabelle’s shoulder, “because through my communion with the Heart I came to learn that it contained so much information, but that it responded only to informed questions. I had to learn more before I could understand what to ask.”

“You are a fool, Lieutenant Bedford,” sneered Tereshkov. “I had no need to capture Otterbein, only to encourage that dolt Colonel Harrison to withdraw the guard detachment from the Heart. What better way than to threaten the station itself? If it fell, all the better, but as you see we are here and not one British soldier stands guard over the most important single treasure in the Solar system.

“But as I say, all this bores me. It is time that I achieved my destiny. I have taken the liberty of preparing a destiny for you, of course, or anyone else that might stand in my way. Already you have met the Saltators?” He gestured at the bristling Selenites. “A number of months I have spent with them, explaining the nobility of the Russian Empire and noting the similarities to the Saltators. They have become tougher, more focused, stronger. I have harnessed their natural abilities. Under my guidance they have gone from marauding bandits to heroes! Your friends on Sovereign have already become acquainted with their abilities, of course, but those men were little more than cannon-fodder: a delaying tactic to amuse the men of Sovereign and prevent them reaching you. These are my finest men. Perhaps you might wish to see an example of their skills for yourselves? You can be torn limb from limb at my command.”

“For all that you are, Vladimir, you have never been a murderer,” said Grant.

“Never before have I had something this precious to protect,” said Tereshkov. “Already, Captain Rumyanstev with a company of the Lifeguard Jaegers approaches to secure the Heart. It is imperative that I gain this information and that you do not! Only you know the questions which need asking, Grant, and if I leave you alive, you will simply find out later and dog my trail. No, only your death will suffice.”

“We’ll see about that,” George growled beside Annabelle and cocked his revolver as he raised it. Before he could fire, however, the red Selenites surged forward and Tereshkov disappeared behind them. George’s revolver barked, the sound almost deafening Annabelle in the confined space, and fired again and again. Folkard and Stevenson seemed dazed while the Drobate scientists cowered in fear.

“At them, lads!” Lieutenant Booth shouted as he pushed past Phillips to stand at George’s right, firing his revolver as he did so, and the two Marine riflemen found space in the opening as well, their rifles soon hammering round after round into the Selenites and filling the air with black powder smoke.

Annabelle saw the entire front rank of monsters collapse but they came on, clambering over the heap of bodies as if in a nightmare. To her left one of the larger Drobates screamed in agony as a Saltator lifted and shook her in its mandibles. Another Saltator behind it turned its head, saw Annabelle, and charged.

Her back to the wall and Phillips cowering to her right behind George and Booth, Annabelle had no place to flee. In desperation she allowed the tip of her metallic walking staff to drop forward, its butt braced against the joint of the wall and floor, and the Saltator impaled himself on it with a chattering screech.

Folkard seemed to come to his senses at the last moment, striking a Saltator in the head with the butt of his electric rifle and then killing another with a bolt of electricity. George’s revolver clicked on an empty cylinder and he dropped it, took his metal walking staff in both hands, and thrust it into the flank of a Saltator finishing off another of the Drobate scientists. Annabelle saw his face twisted in fury, teeth bared, as he drove the makeshift spear home with a shout, then withdrew it in a spray of gore and turned to look for another target.

And then it was all over. The cavern floor between the Heart and the tunnel wall seemed carpeted with twitching, quivering red Selenite bodies. Her one leg trembling with reaction, Annabelle let herself slide down the passage wall and sit.

4.

BLACK POWDER smoke drifted through the air, gradually dispersing, and Annabelle found the silence almost as unnerving as the thunder of rifle and pistol fire, which had left her ears ringing.

“Jones, Heighway, find Tereshkov’s body,” George ordered.

“Sir!” the two Marines answered and made their way gingerly through the slaughterhouse, prodding bodies with bayonets and occasionally thrusting home.

George turned to Annabelle and knelt beside her. “Are you wounded?” he asked, his voice rising in fear. She smiled.

“No, my dear, or at least not in the flesh. I am not well suited to witnessing this manner of slaughter, and even less so to be a participant, much to my surprise.”

“Do not be fooled, none of us are,” he replied. “Men who go through this and pretend it is of no consequence seldom sleep well at night.” He made to touch her face with his trembling hand but withdrew it when he saw it dripping with the Selenite blood. He stood and surveyed the party. “Where is Doctor Grant?”

“Here,” a tremulous voice answered from Annabelle’s left. She saw a horribly mutilated Drobate shudder and seem to half rise from the dead, then fall away to the side and her uncle sat up, himself nearly covered in gore. “Oh! Poor Newton! Poor Newton!” he exclaimed, looking at the Drobate body which had sheltered him. It was the first genuine emotion she had heard from her uncle since their reunion.

“Annabelle, where are you?” That was Nathanial. He pushed past Stevenson and Phillips and crouched beside her, took her hand in both of his. “I am so relieved you are not injured. You have suffered enough as my ward, and to think I was not here for you again!”

“Oh, Nathanial, we have settled all that, haven’t we? Besides, you were unarmed. Better to leave room for the Marines to do their job—and they did it magnificently I must say.”

Lieutenant Booth turned and smiled, touching his forehead with the barrel of his revolver in salute.

“Sir, no sign of the Russian…or whatever he was,” Heighway reported to Booth.

“Blast!” George said. He knelt and picked up his revolver, broke it open, and dug in the leather ammunition pouch on his belt. “Booth, have you any more ammunition?”

“Just two rounds. Shall we share them?” the Marine officer replied with a grim smile.

“No, you keep them, with your bum arm. I can use this spear, I suppose.”

“I…I didn’t fire, Lieutenant Bedford, sir” Stevenson said hesitantly.

“That’s all right, Stevenson,” George answered and patted him on the shoulder. “Jones and Heighway have more ammunition between them than we do, so at least we have a few revolver rounds in reserve. Why don’t you change revolvers with Mister Booth and help with carrying Private Gordon? There’s a good lad.”

Folkard hefted the electric rifle. “This wasn’t half bad, Bedford, and I see one of your Marines has another. Why not try it? Easy to aim and fire, although it can’t be fired a second time until several seconds later—recharging or some such, I imagine.”

Heighway unslung the electric rifle he had carried over his back and held it out, but George shook his head. “With this game ankle I need the spear anyway and can’t manage that and a long weapon. How about you, Stone?” Nathanial stood up and nodded. “That’s the spirit.” George said.

“Are you sure it will not distress you, Professor Stone?” Phillips asked in a sarcastic tone as Heighway moved to hand Nathanial the rifle. Heighway lifted the end a bit as he passed by Phillips and the rifle stock caught the doctor in the groin. “Oww!” he exclaimed and doubled over in pain. “You stupid lout! You should be flogged!”

