Table of Contents

Copyright

MUNDUS CERIALIS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Space: 1889 & Beyond—Mundus Cerialis

By Andy Frankham-Allen & Sharon Bidwell

Copyright 2012 by Sharon Bidwell & Andy Frankham-Allen

Space: 1889 © & ™ Frank Chadwick 1988, 2012

Cover Design & Art © Adam Burn 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

Dark Side of Luna

Conspiracy of Silence

Leviathans in the Clouds

The Forever Journey

A Handful of Dust

Horizons of Deceit

http://www.untreedreads.com

“MUNDUS CERIALIS”

By Sharon Bidwell &

Andy Frankham-Allen

Prologue

1.

THE PECULIAR RUBBER linings of the pressured corridors absorbed sound so that Arnaud almost failed to notice the first cough. The sound only registered when the word “slacker” was whispered, rounded off by another cough.

Ivor Cadogan. There was only one man in residence at Messor Base who was worse, and that was Dylan Blayney, the base manager. Cadogan worked under him, which was all Arnaud needed to know. Blayney seemed to have taken an instant dislike to him, and if Blayney didn’t like a man, that meant Cadogan’s instant hatred followed.

Pretending not to hear, Arnaud concentrated on the papers in his hands as he continued on to the next iron terrasphere, hoping Cadogan and the man at his side would just walk on by. Alas, Arnaud must have looked perplexed. As they came abreast, Cadogan spun on his heel and stopped.

“Lost, Doctor Fontaine?” Cadogan always managed to sound as if he spat when he addressed Arnaud.

“Non. Not…lost. Confused.” As much as Arnaud didn’t want to speak with him, Cadogan might have the explanation he needed.

“Hardly surprising, that is.” Cadogan shared a look and a snigger with the colleague standing beside him.

Arnaud didn’t recognise the face and didn’t engage with either of the miners regarding the insult. Although Cadogan looked put-out when he failed to get a response to such defamation, it was better to pretend ignorance, to play the bumbling fool than to acknowledge the abuse. He’d learned to do so only escalated matters. He could hardly report Cadogan to Blayney, and if he tried to go higher, he would be met with more ridicule, either owing to his nationality, or his position. If a grown man couldn’t take a little ridicule, no one saw much hope for his surviving in space. They viewed such men as unreliable. Besides, scientists were not revered by everyone in the universe, and since he’d first been introduced to Blayney, the man had referred to him as the Frenchie who “played with rocks”.

Dragging out a sheet of paper, wishing light as well as sound was not so dull in the connecting corridors, Arnaud said, “Each corridor is known by the prefix occator, oui?” When all he received was a stare, he continued, “The list is not…erm…how would you say? Chromelogical?”

“What?”

“He means chronological,” the other man interjected.

Accepting he had pronounced it incorrectly—hardly a great offence—still it amused Arnaud to note that Cadogan seemed no more enlightened. He glared at his companion who shuffled his feet.

“In order, n’est-ce pas?” Arnaud gestured to the non-sequential numbers on the sheet, and saw at once he’d inadvertently drawn Cadogan’s anger. Cadogan appeared to be chewing his tongue so hard, Arnaud almost expected to see blood when he opened his mouth.

“Don’t expect hard-working men to know fancy expressions in any language. What’d you need to know about the mining for?” Cadogan shared a look with the man at his side, seemingly on good terms with him again.

He could hardly blame them for the hostility, but he had explained to men better than Cadogan that he found the environment austere, and the necessity of working in an atmosphere suit too restricting. It was truly better if they could bring samples back to him here at the base. Orlondo Quintana, the palaeontologist who had summoned him here, was the only one who had shown him any understanding in this matter, understanding that he would accomplish more without distractions and unnecessary physical hardship.

To the miners, they saw Arnaud’s complaint as a refusal to dirty his hands, a means to shirk responsibility and to leave the hard work to “lower” classes. Arnaud saw these men as no such thing, but they didn’t want to hear explanations. They were sick of mining for many months at a time for what they saw as little compensation. They saw riches being dug out every day and some wanted their cut. Arnaud and the other scientists could have tried explaining that not all minerals amounted to gems, and that although much of what they found might have considerable worth and various applications, without scientific involvement they would never know for certain. Some discoveries would undoubtedly be worthless. Some would require many years of investigation. Arnaud sympathised with everyone on both sides, but what these men were paid had nothing to do with him. The one thing he might have been able to stand up for was better provisions. If the men wanted to argue about social division, they ought to start in the dining hall. It couldn’t have escaped everyone’s notice that some of the men ate better than others. His nose had twitched with some tantalising scents on occasion. Either it was a matter of rank or personal disapprobation, but the scientists were served the same as most of the lower work force. Hardly fair that those in charge or with the right connections ate better when many of the rest did the bulk of physical labour.

“How are they…?” He searched for the word.

“Prioritised?” Cadogan’s companion offered helpfully, and then looked away as Cadogan’s gaze fell on him.

“Oui. Yes.”

Cadogan turned his glare back to Arnaud. “Better ask that of more important men. We’re just the worker ants.” The venom and sarcasm did not escape Arnaud, and with that Cadogan did spit, just missing Arnaud’s feet, before lumbering off down the corridor. As for—Arnaud hid a smile—worker ants, Cadogan was one of those who ate well.

“It’s a simple matter of inspection,” the other man whispered. “Some corridors are more important. Others less, or require more work, or…”

“Oui, but these…” Arnaud tapped a few allocations low down on the list. He was pointing to some of the tunnels they were excavating right here on the base, a couple of which were marked as “discontinued”. The unknown miner glanced at the page, before looking down the corridor to Cadogan’s back, then at the list again, and finally at Arnaud.

“Some of the tunnels…they were set aside for much later investigation because of…peculiarities.”

“Peculiarities?” Arnaud received no answer. Possibly fearing Cadogan’s wrath, the unnamed miner was already jogging down the corridor away from him.

Arnaud was left holding sheets of paper, frowning, and only the fact of having his hands full stopped him from scratching his head.

“I suggest you stick to your own tasks,” the British archaeologist, Doctor Lester Gully, told him when their paths next crossed and Arnaud mentioned the subject.

“I was just…” Well, in truth he was wondering how many months he would be stuck here. He might enjoy studying rocks, but he didn’t enjoy living inside one—this had to be one of the most inhospitable places he’d ever visited, and he wasn’t just referring to the environment. “I’ve not seen this category listed elsewhere.”

Doctor Gully leaned over, looked at the page, and then said, “Where did you get that?” Not waiting for an answer, he sniffed. “Odd, I admit, but…” He shrugged, already engrossed in examining the current specimens.

Arnaud might have shrugged, too, if it had not been that a moment of simple curiosity had led to the utterance of a word certain to spark his interest: peculiarities. Instinct told him to shake it off as a poorly chosen description, but he didn’t believe that was the case. He was certain the man had chosen it quite precisely.

Still, he could do no further investigation right now. Arnaud set his concerns aside and set about the next test sample.

2.

“FOOL!” CADOGAN SNAPPED to no one. He’d already arranged for Pettitt to go on the next transport out, although the idiot would already be on his way before he realised it was Cadogan’s doing and connected that with his talking to Fontaine. Pettitt swore he’d said nothing damaging, but the man had a runaway mouth.

Well, the assignment served him right. If talking to him didn’t shut him up, hard work ought to, but as he couldn’t send the man off base for another day, he’d sent him down to check out the tunnels beyond Occator Six—the so-called “discontinued” corridors—just as a precaution, just in case Fontaine got inquisitive. Better to use Pettitt for that anyway.

For the first time, it crossed his mind that Blayney had him at an imposition. Not that he thought the other man would take advantage of that. No way. They were friends. If it came down to someone needing to be blamed, they’d find someone else to use between them. Pity Pettitt was too much of an imbecile to use for such a purpose. No one would believe it was his doing, and he’d spill the whole tale. Hmm… Maybe he should keep Pettitt on one of the serritor details, just in case he needed to arrange an accident. Pettitt had enough of a mind probably to understand that the inspection was part punishment, but he’d never truly shared the same mindset. He sympathised too much with the scientists, talked about things being wondrous. He’d just gone from being an inconvenience to a liability.

Pettitt should be back shortly, and Cadogan knew he’d have to keep an eye on him until he left the base. What was taking him so long? It was safe enough but decidedly creepy down in the tunnels. Not so bad when there were two or three of you, but alone? Pettitt would be lucky to make it back with clean underwear. When he did, he’d find his troubles were only just beginning and he’d been rostered off out of here. Cadogan would have to silence his inevitable protests. He couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

3.

OCCATOR SIX. THE number suggested the tunnel beyond the hatch was one of the first exhumed. Why then was it listed as “discontinued”? According to the schematics there had been only a little digging undertaken before it stopped. Could it be that there truly was nothing of worth down there? Or up? When one was in space the concept of up and down tended to get turned around. Still, the question bothered Arnaud. He didn’t see how they could come up with that deduction so fast. The work detail had only spent three days on that particular excavation.

After finishing his initial tests on another batch of minerals, he’d taken a break to throw what they called food down his throat. He’d head back to the lab directly, set up work for tomorrow, and then rest. If he had time, he might even check out…

As if his feet had known where his mind was at, Arnaud realised he’d not stopped at the intersection leading to the lab, but had continued on. Any further and he’d end up at the opening that led to Occator Six.

Curiosity was a terrible burden. He did not need to anger Cadogan and the others to greater extremes. There was no hurry, and a wise man would not go about inspecting the very thing he had mentioned to the enemy—that was a mistake, he realised now—that very same day. For all he knew Cadogan could be lying in wait.

“My friends would be so proud,” Arnaud muttered. He had gained a suspicious mind, and didn’t even know when the change had occurred. Maybe he’d always been a little suspect of people. Minerals were safer and they didn’t argue or answer back. Doctor Gully was right. He should stick to studying inorganic matter.

The only reason he didn’t move was because of the blood.

The bloody handprint positively glowed, standing out so starkly against the wall.

Chapter One

“Dusklight”

1.

“MY DEAREST NATHANIAL, don’t you see? I simply cannot let this ring off my finger.”

For the first time in almost a month Nathanial could feel his own weight again. He was more than used to aether travel now, but he did worry about the long term effects that weightlessness was having on his body. He had recently discovered on Earth, that long-term exposure to the lack of gravity in the aether would have a detrimental effect on the human body. It would take much more travelling for his body to get irrevocably damaged, but still it bothered him. Alas, until gravitar was widespread he would have to suffer, and better to be weightless than to be on Earth. In the meantime he had the pleasure of Annabelle’s company with which to contend.

For the most part, on their trip from Earth, she had let him be, spending most of her time with Folkard up on the control deck, or attending the plants in the greenhouse. They met for breakfast every morning, but otherwise Nathanial was left to his own devices. Which had suited him fine; since agreeing to this mission he had not much cared for the company of others. He simply wished to be alone with his books, or busy in the engine room when Seaman Fenn was sleeping. But now they were in the Mercurian atmosphere they all had to be ready to interact with people once again. Which meant it was time to become their new selves—a fact Annabelle was now finding issue with.

“Up until now it has not been a concern, but we cannot walk about Princess Christiana Station with you wearing an engagement ring. People will talk! And as your older brother…”

At this Annabelle laughed. “An older brother with an entirely different accent to me! We cannot, surely, expect people to believe that we are siblings.”

“And why not? If it were so unbelievable then we would not have been given these cover stories.” From their position next to the greenhouse door, Nathanial looked down the narrow gangway towards the control deck, where Folkard was making minute course corrections. They would soon be landing. “You do not see the captain complaining.”

“Why would he? He not only continues to work for the Royal Navy, but also gets to play the part of a space mariner. He’s in his own heaven.” Annabelle gathered herself together, and Nathanial prepared himself for the final salvo. She expected to win this argument, but he would not be beaten. He had studied his new identity in great detail, and had no intention of making alterations now he was only ten minutes away from using it. Indeed, he rather fancied the notion of being someone else for a while. “You should be my fiancé,” Annabelle said, which almost caused Nathanial to choke on the tea he was drinking—finally using a normal cup, something he had been prevented from doing while in the aether.

“Your what?” he spluttered, and wiped the spittle of tea off his cravat. “Absolutely not! To be so would require that you and I… No, Annabelle, that is out of the question.”

“It is only pretend,” she said, nudging him with her elbow in a most familiar manner. “No one will be expecting us to canoodle.”

Nathanial opened his mouth to speak, and closed it abruptly. In the background he could hear the grating of the liftwood loafers shifting some feet beneath the deck. He turned away from Annabelle and set his course towards the aft of Esmeralda 2, as Annabelle had insisted the flyer be called. She called after him, but he refused to respond. It was absurd to think that he would even pretend to be engaged to her. What would Bedford say? Come to think of, what would Arnaud say when he found out?

No, Nathanial decided, they would remain brother and sister and that would be the end of it. With this in mind he slipped into the engine room and passed a smile at Seaman Jack Fenn, an engineer drafted from Sovereign at the request of Folkard, and the only one on this mission with no knowledge of its true purpose. Which was just what Nathanial needed; conversation about the performance of the aether propeller. Something safe and normal.

“Morning, Prof,” Jack said.

“Is it?” Nathanial was sometimes unsure. They kept the chronometers to Earth time on the Esmeralda 2 for convenience sake, and he had been up for many hours now. Surely it was late afternoon.

“It is on Mercury.”

Nathanial eyed Jack suspiciously. He had always liked Jack Fenn, ever since they had—literally—bumped into each other during Nathanial’s first visit to the engine room of Sovereign. He had been delighted to hear that Folkard had requested Jack be seconded to their mission. “How can you possibly know that?”

“A knack I’ve picked up, I just know. Always been like that.”

Nathanial smiled. He understood instinct and knack. He had lived with such abilities his entire life. A fact his siblings had always resented him for… Except for Edwin, he had never resented Nathanial.

“Are you okay, Prof?”

Nathanial struggled to contain his emotions. “All ship shape and Bristol fashion,” he said, with a lightness of heart he just did not feel.

2.

FOLKARD HAD BROUGHT the Esmeralda 2 down some distance away from the scientific outpost. He thought it prudent; since events on Earth recently, Mercury was busier than ever, with joint British and Austrian science teams working together to mine the gravitar strata beneath the surface. It was still largely top secret, but Mercury was now a no-go zone for civilians. According to the report he had received before they had left Earth four weeks ago many governments were growing a little suspicious, but there was little way around it. It was presumed that gravitar would be discovered under the other worlds, too, but until that hypothesis was proven correct, they had to protect their secret. It was a conspiracy that Folkard had become a part of, for better or worse, as had his shipmates.