“Oh, and it’s that sorry I am, sir!” Heighway protested.

“Yes, inexcusably clumsy of you, Heighway,” Captain Folkard said, his face absolutely serious.

“Sir!” the Marine answered, snapping to attention.

“Fortunately for you, the Royal Navy no longer flogs men. See that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Sir.”

Annabelle saw that one of the Drobate scientists had survived, apparently by running down the tunnel, and now returned to help Grant to his feet. This was the smallest of the three, the one her uncle called Bing.

“What difference does all this talk of ammunition and weaponry make?” Annabelle asked, still seated on the ground. “We are back at the Heart, directly under Otterbein Base. All we have to do is take the lift up to the station and return to Sovereign. Is that not so?”

Grant and Folkard exchanged a grim look and, she was surprised to see, Nathanial hefted the electric rifle and shook his head.

“No good, Annabelle,” he said. “Tereshkov’s still out there, the Russian Lifeguard Jaegers are coming, and Drobate soldiers from the city may be as well, if what Cyrus told us earlier is correct. Someone has to keep them away from the Heart.”

“Here’s something more to consider,” George said. “We do not know the condition at Otterbein. I assume Larkins and the others found all of the caches of ammunition, and may have even found the guns, but Harrison might as easily have confined everyone to the base to wait and see what developed—the one course virtually guaranteed to lose the base.”

“He’s that big an ass?” Folkard asked. George simply answered with a sour expression. “Right then,” the captain continued. “I’d send Miss Somerset and you other two civilians up but there’s no telling what I’d be sending you into—the jaws of the enemy or perhaps a full-blown battle. Private Williams.”

“Sir,” the injured Marine answered and pushed forward through the others. He came to attention smartly enough but his hands still trembled and his head shook slightly from side to side, as if denying everything he saw and heard.

“Up the lift with you. Get to Major Larkins or, if there’s no alternative, to Colonel Harrison, and tell them we are holding the Heart but expect to be attacked by Russians and… No, just stick with the Russians for now. A company of the Lifeguard Jaegers, tell them. The attack on Otterbein Base is a diversion; this is their real objective. We are very few in number and short of ammunition. We require reinforcements, as many as they can spare, and quickly, or all is lost. Now, repeat that back.”

Williams stared at him, his head shaking slightly. He opened his mouth to speak but then became confused and fell silent.

“Booth, have you any paper?” George asked. “Splendid. Give it here and I’ll write the despatch.” That was her George, Annabelle thought—always practical, always keeping his head when everyone else was losing theirs.

Her George? Where had that thought come from? She had no right to think that, no claim on him, and yet she had never before known such a description to leave such a warm glow after its use. Despite the desperation of their situation, she smiled.

Chapter Thirteen

“Hand on Heart!”

1.

NATHANIAL APPROVED of the manner in which Folkard seemed to have regained control of his former sense of confidence, and had taken command of the party. Nathanial also noticed that Erasmus seemed to have shaken off the trance-like stupefaction which paralysed him during the fight. What made Nathanial uneasy was the possible explanation for this.

“Erasmus, you are feeling better?” he asked, his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I am,” Erasmus answered with a smile. “I don’t know what came over me there—the sight of the Heart, I suppose. Well, it’s passed now.”

“No more buzzing in the brain?” Nathanial asked. Erasmus shook his head no. “How about you, Captain Folkard? Is your brain troubled by the Heart?”

Folkard looked at him. “No. What of you, Doctor Grant? Have you a mental sense of the Heart?”

Grant looked up from the floor where he still sat next to the Drobate Bing. He looked from Folkard to the Heart and his already-pallid face seemed to shed even more colour. “Good Heavens! I do not!” He sprang to his feet and dashed over to the metal wall, leaping over the now-still carcasses of red Selenites. Once there he planted his hands on the wall. Nathanial remembered the last time he had seen him thus, the glow that was then emanating from the Heart spreading to Grant. This time, however, nothing happened.

Folkard made his way to Grant and Nathanial followed as well. “Is it…dead?” he asked, dread in his voice.

“No, thank heavens. It is simply uncommunicative.”

Folkard reached out to touch the Heart but Grant suddenly cried out, “No!” and struck him a furious blow to the chest which sent the captain staggering back. “You will injure it! All I could gather from it was that this…” he swept the scene of carnage around them “…this butchery traumatized it. You took part in it, Folkard, you killed. It will sense that violence in you and recoil from your touch.” His diatribe stopped abruptly.

“Grant?” Folkard said softly, waving in a hand before Grant’s eyes. There was no reaction.

Nathanial went to join them, but stopped in shock when Grant suddenly shouted; “Of course!”

Folkard exchanged a worried glance with Nathanial, but Grant seemed not to notice.

“What a fool I’ve been. Nothing we have can penetrate this metallic shell, and yet something killed that part of the brain in the City of Light and Science, and now I know what it was—the blood-stained altar before it told the story eloquently enough! Living sacrifices, years of them, generations of them, finally killed it.” Grant looked at the Heart for a moment and then ran his hands through the wild tangle of his hair, his eyes wide in alarm. “The Russians! We must not fight them here! Who knows what that additional slaughter could do to the Heart? We must withdraw and…no! The Drobates! If they fight the Russians here…” He sank to his knees by the Heart, shaking his head and babbling. “No, it cannot stand it. It will destroy everything, everything. It will never speak again.”

“Grant, pull yourself together!” Nathanial shouted, but when he tried to lift the scientist to his feet the old man collapsed, sobbing at the base of the wall. Nathanial turned to see Annabelle hurrying across the cluttered floor.

“What is it? What is wrong with uncle?” she asked.

“No time to explain. Bedford, can you help Annabelle get Grant to safety? Perhaps over by the lift. Folkard, come with me.” Nathanial led the captain over to where Naporrow Bing sat beside the corpses of the two slain Drobate scientists. “Folkard, you can communicate mentally with them, can you not? Find out from Bing if this is the only direct tunnel from the City to the Heart.”

“I don’t see what…”

“Just do it, man!”

Folkard looked at him and smiled. “Yes, sir,” he replied and then closed his eyes in concentration.

After a moment Nathanial could tell a conversation passed between the captain and Bing, for Folkard’s facial expressions changed, eyebrows up and down, lips now pursed, now frowning, exactly as a man talking to another. He opened his eyes.

“No, not the only tunnel. There is one more which enters the cavern further down that way,” he said with a wave toward the other end of the cavern.

“And how will the Russians come?” Nathanial asked.

“Well, through the natural cavern entrances, I would imagine. What are you about here, Stone?” Folkard finally demanded.