If he had his way he would have taken their flyer directly to Venus, as the Heart had told him, but Stone insisted they pick up Doctor Fontaine first. It had been quite a dilemma. As they passed by Luna he had felt the Heart’s presence, just as Doctor Grant had explained to him, only he had not been prepared for it. It was as if someone was tugging at his mind, bringing a force of weight on his head that was worse than any migraine he had had when a child. As Stone argued his point, Folkard had felt the need to direct the ship towards Venus and damn Stone! He had almost done so, too, tired of the unspoken resentment Stone continued to cast his way, but he had been ordered to enlist the help of Fontaine. Apparently such a geologist would be a benefit to their mission.

Folkard hoped it was so. He did not care for their presence on Mercury.

3.

ANNABELLE REGARDED NATHANIAL carefully. He stood before her, blocking the way out of their flyer. Now the door was open, and the Mercurian gravity, just one-half of Earth’s, was inside the ship she knew it would simply take a little pressure on her mechanical leg to propel herself at Nathanial. It was unlikely he would be able to stop the inertia of such propulsion. It was just as unlikely that he would escape such an encounter completely intact.

Could she do it? Annabelle suspected that yes she could. Ever since events on Peregrine she had been tested in ways she had never thought possible—the most horrible circumstances—and she had survived each test. It might even be true to say such tests had made her harder. She hoped not, but deep down she suspected the truth of such a statement. She did not, however, wish to harm her friend. He had stood by her through everything.

“Annabelle, the captain is correct. We should remain here; people know us at the station, we will risk the entire mission if we are seen.”

“Perhaps you will, but I will not. It is not I who is supposed to be dead.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. The reason behind Nathanial’s faked death was still too sore a point for her to exploit. She shook her head, hurt by the look of anger on Nathanial’s once gentle face. There was something in his pale eyes that scared her—an edge to them that had not existed before his brother’s death. “Nathanial, I beg your forgiveness, but I simply must go outside. I have to.”

“I do not see why. The last time we were here it was you who said you did not wish to return to this ‘wretched planet’ again. Your words, Annabelle, not mine. Why would you wish to step foot on Mercury again? You lost your…” Nathanial stopped and swallowed, nodding his head slowly. “I see. You hope the ghost of Colonel Shawbridge will visit you?”

That eventuality had not occurred to her, but now Nathanial had mentioned it… Perhaps Uncle Ernest would appear to her. Would that be such a bad thing? The ghost, the copy of him, had been so perfect. She had simply wanted to walk through the station, the place she had last seen him. It was silly perhaps, but just being in that station again…

“Nathanial, I have such happiness in my heart, and yet so much sadness. I am engaged to the most remarkable man, the first officer of the most advanced aether battleship ever. And what did I do for Valentine’s Day? I spent it trapped inside a box of wood and brass, out amongst the stars, with only a friend for company…”

“Was my company not good enough for you?”

“Of course it was. But…”

“Perhaps we can grow roses in the greenhouse if we are in the aether next year?” Nathanial offered her a smile, but it was hollow. Almost as if he had forgotten how to smile. “The final touch to a Valentine’s breakfast.”

“Oh, Nathanial, please do not jest so. I love travelling the aether with you… The adventures we have had in the last year! But by this time next year I wish to be Mrs George Bedford, not an engaged young woman out amongst the stars with only a friend for company.” Annabelle let out a sigh. “I have lost so much, Nathanial…”

Nathanial swallowed, his eyes glistening. “As have I,” he whispered.

She wanted to remind him that she lost so much more, but to do so would have been spiteful, and unfair. He had lost his brother, and cut himself off from his family. The latter action had been his decision. The losses she had endured had not been of her making.

It wasn’t just her parents she had lost. Even though Uncle Cyrus seemed to be of sound mind once more, he had been distant when she had visited him before leaving Earth. Focussing so much on the work ahead, working alongside Doctor Boltzmann and Lord Kelvin. Once again she had lost him to his work. And Uncle Ernest… he had been the last link she had to her father, his life-long and most trusted friend. Only he had died on Mercury seven months ago.

“Despite our new identities, we are not family,” Annabelle said, as gently as she could. “I need to go out there. Be a part of that place, even if it’s only for a short while. You must be able to understand that?”

Nathanial looked away from her, turning his bearded countenance to the dusklight of Mercury. He lowered his head. “Folkard will not be happy,” he said softly, then looked at her, that horrible edge in his eyes now sharper than ever, “and yet I feel my conscience will not be troubled by his mood.”

Annabelle did not like that. As she understood it Folkard had saved Nathanial’s life in London, his brother an unfortunate casualty of an assassination attempt. How could Nathanial hold the captain accountable? Annabelle feared she understood Nathanial less and less. He was so far removed from the man she had been reunited with on Luna almost a year ago.

“Before you go out, I need to make adjustments to your leg. It is set for Earth’s gravity, and just the slight misplaced footing could wound you.” Nathanial offered her a sad smile. “I cannot allow that.”

For all the pain on his face, there was something about the old Nathanial in that smile. Perhaps he would rediscover himself on this mission, Annabelle pondered hopefully.

4.

ARM IN ARM they walked towards Princess Christiana Station. It had been a good seven months since they had last visited Mercury, and Nathanial was surprised by the change in activity. It had been busy back then, but compared to now the station had once been a ghost town.

Nathanial cringed at the analogy.

People milled about purposely; scientists dressed in warm coats, while the red-uniformed British Army, equipped and prepared, patrolled with other men, dressed in a dark blue uniform unfamiliar to Nathanial.

“Soldiers of the Austrian Landwehr,” Annabelle whispered, “no doubt on loan from the joint Austro-Hungarian Army.”

“Working alongside our forces?” Nathanial was impressed. Not only by the fact that Emperor Josef was willing to allow his army to work alongside the British, but by the speed of their deployment. Everyone knew that the Austro-Hungarian Army was poorly trained in comparison to the British, so their presence here was little more than a token gesture. A reminder of the close ties between the Austrian and British government over Project “G”. He wondered how much was being kept from the Hungarian government, and how they would feel when it all came out. Which it would; it was merely a matter of time now.

“We live in interesting times, Nathanial,” Annabelle said, a statement that Nathanial could not disagree with. She looked around as they neared the red-bricked buildings that housed the officers and senior staff. “I was half hoping we would see a bit of pink this time.”

Nathanial chuckled at the memory. “Ah yes, Miss McConnon. I suspect whoever took over from Colonel Shawbridge would not have appreciated his station painted pink. India this is not.” Annabelle looked up at him, smiling. He frowned. There was something in that smile, some meaning he could not decipher. Something akin to relief? He did not get a chance to question Annabelle on it, for his attention was pulled away by the welcoming call of a female voice with a slight Irish burr.

He looked over and saw the strong figure of a middle-aged woman approaching them. She wore a smile, which seemed at odds with her face, hardened through lack of smiling. She was the last person Nathanial had been expecting to see on Mercury.

“Professor…” she began, but Nathanial interrupted her abruptly.

“William Brooker,” he said with emphasis. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. This is my sister, Miss Ann-Marie Brooker.”

Miss McConnon looked from Nathanial to Annabelle, confused. “What is this fopsy? I know very well who…”

Annabelle disengaged herself from Nathanial and began to gently lead Miss McConnon away. “Please, let us ladies talk in private away from the prying ears of our gallant defenders,” she said, nodding towards the nearest British-Austrian patrol. Nathanial was not entirely convinced Miss McConnon got the hint, for she continued to look at Nathanial as if he were mad. But Annabelle was not to be deterred.

“I shall be with Doctor Fontaine,” Nathanial said to the departing women. Miss McConnon opened her mouth to speak, but Annabelle waved him away, and turned back to the older woman.

Whatever she said did the trick, because Miss McConnon drew closer to Annabelle and the women started chatting fervently.

Nathanial smiled to himself. It was good to see a familiar face, and now it was time to see another. It had been a long time since he had heard from Arnaud, and they had a lot to talk about. With that in mind he continued on his way through the station toward the building that housed Arnaud’s laboratory.

5.

FOLKARD WAITED PAITENTLY while Lieutenant Horwell announced his presence. He had been surprised to find Colonel Davey’s aide sitting behind the secretary’s desk. He would have expected a colonel of Davey’s position to have a secretary, not task his military aide with such menial responsibilities. Perhaps Horwell had done something to incur Davey’s wrath, or maybe Davey simply was not happy with women working so close to him. There was nothing in his file to suggest such a character flaw, but Folkard had met enough old soldiers to expect such views on women.

Folkard grinned. Miss Annabelle would have a field day with the colonel.

He looked around the reception room. It was neat and functional, as to be expected for a building housing the administrator of a British scientific base—even if said base did look more like a small village. Albeit a small village in perpetual twilight—or dusklight as Miss Annabelle had insisted on calling it. A phrase she had heard when last on Mercury, by all accounts. Folkard himself had been on Mercury before, of course, some years ago when he had been a young lieutenant on HMAS Raleigh, but he had little chance to explore.

Although he had a mission to which he had to return, he was half tempted to explore for a short while. He felt certain that neither Miss Annabelle nor the professor would heed his advice and that they, too, would be in the station somewhere by now. Surely he could afford a few hours to explore? Miss Annabelle had explained something of their previous visit, of Hermes and the ghosts. Perhaps a walk to the World River was in order after he had delivered his orders to Colonel Davey?

He closed his eyes, imagining how it would feel to be reunited with dear Charlotte after eight years. She was never far from his thoughts, and never more so than in February. Eight years and nine days since her death. Since he had lost not only his darling wife, but also their…

“Captain Matheson, sir.”

Folkard opened his eyes slowly. He was not sure he would ever get used to being addressed by that name. This mission could not end soon enough for him; he had not been trained to be a spy, and working undercover did not suit him well.

He looked up at Lieutenant Horwell. The soldier was probably no more than 5’4”, stocky, with brown hair and shallow blue eyes, a smile never too far from his lips. There was something almost cherubic about his face. Folkard stood up, towering over the lieutenant. Horwell looked up, but did not seem to be put off by the height discrepancy between them. Good man, Folkard thought. Made of stronger stuff than you appear.

“The colonel is expecting you. This way, sir,” Horwell said and led the way to the corridor left of the reception desk. At the first door he knocked. They waited a moment before a gruff voice told them to enter. Horwell opened the door and introduced Folkard.

For a moment Colonel Phillip Davey looked at little confused, then he nodded sharply. “That will be all, Lieutenant. Unless Captain, ah, Matheson wishes some morning tea?”

Folkard looked at Horwell. The young lieutenant returned his look with daring. This was not an officer who planned on making tea for anyone. Folkard was tempted to ask for a drink anyway, even though he was not thirsty, but decided against it. He felt sure the lieutenant had better things to do. “No, thank you, my business here is most important.”

“Very well.” Davey dismissed Horwell, and, once the door was closed, he stood up from behind his desk and regarded Folkard carefully. “Forgive me, Captain, but when Horwell informed me of the arrival of a Captain Richard Matheson I was most perplexed. To turn up on Mercury unannounced is most irregular, especially now, but now that you’re here… What can I do for you, Captain Folkard?”

“Ah.” Folkard stepped forward and accepted the offered hand.

Davey smiled and stepped back. “Before you leave, might I trouble you for a tour of Sovereign? There’s few stationed out in the aether who have not heard of your vessel. And indeed it’s illustrious captain.” Davey indicated the seat on the opposite side of his desk. “Please be seated.”

Folkard sat. “Alas, it seems, being stationed on Mercury leaves you behind the news somewhat. I am no longer captain of Sovereign, I am, in point of fact, heading a very hush-hush mission for the Admiralty, hence the assumed identity.”

“I see.” Davey was silent for a moment. It was obvious that he wished to ask more, but he was an old officer and knew better than to enquire about the nature of secret orders. He would be told what he needed to know, and no more. “Very well, what can I do for you, Captain Matheson?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Personally nothing, I fear, except to release to my command your resident geologist. Doctor Fontaine’s presence is required for the success of my mission.”

“I see. Well, I highly doubt Doctor Fontaine would consider himself under the command of anyone, least of all men like us. However…” Davey leaned forward, steepling his fingers and resting his elbows on the desk. “I’m afraid it is not only I who is behind the news.”

6.

“NORMALLY I WOULD be behind my usual desk, but poor James has got on the wrong side of the colonel this past week.” Iris sat back with a smile. “Between you and me, my dear, Colonel Davey has the temper of the Devil. I’ll be glad to return home at the end of this month.”

Annabelle looked around the mess hall. Breakfast was almost over, and the hall was slowly emptying of people. All strangers to her. “Why are you still here? I thought you would have left after… Well, you know.”

“Sure and I wanted to,” Iris said, “but I decided to stay on, make sure that Ern… Um, Colonel Shawbridge’s reputation is maintained. Such queer events took place here, and I feared your uncle would be maligned for them. Held responsible.”

Annabelle reached a hand out and gently squeezed Iris’. “I’m sure Uncle Ernest would have appreciated that.” She looked around, and lowered her voice. “Have you seen him at all these last seven months?”

“Once or twice.” For a moment Iris looked sad, then forced a smile. “But he seems to be at rest now. Certainly in the past month or so the ghosts have stopped appearing completely. You might have noticed the lack of familiar faces?”

“I did notice. I was hoping to maybe see Doctor Schell again… Maybe even Uncle Ernest.” Annabelle shook her head. “Where is everyone?”

“All replaced. I can’t say I completely understand what is going on, but other than the scientists, everyone on this station is now military trained. Military doctor, even a military chaplain.” Iris sighed. “I have only been allowed to remain as Colonel Davey’s secretary because I have a reputation for keeping secrets.”

For a few moments the two women sat in companionable silence, drinking tea. It was, according to Iris, a particular brand shipped in from India. Annabelle liked it; it was light, with a nice perfumed smell to it that reminded her of rain. Neither women knew each other that well, but Annabelle had seen a softer side to Iris after a few days on Mercury, and knew the woman missed Uncle Ernest more than Annabelle ever would. In another life she may well have become his second wife. For Annabelle, though, the real loss was found in his connection to her father.

“If I may ask, what has happened to you since you were last here? Your leg was not like that as I recall,” Iris said, an embarrassed flush in her cheeks.

“Oh, Iris,” Annabelle said, feeling the emotion well up inside her, “the most dreadful things seem to follow me. It feels like I am a curse to everyone who cares for me. My parents, Uncle Ernest…even Uncle Cyrus. And now dear Nathanial.”

“Now, dear, I am sure that is not so.” Iris reached into her cardigan and produced a handkerchief which she passed across to Annabelle. “I seem to recall that Professor Stone was quite taken with you.” She indicated the ring on Annabelle’s finger, and Annabelle dabbed her eyes. “Is he the lucky man?”

At this Annabelle could not help but laugh. The young man clearing up the tables looked at her abruptly, then turned away, embarrassed to be seen by her. She shook her head. “No, Nathanial fancies himself my older brother! Indeed, it’s a role that has been forced upon us both by our secret mission. He would be horrified at the suggestion that he and I…” She laughed again.