“We need dynamite, or more of those propellant charges, whatever explosives we can lay hold of, and fast! We cannot fight these approaching forces here in this chamber without damaging the Heart, so we must seal this chamber from all access save only the lift from Otterbein.”

“Damn! That’s a tall order,” Folkard said and he looked quickly around the chamber. “Still, it is our only real hope, isn’t it? Bedford!”

Lieutenant Bedford straightened up from having settled Grant against the far cavern wall and crossed to them as fast as his lame ankle and gory walking staff allowed. “Sir?”

“You’ve been down the lift before. Do you remember the orientation of the great cavern above from the lift shaft?”

Bedford looked at the gates to the lift shaft and thought for a moment. As he did so the electric winch started up, the great wheel beside the shaft began to turn. Bedford looked at Folkard and Nathanial but then shrugged slightly. “Yes, sir, I remember.”

“Splendid. Now from which direction did those Russian carrying parties come?” Bedford pointed to the right of the lift shaft as he faced it. “You’re certain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant Booth!” Folkard called. When Booth joined them Folkard pointed to the only large passage entering from that direction. “Take your two armed men and make your way down that passage, fifty yards at least, although a hundred would be better. Find yourself a place to make a stand. We think the Russians will come through that passage. You need to buy us as much time as you can. Do you understand?”

Booth cast a nervous glance at the lift’s gate and the loud whirring winch. “Don’t bother with that, Lieutenant, we’ll see to it,” Folkard said.

“Sir.” Booth gathered his two men and they disappeared into the uneven downward-sloping passage.

2.

“HOW IS he?” Bedford asked Annabelle. She looked up at him with troubled eyes.

“I have never seen him thus. He spoke oddly before, back in the laboratory, but now he only babbles, as if his mind has come completely unhinged.”

The lift ground to a halt and the doors opened to show a tight-packed group of red uniforms, and Bedford felt some of the burden on him lift. “Do what you can, my dear. I will be back shortly.”

Major Larkins stepped from the lift, saw Bedford hobbling toward him, and hurried over to meet him, the balance of Sovereign’s Marine contingent behind him. All of them cast wide-eyed stares at the scene of slaughter by the Heart.

“Good Lord, Bedford, you look a fright! What’s happened here? Are you wounded?”

“Just a sprained ankle. I can hardly tell you how good it is to see you and the men.” They shook hands heartily and Bedford nodded his greeting to the others. “Too much has transpired to explain now, Major. Do we need to send the lift back up for further reinforcements?”

“No,” Larkins answered with a sour expression. “This is all Harrison would consent to allow me to bring, and even then I had to claim a command from Captain Folkard took precedence over his orders due to my attachment to the ship. I’m not sure that’s true, but it satisfied him. Where is the captain, by the way?”

Well, Bedford had not expected any better reaction from Harrison and feared much worse. At least the station above was still secure. “Captain Folkard is defending one approach to this chamber, by himself, with only an alien artefact as a weapon. Professor Stone does the same with another, and that large passage is held by Booth and the last two of his Marines still standing. I believe that communicates the desperation of our situation here, Larkins. I’ll keep your men as our reserve here, and God grant we do not need them. You go back up to Otterbein and gather up as many explosives as you can manage, enough to close off every tunnel and passageway into this chamber.” Larkins looked around and gave a low whistle. “Take the wounded and civilians with you, as well as Stevenson to help carry. Doctor Phillips may be able to take you directly to the explosives. Don’t ask permission, do you understand? Just get them and bring them back, and hurry. Oh, and give me some revolver cartridges before you go; I’m out.”

Within moments Larkins had almost everyone in the lift, save only Annabelle.

“I won’t go,” she said. “I won’t leave you here alone.”

“I am hardly alone; I have a section of Royal Marine Light Infantry for company,” Bedford answered.

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” she answered.

Bedford thought for a moment, considered simply lifting her bodily and carrying her to the lift, but did not. “There is no time for an argument. I do not know what future we have together, but if we have any at all, it must include a respect for each other’s values. By now you must know that duty guides me as a beacon in the night. I do not demand you obey me, Annabelle Somerset, but if there is ever to be anything between us, you must honour my sense of duty. Your duty is with your uncle. Now go.”

Annabelle looked at her uncle being helped into the lift by Stevenson, looked at the carpet of Saltator bodies around the Heart, and nodded. She entered the lift and turned to face Bedford, eyes locked on his, studying him, perhaps memorizing the look in his eye in case it was the last time she would ever see him. As for him, Bedford was certain the image of Annabelle Somerset, dirty and bedraggled but upright and clear-eyed, her weight supported on a bloody metal spear, would be one he would carry with him to the grave.

3.

“DAMNED GOOD position you found here, Booth,” Bedford said. Booth had slid down off the rubble pile which formed his breastwork and was trying, unsuccessfully, to load his revolver one-handed.

“Here, take mine, it’s loaded.” Bedford gave him his Enfield, taking Booth’s and sliding it into his own holster. Booth was trembling slightly, but from excitement rather than fear.

“Thank you. Yes, it is a good spot. Good spot. Jones suggested it. We pinned them down a bit but Heighway took a bullet in the forehead. Killed him. I think the Russians were getting ready to rush us when Colvin and his lot showed up. Damned glad to see them, I’ll tell you. Damned glad.”

Colvin and his men kept up a steady fire—intended more to keep the Russians pinned down than to actually kill anyone—but the Russians were returning as good as they gave. The fact that the passageway sloped down toward the Russians, and the extra elevation of the large rubble spill, made it hard for the Russians to find cover, but the Russians further back could fire over the heads of the leading men without fear of hitting them.

Bedford crawled up to the lip of the barrier and started to look over when Booth pulled him back.

“Don’t stick your head up like that unless you want it blown off. You see that large rock sticking up just there? Get your head behind it and then look out to one side or the other, never directly up over the top.”

Bedford took his advice—this was Booth’s sort of war, not Bedford’s. He could see some movement down below, occasional flickers of a bit of white tunic or forage cap and muzzle flashes—many muzzle flashes. Bullets whined and echoed and ricocheted off and over the breastwork, sending rock chips flying. He ducked back behind the rock and a bullet grazed the boulder and sent a rock chip into his cheek.

“Ow! Damn that stings!” he said, and clapped a hand to it. His fingers came away bloody, but it was nothing more than a superficial cut. Three yards away a Marine groaned and slumped over his rifle—nothing superficial about that. Bedford crawled over to him, keeping below the lip of the breastwork, and pulled him down behind cover. He rolled him over and saw blood trickling down from under his helmet, saw the shredded side and rear of the cork helmet, and slid it off, fearing the worst. The man was lucky—a grazing wound that had knocked him out. Still, he was out of this fight. Bedford opened his ammunition pouches and scooped out the bullets—half a dozen loose rounds and four paper-wrapped packages of five rounds each—and stuffed them in his jacket pockets.

“Booth, I’ll take over here. You get this man back to the lift.”

“Sir.”

Bedford retrieved the man’s rifle and checked it to make sure it was still functional. They might need it before long.

Where was Larkins?

4.

NATHANIAL TURNED to face his new attackers, tried to bring his electric rifle up in his left hand, but instead of facing Drobates he looked into the expressionless eyes of two Selenites, and he saw more behind them.

“What are you…? NO! You have to go back. They will kill you!”

Already he heard the drumming of feet in the other tunnel. The Selenite closest to him reached out its left forelimb and gently pushed him against the wall and the first two slipped past him. A Drobate rounded the corner, electric rifle at the ready, but faltered when he saw the Selenites. He fired and the one closest to Nathanial collapsed. Nathanial even felt a jolt of electricity himself, standing in contact with it but the ant absorbed the bulk of the charge. Its partner lunged forward and slashed the Drobate’s throat open with its mandibles and the soldier collapsed in a spray of blood.

Nathanial stared at the corpse and the dead Selenite for a moment as if a spectator at a play rather than an actor, unable to even move. Then he clamped his mouth shut and sprang forward, grabbed the Drobate’s electric rifle, and dashed back. His left hand, he noticed, had regained sensation and muscle control. More feet thudded down the corridor, more electric rifle blasts splashed against the wall. Nathanial turned to face them, a rifle in either hand. On Earth he would have been unable to hold both of them up and level, but in Luna gravity it was child’s play.

A single Drobate came around the corner and Nathanial shot him. As if waiting for him to discharge his weapon, three more soldiers sprang around the corner and he fired into their midst with the second rifle. He hit one of them for sure, although he could not tell which as all three of them seemed affected by the shot, twitching and collapsing to the ground. For all he knew the charge had been dispersed enough none of them were dead, but now the Selenites surged past him, almost knocked him down, attacked the wounded Drobates and then the next wave of soldiers rounding the corner.

“Back!” Nathanial commanded the Selenites still behind him. “Back!” They bumped into each other and stumbled but obeyed, backing up down the corridor. Nathanial followed them, both rifles now recharged, as the savage fight at the corner continued.

He heard the sizzling snap of more electric rifles, the high death shriek of Selenites, but also the scream of more than one Drobate. When the last Selenite collapsed on top of the others, trying to get at the Drobates, the tunnel was partially blocked. After a moment the pile of Selenites moved, twitched, and one of the bodies shifted to the side. Nathanial fired at the opening and heard a Drobate cry out in pain.

“Back, faster!” Nathanial ordered his Selenites and fired again with his second rifle.

He was easily thirty yards away now and no longer bothered to aim for a specific spot. As each rifle finished its charge cycle he fired it at the logjam of bodies; if he did not hit a live target, he reasoned he had a good chance of shocking those trying to clear a path.

An electric rifle snapped from the tangle of torsos and limbs, narrowly missed Nathanial, and he heard a Selenite behind him scream. Then four more Selenites surged past him, oblivious to his shouts and even blows, and charged the Drobates. Electric rifles felled two of them but the last two piled into the barricade, dragged themselves over it, tore at the Drobates and shrieked until more electric rifle fire silenced them.

Nathanial discovered tears on his cheeks as he turned to the last four Selenites, the weakest of the group. “Won’t you go? Won’t you please just go?” he pleaded.

No, they would not go, and at last he thought he understood why. He had sent them into the chamber containing the Heart, and they had come back, not to protect him, but to defend the Heart.

To defend their God, even if it meant death.

“Sahib Stone! Sahib Stone!” He heard more trotting feet, but these from the direction of the Heart chamber, not the City

“Here!” Nathanial yelled, and he was surprised how hoarse his voice sounded. Two bearded and turbaned soldiers in khaki pushed past the Selenites.

“Major Larkins says to come very quickly. The charges are ready to explode.”

“Keep firing down into that mess in the corridor as you fall back. It should keep their heads down,” Nathanial said. Slinging the two electric rifles over his shoulder he pushed past the Selenites, got them turned around in single file, and gave the come this way gesture. As the soldiers began firing their black powder rifles toward the Drobates, the Selenites looked back down the corridor one last time and then followed Nathanial.

Chapter Fourteen

“A Rescue—For Some”

1.

“MAJOR LARKINS’ compliments, Mister Bedford, and ’e’d be pleased if you’d clear your arses out of his blast site. ’Is words, sir,” Colvin said.

“Eloquent man, the major,” Bedford answered and smiled for the first time in hours, perhaps days—longer than he could remember at any rate. “Jones, come help me to the rally position. Colvin, get your men ready to fall back. Jones and I will cover you from there.”

“You heard the lieutenant,” Colvin shouted. “Mark your targets, space your shots, and pull yer braces up! When I yell to run for it, you run for it. I won’t be repeating myself and any man stumbles will have me boot up his backside.”

Bedford had abandoned his spear for the wounded private’s rifle and Jones half carried him down the slope and through the low break in the second rubble spill. This one was not as high as the first and so commanded far less ground, but it would serve to cover Colvin’s section as it ran back. Once they were past this point all of them could run for it together—in this gravity it would not be hard for Jones or another man to get Bedford back.

Jones settled Bedford in a good vantage point between two boulders close by the gap in the rubble wall and then climbed further up toward the cavern wall, looking for a better position from which to work his particular magic.

“One Section, retire!” Bedford ordered. The men slid down from their perches and trotted back, with Colvin waiting until all of them were clear before following. Once they had all made it through the break in the rubble wall, Bedford started to stand to climb down to them, but the rocks under his feet shifted. He grabbed the boulder for support but the rocks under it shifted as well and it tipped over. Bedford felt a flash of pain that sucked the wind out of his lungs. He fell back to the ground and white spots threatened to overwhelm his vision. His dizziness passed in a moment just as Colvin and another man scrambled up to him.

The boulder was enormous—on Earth it would have turned his left leg into a bloody pulp a quarter of an inch thick. Here it was simply painful, and heavier than Bedford could manage on his own. The private with Colvin stood up to put his shoulder against the boulder but a Russian rifle cracked from somewhere down below and the soldier jerked back and tumbled down the slope.

“How is he?” Colvin called down to the others who clustered around the wounded man who had begun moaning with pain, so at least he lived.

“Broken collar bone,” a private answered.

“Pemberton, get him back to the major. The rest of you lot, up on the wall and keep those Russkies pinned down. We’ll have you out of here in no time, Lieutenant,” Colvin said.