“Laughter is always better than tears,” Iris said, smiling warmly. “Then who is the lucky man?”

Annabelle put a finger to her lip, and waited until she was sure they were alone in the mess hall. It would not do to talk about George in the company of others, especially since she was supposed to be the sister of a wealthy explorer and not the fiancé of the first officer of the Royal Navy’s flagship. Once the hall was empty Annabelle divulged everything, from her first encounter with George in the caverns of Luna, all the way to her asking for his hand over a month ago. The more she spoke the more she felt sadness creeping its way into her heart once again…

It seemed that sadness was never far from her. Her life was cursed, and it was only a matter of time before that curse damaged her love for George.

7.

NATHANIAL KNOCKED ON the door of the lab. A response came quickly, barely audible. He assumed it was an assent to enter, so he opened the door and stepped in. It was as he remembered. Badly lit, a huge wooden table lay down the centre of the room, piled with rocks and dirt and papers stacked in a neat pile. Along both long walls lay cabinets and smaller tables, and the same enormous machines as before, the purpose of which he still did not know. Some resembled oversized drills, others machines for slicing or cutting or polishing. And there, next to the table sat the analyser, as he and Arnaud had named it, a device used to receive light transmitted through a sample from an arc-lamp. At a couple of points on the right hand wall there were pools of brighter electric light, desks illuminated by lights stronger and more suitable for a laboratory than the peculiarly dim ones strung down the middle of the room.

At one particular desk a man sat with his back to Nathanial. Two things struck him immediately; one, the sandy colour of the man’s hair, and two, his build. Both were completely different from Arnaud’s.

“Hello?” Nathanial tried tentatively. “I am looking for…” He stopped suddenly as the man turned around, and he found himself looking at a handsome face he almost recognised. Only it was a man much younger than… “Oh, I say, you look rather like Eduard Suess, only…”

The man smiled warmly and removed himself from his stool. He held out a hand to Nathanial. “I am Franz Seuss,” he said, his Austrian accent thick, “Professor Seuss is my father.”

Nathanial shook Suess’ hand, and blurted out, “What are you doing here?”

“I was asked to come here, because of my studies in hydrogeology,” Suess said, his English very good for an Austrian. “They needed a new geologist, and I would be silly not to take up the offer.” He turned away from Nathanial and resumed his position at his desk. “You know of hydrogeology?”

Nathanial had to confess he did not.

“It is a study of the distribution and movement of the groundwater in soil and rocks. I have been asked to Mercury to study how the World River relates to…” Suess stopped, frowning, and looked at Nathanial questionably. “Who are you?”

“I’m Professor Nath… William Brooker,” he said, correcting himself quickly, hoping that Suess did not notice the slip. The young scientist seemed not to. “I am a friend of Doctor Fontaine, and since I was on Mercury I thought I would look in on him.”

“A house call?” Suess laughed. “Mercury is far for a house call, Professor Brooker. And anyway, Fontaine is no longer here. He was asked to help the miners on Ceres.”

“He…what?” Nathanial looked around. He should have guessed. The lab was far too tidy for Arnaud. “Ceres? What could interest him there?” Suess opened his mouth to answer, but Nathanial waved it away. “It hardly matters, I suppose. How long has he been gone? And why were we not informed?”

“We?”

Nathanial threw the young Austrian a dark look and turned away. He left the lab without another word.

He had to see Arnaud. There was no other course of action left.

They would have to go to Ceres.

Chapter Two

“Savages in Space”

1.

MUCH LIKE A famous fictional traveller created by the French writer, Jules Verne, Arnaud might have conceded that just like Professor Lidenbrock’s nephew, Axel, in Voyage au centre de la Terre, he was far too fond of geology. That he could be distracted by the presence of solid inorganic substances at a time like this bordered on obsession…or possibly shock, or a worrying combination of both.

Perhaps the civilised part of his mind chose to disbelieve he was being hunted, but his rational mind told him that to linger over yet another amazing find was foolhardy. Still, he needed to rest, did he not? While kneeling to catch his breath, he might as well examine the crystalline fragment he had, literally, stumbled upon.

Magnifique.

Arnaud indulged a small smile. At least he was able to temper his enthusiasm with ascetic qualities—a detail that would be most pleasing to some of his acquaintances. To give one’s life to scientific purposes was admirable, but beauteous things, places…and especially people; all these enriched one’s life—a detail that was all too clear when danger lurked close by. Whether Arnaud carried the blood of a mineralogist in his veins was questionable, but he would have called himself happy amid the specimens he was discovering at every turn, if his very life were not in jeopardy because of those chasing him.

He could hardly believe they had managed to track him to the tunnel entrance, much less followed him down into the centre of the asteroid. Did they know of this hollow inner world—a thing he’d heard no talk of during his time on Messor Base? If not, these men were either brave, foolish, or truly enraged. None of these options boded well. Surely, the miners would grow tired of pursuit, give him up for lost, or at least trapped in this…chamber as punishment enough. Where could he go?

That fact had not escaped him. Indeed, he would never have tried evasion had he not feared a lynching.

A few hours ago, he’d stood in Blayney’s office arguing his innocence, aware the declaration fell on the ears of men who did not want to listen, who hated him. Doing the honourable British thing and reporting the dead body had played right into Cadogan and Blayney’s hands. According to Cadogan, Arnaud was the last one seen talking to the murdered man.

In his defence, Arnaud had argued the last person he had seen Pettitt with was Cadogan, but when Cadogan grinned and asked him whether that was true, he had hesitated. Cadogan had turned the corner before Pettitt had caught up to him. Arnaud went on to say that he hadn’t known the man’s name then and had no reason to kill him, but if there were no witnesses placing Pettitt with Cadogan after that time—or none willing to testify—then it was one man’s word against another.

To worsen matters, Arnaud had been aware of a background of raised, outraged voices. He’d almost felt relieved when Blayney had ordered Cadogan to take him away, reasoning a locked cell would be some kind of protection until the truth came out.

Only when Cadogan had said, “Strange place, space. Dark, cold, dangerous. Accidents happen,” had Arnaud realised the true extent of his peril. The rest narrowed down to a scuffle, a little luck—Cadogan had expected the gullible Frenchman to have faith in justice and comply despite his goading—and Arnaud taking flight.

Instinct had led him to retrace Pettitt’s movements from where he’d found the body and doing so had led him…here. Now he surmised that his only possible means of survival was to disappear into the heart of the asteroid until such time as blood cooled, intellect was regained, and if the universe could be so kind, the real culprit revealed. Instead of arguing his innocence, he might have to wait for divine revelation—a thing that did not sit well with his atheistic heart. He could only hope once sense prevailed they would seek him out and not simply abandon him. Even if he managed to find his own way out, how would he know it was safe to do so if no one tried to contact him? Even then, could he trust his saviours? In time, he would have to if he did not wish to live out the span of his years…here. Supposing he managed to survive at all.

With some surprise, he noticed he was rubbing the quartz. It was a wonder he had managed to spot it. The…soil, for want of a better word, had a similar texture to sand, but was pure white with a slight blue cast to it, as did much of the landscape. Cold to the touch, and yet…not ice. Grittier than that. Hard grains in the hand. Arnaud puzzled over it, but the texture was just one small note of puzzlement among many. Lifting his gaze, Arnaud looked out at a frozen waste. Though to call it such did not do it justice. If he could have replaced the pastel colours—predominately white threaded through with pink, blue and lilac, even hints of green—for warmer tones, he would have described this place simply as a jungle.

His scientific mind wondered, wanted to explore, investigate, catalogue, but his foremost question was could a man survive out here? He didn’t feel cold…yet, but the temperature was decidedly cool. Where he knelt he could feel the slow penetration of creeping chill.

Pondering his choices, some minutes passed in which his thoughts meandered. When he came aware that he was wasting precious time, self-reproach and anger ensued, even as he accepted that his mind like his body needed rest. The repetitive action of moving his fingers over an object had calmed him. As his pulse eased, and the pounding in his head lessened, Arnaud became aware of his thirst.

How ironic? Here he was surrounded by what seemed a world of ice and he’d so far spotted no liquid he could consume. The act of running through the frosty air had also dried his throat. It hurt to swallow.

Ignoring the requirement, Arnaud pushed the concern aside to spend a few moments concentrating on his senses, letting them grow acute, expand outwards. He tuned in to his hearing…and yes, there—a shout far off told him he had to be on his feet and moving. Were any of the posse good trackers? In this terrain it was impossible to move swiftly and not leave some kind of print or evidence of damage to the surrounding foliage. Some of it bent, some snapped. The ground compressed in places to leave prints. He had to find a means to disguise his passage. He was one; they were many; they may have brought resources where he’d had to flee with none. He would soon grow exhausted. Eventually need to sleep, and that presented another problem. While he kept moving, he generated heat, but if he curled up to rest, would he succumb to hypothermia? As yet he wasn’t even shivering, but…

One problem at a time. Before then he needed to drink.

Arnaud stood. He resisted looking up, for although the roof of the cavern was distant, he was far too aware there was no sky. Sky would have given him hope for an end to the Arctic terrain, another avenue and, although he had much more to explore, he was as trapped within the asteroid as he would be in an expansive cage. Plenty of room to prowl, but no doorway to freedom.

Fils de salope.

Annoyed with himself, Arnaud shook his head refusing to give way to melancholy. Such was not his nature. He was better than this. He resolved first to get away from his pursuers, to locate water, shelter, and then food. He saw himself spending a few weeks if not several months down here, fashioning as comfortable an abode as he could manage for the duration of his stay.

“During which, my friend, we will get better acquainted.” He tossed the rock into the air, caught and pocketed it with several others. This would be the last. He could not afford to weigh himself down. If he had to spend any length of time here, he would have too many opportunities to hunt for minerals. He would survive and he would not waste his time. He was not a rodent. He was a man, intelligent. He was…a geologist.

No botanist though, but he needed no such skill or education to know that while some of the plants resembled those on Earth, others were immense and if to be found on his home planet it would be in the deepest areas of jungle or ancient forests visited more by beast than man. They would be green and lush, of course, not white, veined through with blue. Arnaud had examined a few of the plants but they confounded him. Some felt frozen and snapped. Others felt as natural as leaves as he had always known them, and if he closed his eyes he failed to detect a difference. They had flexibility and bent, tore between his fingers. Most, though, felt like succulents with a texture that was at once intriguing and unpleasant.

Succulents retained water, like cacti in the dessert, but he was not desperate enough to risk poisoning himself quite yet.

Blowing on his hands, Arnaud tucked them under his armpits—a deed that also hugged his jacket tighter around him. He caught himself mid-action in licking his lips and forced a stop. His lips would dry all the faster, for although he couldn’t say he was in immediate danger of freezing, the wetness dissipated, stretching the skin, desiccating his lips. The tightness around his mouth made his thirst all the more unpleasant.

Frost descended with a heavy mist as he broke into the next clearing. As uncomfortable as he felt, his situation inspired a modicum of hope. Surely the men would not continue long in this. If he could just find water, and… Arnaud looked at his empty hands, not knowing whether to laugh. He had no means to carry liquid except inside him. If he found water, he would have to drink his fill and keep running. The men behind him would likely have canteens to replenish, and that alone might sustain them, but if he went deeper into the coldest parts of this…jungle, it might deter them. The trouble with that idea was that any means he found to keep warm, they would likely discover, too.

Even as he resolved to try, and plunged ahead, it crossed Arnaud’s mind that if he found no water soon, he might have to turn around and throw himself on their mercy before that happened.

“Merde!” Arnaud shouted, drawing up short, at once trying to calm his wildly beating heart, even as he judged whether his cry had carried. He listened but heard nothing other than the squawk of the indignant bird that he had almost stepped on and that, even now, took its cry up and away into the far reaches of the wilderness.

This wasn’t the first fowl he had encountered since he began his dash into the frozen forest—they looked a little like parrots, but with elongated beaks he could not fathom the use of—but this was the first he had come across lying in his path. If his pursuers failed to hear him, no doubt they’d heard the bird. They might guess that he had disturbed it.

He strained his hearing to limits he didn’t know he possessed, but heard nothing…until…

Drip.

Jerking his head to the right, Arnaud stared in that direction, eyes wide, ears alert, breath held, rigid. Had he imagined…?

Drip.

At first heedless of any noise he might make, he ran, stopping short within a few paces. He did not know what dangers might lurk within the plants—had already seen evidence of strange substances strung between some of trees undoubtedly best avoided, though this area seemed to be clear. Also, it wouldn’t do to give his position away had the hunters fallen silent only because they had stopped to listen out for him, but the steady dripping he could now hear called him forwards. Trying for stealth but giving a little leeway to impatience, Arnaud moved beneath great fronds that had the appearance of giant cabbage leaves. They were far stiffer with sharp barbs on the tips as he learned with an “Ow!” and much sucking of his thumb, but they were saturated with droplets. Water fell from jagged fringes of ice above to pool onto the leaves. With care he could tip one down and direct the flow into his mouth.

The taste was clean and crisp. The water cool but not so cold as to make his teeth chatter. The burning in his throat eased right away. Unable to do otherwise, Arnaud closed his eyes. “Délicieux.” Better than cognac…well, almost. Arnaud grinned stupidly pleased, almost giddy. A dim thought made him wonder whether he was already suffering from an abnormally low body temperature.

He opened his eyes and blinked. The creature that stared over the lip of the leaf looked like a snake except that it had spindly legs and an inquisitive gaze and tilt of its head that Arnaud found rather disturbing. More disturbing than the mere thought that it might have bitten him while he savoured the water, eyes closed, oblivious. He’d not given it a passing thought, but naturally where there was one form of animal, there were bound to be many.

Stepping back, Arnaud released the leaf with care, partly owing to the prongs, partly because he didn’t want to upset the creature sitting on it. For a moment all he could see was the dark shape through the thinnest parts of the pale leaf and then it scrambled forward and peered over the edge at him.

Arnaud backed up, considering his options. Were there other creatures such as this upon the leaves? He couldn’t worry. His thirst outgrew his caution. He needed to be quick.

Moving through the leaves, Arnaud first took care not to impale himself with the spines, which for all he knew had already done him damage, and then to drink as fast as he could. He discovered a couple more of the snake-like beasts on the leaves, but they seemed placid. He came across a small winged insect that he first mistook for a butterfly until it hissed at him. It barely took a moment of thought to leave that leaf alone and to select another. Mostly he was left in peace to quench his thirst.

His feeling of relief evaporated when he shivered.

“Come on, Arnaud. Think!” His gaze traversed the topography but his mind remained blank. When an idea erupted he almost slapped himself in the face for not having thought of it sooner. One glance at the leaves he had drunk from told him they would not do. They were not the right consistency and the sharp tips made them unsuitable. Instead, he looked for one of the thicker, fleshier leaves that reminded him of succulents.