Bedford wasn’t so certain. Normally it would be simple enough for one man to move the rock. The problem was leverage—the man would have to stand in the Russian line of fire, and that would mean death, or at least a serious wound. Bedford could see over the low rubble wall from where he lay and one after another he saw Russian forage caps peek over the top of the original barricade, then disappear back down as British shots knocked rock chips into the air. Bedford looked back at Colvin, who studied the boulder from one angle, then another. He crawled around to the far side and reached up, trying to push it while keeping his body low. After straining without success for a few seconds he repositioned himself and rose up slightly to get better purchase. A rifle cracked and stone chips flew from the boulder inches from his shoulder.

“Yow!” he called out and fell away from the boulder, rubbing his arm.

“You’re hit,” Bedford said.

“No, sir, not so’s you’d notice. Just some bits of pebble. I’ll figure this out I will. You leave it to me.”

“Hand me my rifle.”

“Sir?”

“Just hand me the bloody rifle.”

Colvin did so. Bedford pointed it at the Russian positions on the scarp and propped it between two smaller boulders. He reached in his pockets and pulled out the extra cartridges, piled them next to the rifle. “Now pull your section back and have Larkins blow the tunnel entrance, and no back-talk from you, understand? Not one word. You are not able to move that boulder as long as the Russians are out there, and they are not going away.”

Colvin stared at him for a moment, then at the boulder, and then he sighed and nodded.

2.

“WHAT DO you mean Lieutenant Bedford is not coming?” Nathanial demanded. The Marine’s already beet-red face seemed to turn redder still.

“His orders, sir,” he answered, but facing Major Larkins and Captain Folkard, not Nathanial. “No way to get the rock off his leg while the Russkies have the ridge under fire.”

“Well we have to go back in there!” Nathanial exclaimed. “Drive the Russians back!”

Folkard turned to him. “How are we to do that, Professor? You heard Colvin, there are at least forty Russians in there, perhaps more. Colvin’s men slowed them up, but push them back? Russians are not the best shots, as a general rule, but those are the Lifeguard Jaegers, the picked marksmen of the Tsar’s Imperial Guard. They’d cut us to pieces and then just march right in here. And let me remind you that Tereshkov is still at large somewhere. No, Bedford knew what he was doing. Larkins, set off the charge.”

3.

“IF WE get out of this alive, I’ll have you under arrest for disobedience to orders,” Bedford shouted.

“Myn uffarn!” Jones answered, with a laugh. “I didn’t disobey, did I? Colvin told Number One Section to fall back. I’m not with them, am I?”

“If you think playing the sea lawyer will get you clear of this, you are mistaken.”

“If anything gets us clear of this, Lieutenant, I’ll meet you for a pint of Brains’ best in The Lady of the Fountain. Lovely little public house I knows in Abergavenny, and everyone knows Owain Jones there, too! Tell you what, mind, give us a brilliant idea and I’ll buy you a pint anyway.”

A brilliant idea? Yes, it would have to be marvellously, wonderfully brilliant to bring them alive out of this, and the thought of a nice pint of Welsh bitter did hold a certain appeal. In front of him a Russian stuck his head up above the rim of the first rubble ridge. Bedford squeezed the trigger and his bullet hit two or three feet below the face, knocking rocks and dust up and driving the man down. Bedford opened the bolt and fed in another round. The magazine was fully charged but he would save that for when they made their rush, that and the revolver. Damn! He hadn’t reloaded it from when he’d exchanged with Booth. Well, never mind.

“Is your aim really that bad, Lieutenant, or are you just being polite?” Jones called to him.

“I think I’m just tired of killing people,” he called back.

Jones didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then answered. “I’m tired of it as well, I am. I don’t feels like just lying down and dying for them, mind.”

No, neither did Bedford.

The Lifeguard Jaegers were a four thousand-man regiment back in Moscow—the Russians went in for enormous regiments. About forty or fifty of those four thousand were out there, with an officer or two. If he were sending forty or fifty men to fight the British, and had all those officers to draw from, he’d make sure the man leading them could at least interrogate prisoners. What had Tereshkov said his name was? Rumyanstev.

“Captain Rumyanstev,” Bedford shouted. “Can you hear me?”

“No. Captain Rumyanstev cannot hear you. He is dead, I am afraid,” a voice called back—a young man, it sounded like, with a very slight accent. “I am Lieutenant Gruzinsky, second battalion, Lifeguard Jaeger Regiment. With whom do I have the honour of conversing?”

“Lieutenant Bedford, Royal Navy. How do you do, Lieutenant?”

“Better than you, I believe, although it appears our mission has been a failure. That was quite effective, bringing down the cavern roof, but permit me to ask why did you not withdraw when you had the opportunity?”

Bedford thought about his answer for a moment but decided he had nothing to gain with a lie. “A rock slipped and pinned my leg.”

“Really? And your men abandoned you? How shocking.”

“They’d have bloody well stayed and died with him to a man, but he ordered them away,” Jones shouted.

“Ah, I see,” Gruzinsky answered with a hint of amusement in his voice. “And tell me, is your leg pinned to the ground also, soldier?”

“Myn uffarn!” Jones hissed, low enough that only Bedford could hear. “And who said Russians don’t have a sense of humour?”

Bedford suppressed a chuckle. “Lieutenant Gruzinsky,” he shouted, “we seem to have reached a standoff. You can rush us and kill us, but we will surely kill some of your men as well, and what does that gain? As you observed, your mission is a failure, and killing us will not change that.”

“What you say makes excellent sense, my friend,” Gruzinsky called back. “There is a problem, however. I am not master of my fate in this matter; my superior will not approve my withdrawal, and as he watches me even as we speak, I see no easy way out of this impasse. In fact, I think he wishes you dead.”

“I saw you gun down my Saltators, Bedford!” a different voice rang out from over the barricade. “Grant and Folkard were fools; I could have dealt easily with them were it not for you. But you will never thwart me again!”

“Tereshkov? Lieutenant Gruzinsky, do you mean to tell me you are willing to take orders from that monstrous creature who calls himself a Russian?”

“I admit to finding his appearance and behaviour…off-putting, I think you would say,” Gruzinsky answered. “But I have my orders from Moscow, and those orders leave me no latitude in the matter. I am under this…gentleman’s command.”

“Does Moscow know what he has become?”

“It matters not, Lieutenant. Moscow may change its mind when they see him, but it is not for me to change it for them. You understand?”

Yes, of course Bedford understood. Duty.

“Well then, we may as well get this over with,” Bedford said.

“Yes, Gruzinsky, rush the swine!” Tereshkov shouted. “But don’t kill Bedford. Drag him back here to me and I will deal with him myself. You will take a long time dying, Bedford, do you hear? A long…”

Crack!

Bedford wasn’t sure what happened, except he knew the shot came from Jones’s position. For a few seconds there was silence.

“What a remarkable shot!” Gruzinsky shouted. “I am beside myself with admiration. How did you manage it, soldier?”

“There’s a gap between two rocks to your right,” Jones shouted. “The monster got excited by his little speech and showed his head.”

“Ah! I see, yes. Oh, well done!”

“Killing your commander will not cause difficulties?” Bedford called out.

“Oh, certainly it will, enormous difficulties! In fact, I see no alternative but to withdraw to our encampment and request further instructions. If I may ask, what is the soldier’s name?”

“Jones the Marksman,” Jones answered.

“Jones the Marksman, if you ever tire of British service, I believe you would make a fine Lifeguard Jaeger. Do svidaniya, Lieutenant Bedford.”

Epilogue

1.

HMAS SOVEREIGN did not leave Luna immediately and the next week became a whirlwind of activity for Lieutenant George Bedford, occasioned by Captain Folkard relieving himself of command on medical grounds, as much to Bedford’s surprise as everyone else’s.

Bedford composed and sent a number of long and detailed reports. He appended a list of casualties and recommendations for decorations, foremost among them Lieutenant Booth and Private Jones, RMLI Detachment, HMAS Sovereign.

He also made a point of commending the actions of Professor Stone who, though technically under arrest, had performed with particular initiative and gallantry. Bedford had hesitated before writing “gallantry”, as he knew Stone would find the word a distasteful characterisation of what he had done, particularly with respect to those two savage battles fought in the gloom of the deep tunnels. Nevertheless it accurately described the actions as the Admiralty understood the term, and if part of Bedford agreed with Nathanial as to the sorry state of the world’s current understanding of gallantry, he saw no profit in sharing that with the Sea Lords.

London’s response was not long delayed. With a substantial body of “armed men of an uncertain disposition” still based somewhere nearby, the Admiralty insisted Sovereign remain on station until a troop ship could bring reinforcements. Sovereign, of course, would have to meet the ship and ferry the troops down, as the only other large vessel with an experimental aether propeller governor, the one which normally serviced Otterbein Station, was in dry dock having suffered a mysterious case of sabotage.

Within four days the troop ship arrived and Sovereign’s cutters ferried down a company of the Rifles as well as a section of two Nordenfelt machine guns with naval crews, and a half-battery of light mountain guns—just the sort of thing to disassemble and carry through lunar passages, or perhaps on a raft down the River of Life. A sharp-looking young lieutenant colonel of the Rifles named Cooper had come with them and hand delivered to Harrison his orders to report back to London for reassignment. The company of Sikhs would stay under Cooper’s command. A new broom would sweep clean, Bedford hoped.

The reference in the orders to “armed men of an unknown disposition” was, Bedford well knew, all part and parcel of the diplomatic dance London managed over the status of Luna. Britain and Russia were not at war, nor did they care to be. Still their interests clashed, and as Britain had assured the world Otterbein Base was purely a research facility—which international treaty clearly forbade—it could hardly accuse Russia of having attempted a major military operation here.

Bedford was no diplomat, but he knew enough to couch his own reports in such a way as to emphasize the rescue operation and the fact that Tereshkov was clearly a demented renegade—not at all an agent of the Tsar. His detailed identification of the Lifeguard Jaegers was included as a separate annex marked Most Secret which he gave to Colonel Harrison to hand deliver upon his return to London via the returning troop transport.

Then there was the matter of Naporrow Bing and the City of Light and Science. British subjects had been treated most disgracefully by the Drobates of the City and Bedford did not doubt they would be made to pay a price for that. There was justice to that, he could not deny. He did sometimes find it disturbing that Britain seemed so much more ready to redress injustices to her subjects when those injustices occurred in a land of potential profit to the Lords, bankers, and industrialists—and did so little to prevent her subjects from coming to harm there in the first place.

Now Bing, the ostensible representative of the resistance in the City, met alternatively with a representative of the Foreign Office and one of the Colonial Office both of whom had come out with the troops—and each treating the other as if a minister of a hostile foreign power—with either Stevenson or Folkard, who could understand the Drobates’ form of mental communication, serving as translator. Grant could as well but was still too far gone to do so, and Bedford would not have trusted him in any case. Communication with the Drobates would be a challenge, of course, but the need to sort out who in London was actually responsible for dealing with the situation seemed an even greater one. It was not, however, Bedford’s problem.

Bing had taken one day off from his meetings to lead a party by a different route back to his laboratories and collect the twelve Russian prisoners, surly and bored but otherwise none the worse for their experience. Of the others who had wandered away from the party there was no trace. The twelve Russians would travel back to Earth aboard Sovereign and be released amidst much public fanfare—more unfortunate Earthmen waylaid by the Drobates and delivered from captivity courtesy of Britannia. Remarkably, Bedford realised, that was actually the truth. The Tsar, he did not doubt, would be very grateful—in public.

When not in meetings with London’s diplomats, Bing had spent much of his time in a workshop at Otterbein Base with Professor Stone, carefully disassembling the Drobate prosthetic leg, then rebuilding it to the correct length, proportion, and cosmetic appearance to match Annabelle’s missing limb. As Bedford and Annabelle had taken to sharing most of their meals, he knew the extent to which she longed to try on the new leg, although she pretended nothing more than a casual interest in the progress. Whatever impatience she might feel—and Bedford sensed that it burned within her like a Bessamer furnace—she showed only polite interest and support to her friend Stone. Bedford’s admiration for her would have grown, had it anywhere further to so expand. Instead he supposed that it deepened, as he saw more subtle layers to this woman who had entered his life and who, God willing, would remain a part of it.

2.

"AH BEDFORD,” Folkard said, looking up from his book. “Good of you to see me. Please have a seat. Would you care for some tea? The steward has just brought it.”

Folkard saw Bedford hesitate for a moment before sitting and nodding.

“I’ll be Mother,” Folkard said with a smile and poured the tea. “One lump or two?”

“None, thank you, sir.”

“Of course, I’d forgot.” Folkard handed the cup and saucer to Bedford and then took his own. He stirred his tea for a moment while he gathered his thoughts. “You have wondered why I relinquished command.”

“Yes, sir, I have,” Bedford answered.

“But you have not questioned me over it.”

“No sir,” Bedford said and set the tea aside. “It was not my place to do so.”