Fleshy was the right word, for when Arnaud selected one and ripped it free, he couldn’t keep from grimacing. All plants were alive but had he just ripped apart some kind of creature without knowing? He couldn’t think about that. His decisions from here out would have to be all about survival.

The leaf was awkward to hold onto but the moment he wrapped it around him, Arnaud sighed. The rubbery texture acted as he had hoped it would but more so. An immediate barrier to winter, within moments his body temperature began to rise. If he had to stay here he’d have to fashion a better way of wearing the leaves, but there were plenty of them and they would definitely keep him warm.

Feeling much better for having found an answer to a couple of problems, and much refreshed, Arnaud set out once again to find a way to avoid those who would kill him for a crime he hadn’t committed.

2.

ESMERALDA 2 WAS two days out from Mercury, and Annabelle had another four weeks’ travel to look forward to. The atmosphere aboard Esmeralda 2 was so thick she felt she could cut it with George’s sabre, which was, even now, in her quarters. If only it were that easy.

She had returned to the flyer sometime later than the men, having got a little caught up in her reminiscence with Iris, and found them on the control deck arguing. She had stood at the bottom of the ladder that led up to the deck, in the gangway, not wishing to get involved. From what she could ascertain, they were arguing about the need to go to Ceres. Nathanial was insisting they go, that they complete their orders to enlist Arnaud, but Folkard was adamant that they continue on to Venus, as the Heart wished.

“It is the Heart that guides this mission, Professor, not your insistence on the need for Doctor Fontaine. We can head to Ceres once we have found the minerals we need on Venus.”

“And how do you propose we find them? I am neither a geologist nor a mineralogist; I will be of little use in that regard.”

“Then just why are you here? Other than to hide from your life?” Folkard asked, his voice easily carrying the length of the flyer. Annabelle felt sure she heard something fall in the engine room—Mister Fenn startled by the volume of his captain’s voice no doubt.

If Nathanial was stung by the accusation he did not show it, neither did he respond in kind. Instead, his voice as hard as steel, he said; “Because my presence was requested by Lord Kelvin, and of course there is no one else who understands the mechanics involved in solving the problem with the boiler. In conjunction with Ar…with Doctor Fontaine I will find the materials we need to combat that problem.”

For a moment there was a deathly silence from the control deck, then Folkard spoke once more, his voice clipped and to the point. “Very well. I just hope Doctor Fontaine is worth this derailment of our mission.”

Nathanial did not speak again until he had mounted the ladder, at which point he muttered softly to himself, “He is.”

Once at the bottom of the ladder he almost bumped in Annabelle. Their eyes linked for a brief second. Annabelle was not entirely sure what she saw in Nathanial’s grey orbs, but it was something familiar, and for reasons she could not fathom it disturbed her.

Not wishing to intrude further, Annabelle turned away and began moving towards her quarters. She had to prepare herself for aether travel once again.

Two days had passed since then, and in all that time she had seen nothing more of Nathanial. He had repaired to his lab and closed himself away from all of them. As was becoming the norm for him. He had not even joined them for meals, such as they were! She wished she had taken advantage of the mess hall on Mercury—the preserved food they had for aether flight was not the most enjoyable she had ever tasted. It was barely one up from military rations, a fact Folkard and Fenn were rather pleased about, but one which she begrudgingly accepted as a necessity. Nonetheless, be that as it may, Nathanial still needed to eat.

So now she stood outside his lab, a sealed plate containing his food in one hand, and rapped her knuckles against the wooden door. As expected there was no answer. Enough was enough. She opened the door and waltzed in!

Well, she liked to think of it as waltzed, but any such graceful movement was encumbered by the magnetic slipper attached to her mechanical leg and the shoe she wore on her foot, which also contained magnets in the sole. Neither was very becoming for a lady, but it was either that or a clumsy attempt to float around the Esmeralda 2, her false leg weighing her down. For a moment she thought back to their initial flight to Venus, and how she and Nathanial had performed a weightless waltz in their cabin on the Aphrodite. It seemed so very long ago now, almost as if it had been two different people.

“Food is served!”

Nathanial was lying back on his cot, secreted in the far corner of the lab. Several books floated above him, while he considered the one in his hand. He looked over at Annabelle, but offered nothing as polite as a smile. Neither did he seem irritated by her bold entry. That, Annabelle considered, was something at least.

“More of that corned beef hash?”

“I like to call it stew,” Annabelle said.

“Hmm, I seem to recall stew being made with real beef, not that tinned stuff we have to suffer.”

Annabelle ignored him, and crossed the lab, careful not to knock the knick-knacks that floated freely around her. She assumed they were not dangerous, although at least one item looked like it could do some damage if it were to come to rest on her head abruptly. “Would it not be wiser to secure these items?”

Nathanial raised an eyebrow. “Not at all. We will be without gravity for four weeks, and it is more convenient to have such things within easy reach, rather than having to go to the trouble of securing them and then un-securing them ad nauseam.”

“Very well.” Annabelle placed the plate on the metal table next to the cot, the magnet underneath the plate securing it fast. She reached out and retrieved one of the floating books. “Blackwood’s Pocket Physician? You expect to amputate more limbs?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

Nathanial blinked, a look of guilt passing across his features.

“Oh, Nathanial, please stop blaming yourself. What’s done is done. If you had not amputated my leg I very well may have died. I owe you my life.”

Nathanial swallowed, but he did not comment further. Instead he released the book he was holding and manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, a once simple task made all the more complex by the unfastening of straps that ensured he did not join the books in floating above the cot.

She caught a glimpse of the book he had been reading. “Naval blueprints?”

“Yes, I am working out a way to create a more efficient aether propeller governor for our mission. We do not know where the Heart will take us, and if we happen to be sent to a moon with a gravity similar to Luna we will need the use of such a governor.”

Annabelle nodded. That made sense to her; the governors designed by Uncle Cyrus and Nathanial before had served both Sovereign and her uncle’s old ship well on Luna several times over. “And what of Blackwood’s? I do not see how that will help you with your design work.”

“I am trying to attain a level of efficiency in field medicine. It does seem our travels are rife with incident and danger, and this mission will almost certainly follow a similar pattern. This time I wish to be prepared.”

“Then you should talk to the captain; I’m sure he will know a thing or two about field medicine.” That suggestion received a scathing look. Annabelle turned away and looked about the lab.

It reminded her, in some ways, of Uncle Cyrus’ lab back in Arizona, only smaller. She had no real scientific aptitude and the devices meant very little to her. She looked back at Nathanial who was picking at his food. He had certainly lost weight since they had returned from Luna. She shook her head. That had been over two months ago! It seemed like time continued to get away from them.

“You really must stop blaming Jacob for Edwin’s death,” she said, putting as much gentleness into her voice as she could muster. In truth she wanted to both shout at him and strangle him. “He saved your life.”

Nathanial did not look up from his food, and for a moment she thought he was going to ignore her. But then he said, quietly; “At the cost of Edwin’s. My brother was more important.”

“I cannot speak to that point. But, for myself, I am glad that the captain saved you. I am not ready for you to be out of my life.”

At this Nathanial did look up. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He swallowed hard. “Annabelle, I…” He lowered his head again, but not before she noticed the tears forming in his eyes.

She moved forward and reached for his free hand. “Whatever it is, I am here with you. Like you have always been…”

His next words stopped her cold. “I knew what you were going through in London. I found out on Boxing Day.” He looked up at her, and the guilt hit Annabelle straight in her heart. “I knew and did nothing to help you.” He pulled his hand away from hers. “I am not the man you once knew, Annabelle… I am not the friend you believe me to be.”

3.