“On our first mission to Luna,” Folkard continued, “I left you in a seemingly untenable position, on the airless surface of the world with only an hour or so of oxygen. You managed to survive that.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

Folkard considered Bedford’s steely look. He set aside his own tea and looked away. “I left you on the surface of Luna because I knew you would find a way out of the fix. Do you understand? I knew it, on a fundamental level, despite all physical evidence to the contrary. Although I did not understand at the time, the Heart was even then speaking to me, somehow controlling my actions. I do not believe I understood the extent of the Heart’s control over me, or how completely reckless and irresponsible I had acted, in so many ways, until the Heart’s voice was suddenly silenced, down there in the chamber during the fight with the Saltators. That’s when I came to my senses, and that is why, Bedford, I must tell you how utterly appalled I am at my own behaviour, particularly on our first mission. I ask you to accept my sincere apologies, although I would not blame you one wit if you slapped away my hand.”

Bedford frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, considering his words for several seconds before replying. “Although I have not felt the influence of the Heart, its effects were clear to see on Grant and Stevenson, not merely on you, so I cannot dismiss your explanation as invention. Further, I will say that none of your actions on any mission, save only these two trips to Luna, have given me any reason to question your judgement or leadership. That said, it is not within my power to absolve you of responsibility for your actions. You understand that?”

“Of course,” Folkard answered. “Only our Creator can do that.”

“Or an Admiralty Board,” Bedford added, and for the first time Folkard saw the hint of a smile. “No, I cannot absolve, but I can understand and I can certainly forgive, which I do gladly.” He extended his hand and Folkard shook it.

“Thank you, Bedford. This means a great deal to me.”

Bedford glanced at the book Folkard had laid aside. “Legends and Myths of Ancient Times,” he observed out loud.

“Quite so. Sovereign has a rather extensive library. I have been reading up on an archaic lunar deity in Greek mythology, called Selene.”

Bedford nodded. “Ah, the Selenites. An attempt to understand them better?”

“Not so much them, as Luna itself.” Folkard picked up the book and looked at it for a moment and then dropped it back on the table.

Bedford thought for a moment. “One thing I still fail to understand. Why surrender command of Sovereign, unless from a desire to atone for what you saw as your past ill-considered acts? As you yourself said, the voice of the Heart was stilled by the fight with the Saltators, and I would say without reservation that your behaviour from that moment on was exemplary.”

Folkard picked up his tea and sipped before answering. “Its voice was stilled, Bedford, but not silenced forever. The Heart again whispers to me.”

3.

ANNABELLE HAD put off visiting her uncle for long enough.

Traditionally a visit to her uncle would have been an event which triggered great excitement. Yet as she guided her new mechanical leg to his bed, she realised that she was doing so with a degree of trepidation. She had heard the men whisper that a lunatic was being kept in the bay and was all too aware that this did not refer to Stevenson. Of course, she did not entirely share this opinion, but she had secretly worried about her uncle’s state of mind ever since they had first left Luna without him all those months ago.

Grant was talking to himself, muttering something which sounded like Poly. A lost love, perhaps: Annabelle realised that she knew very little about Uncle Cyrus’s private life.

“How are you feeling, today, Uncle?” Annabelle asked.

“They have taken me away from my life force. I feel as though I have lost a limb!” cried Grant.

The careless remark stung Annabelle but she had to make allowances for his condition. “You are talking about the Heart?”

“Of course, my girl, what else? What else do I have in this flimsy universe? And now, to return to that useless rock Earth! Nothing but philistines and imbeciles at every turn. The planet is simply too small to contain the knowledge I hold, Annabelle, too small to contain Cyrus Grant!”

“This ranting will get you nowhere, Uncle,” Annabelle said. “You are only being held here because you are not considered safe to roam the ship unaccompanied. Unless you are capable of behaving yourself, there is no prospect of any vessel consenting to bring you back here. Remember, Uncle, that only the British have ships capable of making this voyage.”

“Yes, and why? Because they have stolen my invention, that’s why! They use my aether propeller governor without so much as a by-your-leave!”

Annabelle became alarmed at his rising hysteria and touched his shoulder soothingly. “Now Uncle, please be calm. Nathanial consented to the experimental use of the device on several Royal Navy vessels.”

“Stone? What say does he have in it? It was my invention, not his!”

Although technically true, Annabelle knew that Nathanial had advanced the design way beyond that which her uncle had built for his first trip to Luna. But it would not do to remind him of this fact now. “Be calm, please Uncle. You must behave yourself.”

“Behave myself!” thundered Grant. “Such insolence, and from a mere girl! I shall not stand for it.”

Annabelle felt the blood rise to her cheeks. “To think I worried about you on Luna, Uncle! Clearly I should have left you among your Drobate confederates to dissect corpses for the rest of your days.”

“Perhaps you should have! I would, at least, have been more content on an operating table in the companionship of Drobates than I would in a lecture theatre in England.”

Annabelle shook her head. She would be better off, she decided, terminating the conversation before her anger spilled over into outright fury. “We shall continue this conversation, Uncle, when we return to Earth. Perhaps then you will be free of the Heart’s influence and we might be able to conduct a civilised discussion.”

“Free of the Heart’s influence!” cried Grant. “The Heart will never leave me. All those who have touched it are as one, plemyannitsa.”

Annabelle paused briefly at the door. She had become accustomed to peculiar outbursts from her uncle. Something about this latest one, however, made her shiver.

She walked to Sovereign’s chart room, a small office off the bridge, for that was where George spent most of his duty hours. The ship was scheduled to depart, at long last, for Earth on the morrow. He might be busy with last-minute preparations, although she saw little enough evidence of it in the ship. Everything required to depart had been done days ago. George certainly ran an efficient ship and she had no desire to interrupt his running of it, but she suddenly felt need for the company of a sympathetic being, if only for a few minutes, to remind her that people could feel things for one another aside from impatience and anger—or horror.

“Ah, hello, my dear,” he said looking up from the papers spread across the chart table. “You look particularly lovely today, if you will permit me to say so.” He started to struggle to his feet but she waved him down—his ankle still had not recovered from his rather nasty sprain, and for the moment she suspected she was slightly more mobile than he. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Silliness, I am sure, and nothing more.”

George smiled and leaned back in his chair and raised his white mug of tea. “Then here’s to silliness, I say. Does something trouble you? Please, sit with me a while.”

Annabelle sat on the stool beside the chart table, the only other seat in the room, and flexed her artificial leg tentatively.

“How does it suit you?” George asked.

“So far it is harder to walk with than my peg, although I know that is only because I am unaccustomed to it. I have grown used to the security of that rigid and unyielding piece of Martian blackwood; this give and flex is something new. Also, Nathanial says I will have to have the tension of the internal springs readjusted once we get to Earth, to allow for the much greater gravity.”

“Of course,” George said and smiled.

“But you know that does not trouble me. That is something I can deal with—will deal with, regardless of how long it takes. No, I am troubled by things I have no control over: the mental state of Uncle Cyrus, the charges against poor Nathanial. These are two people who have come to mean…almost more to me than anyone else on Earth.” She saw George smile softly at that as well. “You and I are quite different in that respect, George Bedford. You never seem tortured by the events beyond your control. You go about your business, making a difference where you can, and leaving the rest to God, although I have never heard you put it so. How do you manage it?”

“I do not know, exactly. It is simply who I am. But if you truly desire to learn my technique, I suggest a course of careful study.”

“A long course?” she asked.

“Oh, I should think quite long.”

4.

EXCERPT 56.

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

Thursday, December 5th 1889.

I have mixed feelings on our departure from Luna. There is a great deal to celebrate from our experiences this time. The mission to recover Grant was, ultimately, successful.

I fear that these months on Luna have damaged him greatly and he may never recover from their influence; even at a reduced level, however, his knowledge, obtained from the Heart, will be invaluable to science, and may open entire new vistas to us. Travelling beyond the asteroid belt! Remarkable—the invention of fantasists with no regard for astrophysics or for engineering, and yet it seems closer to a reality than ever before.

We have also discovered a new civilization, if one can call it that, which contains remarkable technological artefacts, although so far we have seen little of them save the weaponry. If the Foreign Office acts with wisdom and forbearance, this culture may be won over to a less brutal and debased course. From what I have seen on Mars, however, I think a military campaign of conquest more likely, the immediate outcome of which can hardly be in doubt. I have not the wisdom to foresee the long term ramifications.

I am pleased that Erasmus joins us on our return from Luna. He shall require a period of extended convalescence on Earth; as I understand it, he has been sleeping by candle light in the sickbay and even then he is haunted by nightmares relating directly to his time with the Drobates. Doctor Beverly has advised against visiting him immediately for the good of his health, yet I am anxious to see him and keenly hope that he will be allowed visitors before we land on Earth and I am, once again, taken into custody. That is, of course, now only a matter of hours away.

Annabelle continues to make great strides, both figuratively and literally, on her prosthetic. She will learn in time not to be so eager! I have worried as to what she intends to do on her return to Earth in light of her uncle’s current health, but she seems unconcerned. She has taken Lieutenant Bedford into her confidence, and I think also into her heart.

And so, once more, my thoughts turn to what awaits me on Earth. I should be confident of my liberation at the end of the trial. I am, after all, innocent of any crime and a reasonable jury, presented with all the facts, ought to find in my favour. And facts I have aplenty. Since boarding Sovereign at Mars, even though bound by law, I was still allowed the contents of my satchel, and spent many hours during the voyage from Mars to Luna going through not only my journal, but that of Professor Wren. Yes, facts I have!

And not only those, but Bedford has made it clear that he will speak for my good character, and the service I have been on this mission to Luna. He calls it gallantry, and perhaps, just perhaps, he is right.

Seven months ago, when I was ordered to report to HMAS Sovereign, who would have foreseen the path my life has taken… Certainly not I!

To Be Continued…

A Dream Fulfilled

An Afterword

…And so ends the first series of Space: 1889 & Beyond. What for you, dear reader, seems like a journey of only seven months has been, for me, a journey of six years. Ever since Noise Monster Productions released the last in their series of Space: 1889 audio plays (co-written by me), I have wanted to continue my association with the property. From 2006 through to 2010 I would send occasional and tentative feelers to various publishers I knew, in the hope that one of them would be interested in a series of novels based on Space: 1889. So it was with great joy that I was able to start fulfilling my dream when, almost two years ago, Jay Hartman, editor-in-chief of Untreed Reads, mentioned his desire to publish steampunk novels.

It took us a long while to get the series up and running, over a year in fact, but looking back, and reviewing this first series, I can say, with some measure of pride, that we’ve done a fantastic job. So, please allow me to take this opportunity to thank, first and foremost, Jay Hartman and K.D. Sullivan at Untreed Reads, for their faith in the product and in me. Also, a huge thank-you to Frank Chadwick for being so open to the possibilities and allowing me to mould and reshape a lot of the Space: 1889 universe—it sometimes pays to take a chance, and Frank backed me all the way! Thanks must also go to Sharon Cole for her amazing proofreading skills; I’ll wager she’s learned as much about the British way of doing things as she has about aether travel. To David Burson for his wonderful artwork which perfectly captured the Strand/Tintin feel I wanted, and Steve Upham for revamping the logo! And, of course, to all the writers who have helped me shape this series, for their wonderful ideas and flexibility; K.G. McAbee, Mark Michalowski, L. Joseph Shosty and J.T. Wilson, and those who were there at the beginning but were unable to continue due to other commitments; Sam Stone, Raven Dane, John Ainsworth, Ian Brooker and Trudi Topham.

It’s with great pleasure I can say that Space: 1889 & Beyond has been very well received. It’s garnered some rave reviews, the attention of some of the biggest names in the steampunk genre, and has topped the best-selling lists of several e-stores (including having the series dominate the Untreed Reads’ best-sellers list every single month since September 2011). So, a minor success. None of this would have been possible without those mentioned above, but most importantly, it would never have happened without you. One of my goals for this series was to not only get the approval and support of the fans that have followed the property since 1988, but to bring new fans to the property. This we have certainly done. So, for your continued support and encouragement, I dedicate the entire first series to every reader out there – and yes, that includes you! (And the person reading over your shoulder.) None of us are anything with you!

See you all in the summer for series two. Nathanial and Annabelle’s troubles are only just beginning, but luckily they have some help waiting in the wings…

Andy Frankham-Allen, Series Editor

13th March 2012

Acknowledgements

This book is for, and dedicated to, my dad, for the love of space, the sci-fi and the support.

Thanks to Frank Chadwick, Andy Frankham-Allen, L Joseph Shosty, K.G. McAbee, Mark Michalowski, Trudi Topham, Jay Hartman and K.D. Sullivan, as well as everyone who wrote the Space: 1889 gamebooks and, of course, everyone who played the game.

Love and respect as ever to all the Wilson, Meredith, Mortimore and Dupree families and to all my family, friends, colleagues and associates, in writing and outside of it. For help, inspiration and support, thanks to Shaun Herrington, Graeme Meredith, Jon Peters, Inigo Purcell, Lucy Radford, Kyly Wilson. For their love and patience, thanks to Sarah-Beth Gilbert and Cabaret Wilson.

Finally, thank you to you, the reader. Here’s to series two—and beyond!

J.T. Wilson

September 2011