HE’D WALKED SO long his calves began to ache. Shortly after that his ankles, and he knew at once it was not entirely owing to the unaccustomed exercise. Arnaud stopped long enough to break off more leaves, to locate vines and tie them around his legs under his trousers, looping more vines around the fabric on the outside. Although distasteful next to his skin, his garments helped to hold the leaves in place and they acted like boots, adding insulation. His muscles still ached from the exertion, and he had to wonder how long he’d been walking. No sun marked the passage of time, although there was plenty of light. Did it ever grow dark in here? Arnaud feared snow-blindness, and took to taking the darkest mineral he had found out of his pocket just to look at it. Immeasurable respite came from looking at that deep, brown colour instead of something pale or clear.

This time he stared so long while concentrating on putting one foot before the other, his eyelids drooped.

I’m in danger of falling asleep.

The thought held no power, and quite possibly Arnaud walked a few paces while unconscious before he came awake at the sound of his stomach rumbling. A second later and he slipped, his left foot shooting out from under him, throwing him backwards so that he sat down heavily with an oof.

The white sandbank had given way to a solid sheet of…ice? Arnaud spent a few seconds righting himself, rubbing his hands over his face, and blinking. When he was sure he was awake and not dreaming, he knelt down by the edge of the frozen lake. At first he judged the top layer to be thin, for he could see down into clear depths, but even as he watched another strange creature came into view, one that reminded him of a cephalopod, but which had more legs than an octopus. It stopped to look at him, adhering to the undersurface. Both the animal’s action and the apparent thickness of the crust surprised him. If this was ice, it shared only some of the same characteristics as its counterpart on Earth for it looked like glass all the way down instead of growing densely white.

Was it thick enough to take his weight?

Arnaud stood up. Glancing back the way he’d come and then out across the lake, he weighed his options. He didn’t need to listen to know his pursuers had gained ground―he had been aware of that fact for some time. Walking across the lake—if he could manage it—might finally disguise his tracks. They would know what he had done, but if he was able to disappear into the undergrowth at some point before they spotted where, he’d have a chance.

If the ice didn’t crack and plunge him into the icy depths first. He couldn’t swim, although even a strong swimmer stood little chance trapped under ice. In all likelihood the water was cold enough to kill him swiftly, though he took little solace in that thought. He didn’t want to drown. He didn’t want to freeze.

“I do not want to die.” He spoke because so far this world had been too silent. “Non, I do not want to die.” This time he said it with less fear, more determination. His chances on the ice were questionable, but those hunting him were still angry enough to kill him for certain. He had to chance the ice, unless his first step knocked him on his posterior.

Too slippery. Arnaud realised that the moment he tried. For a few seconds he was almost grateful and then he thought of the rubbery texture of the leaves and set about at once gathering more and tying them around his feet. His first step was taken with a captured breath. He didn’t slide, so he took another. The idea seemed to work, but would the leaves stick to the ice and leave a trail? Only one way to find out. Arnaud took several paces, looked back.

Nothing. He was free and clear, and…

His first mistake was looking down. Never having suffered vertigo, it took Arnaud several seconds to identify the sensation. Just those few paces had taken him out over greater depths and the glass surface gave him the feeling of standing on thin air. On water. He experienced something that felt like a religious epiphany but a perverse one that made him want to spit.

His second mistake was in pausing in one spot too long. Where his weight would likely not have been an issue had he kept moving, the crust gave an audible cracckkkk, a zig-zag of fractures running out in all directions beneath his feet.

Thought froze as solid as the landscape. Fortunately, he moved by instinct. Arnaud staggered along, throwing himself forwards at the edge of the bank. A thundering sound of splintering reverberated—one that he felt more than heard as it rattled his teeth. A great whoosh and splash finished off the explosion of sound, and Arnaud didn’t need telling that the men chasing him would Home in on it. Was it his imagination or did he hear a shout of triumph? It hardly mattered. He was up and running, pausing only long enough to rip the leaves from beneath his shoes when they hindered him, and then off again, darting full-pelt, experiencing a horrible repetition of how this endless day had begun.

4.

HE PAUSED OUTSIDE Annabelle’s quarters. Still he did not understand why he had told her about his lack of concern for her in London. The hurt that had swept across her face had cut him to the core, but it was too late to take the words back now. His father always told him confession was good for the soul. Once again the Reverend had been proven wrong. Nathanial’s soul had not been cleansed by the words he spoke to Annabelle, instead it felt dirtier than ever, his sense of guilt doubling its weight on his heart.

He shook his head. The deed was done, and he could not go back now. In four weeks they would be on Ceres, and then he would be reunited with Arnaud. That would be good.

Nathanial frowned. Assuming Arnaud wanted to see him, of course. It had been a few months since he had received a heliograph message from Arnaud, and he could probably account for the lack of contact by Arnaud’s reassignment to Ceres, but what if there was a deeper reason?

He continued to the engine room. He was sure Jack could do with a break about now; perhaps take the rest of the day off. That would suit Nathanial well. He needed to get his hands dirty for a while, and discover what materials he could find in the engine room to use on his new governor design.

5.

WOULD THESE MEN never tire? They were surely fuelled by rage and to judge by their language and threats that they did not refrain from shouting out, growing angrier by the second. So much for hoping they would come to their senses. Even the cool air did nothing to tamp their resolve or abuse. If they caught up to him, a hanging might be the best demise he could hope for.

Arnaud had no time to stop for drink or breath. The hunters sensed their prey at hand and doubled their efforts. Whereas earlier Arnaud would have given anything to hear another human voice besides his own, now he longed for the return of silence. He didn’t know what terrified him more—the thought that he could die today, in a very short time even, or the fact that these were men: possibly some he had worked with, spoken to in previous days. Fair enough that they might think him guilty, but where was the trial? The judge? His defence? If he didn’t know any different he would have said the creatures on his heels had ceased to be men. Were a pack of starved and savage hounds.

He had flung off his leaf cloak some time ago. Running would keep him warm enough for now, and he needed nothing to slow him down. He spared a thought for the few rocks he’d picked up and that were in his pockets but as he heard, “There! I saw the sod by there now!” somewhere at his back and off to the right, he dismissed the thought of pausing for even a second to cast them aside.

He ran, aware he had lost his usual pragmatism some time ago and that these men had stolen his…humanity. Oui, that. He was nothing more than a frightened hare, the fox bounding behind him in pursuit. These…savages had reduced him to a mad run, gaze darting, every thought narrowed to flight, lungs labouring, burning, the cold air making his throat raw. The pounding had returned to his head, although he knew not when, only that it beat a steady rhythm so battering as to blur his vision, and…

He didn’t notice the plant until he smacked into it headfirst. It was of the brittle type and snapped, but not before he received a good whack to the head, that knocked him on his back.

Someone was moaning, and it took Arnaud a moment to realise it was him. He rolled, made it to his hands and knees, spent seconds deciding whether to be sick, and then as his stomach settled, let the knowledge creep into him along with the cold that he wasn’t going to escape.

Tears pricked the back of his eyes, not owing to thoughts merely of his impending death, but of people he would never see again. His father, his brother, his Aunty Maude…and Nathanial.

If only he had his satchel, then at least…

Anger flared. Making fists, he pushed himself up by his knuckles and stood facing the path. Foliage moved as men crashed through it, one focus in their minds—to kill him.

Casting his gaze about, Arnaud picked up the shard of the plant that had felled him. It was the only weapon to hand, but whether he could kill anyone with it… He couldn’t kill them all regardless. Maybe he could talk them out of doing this monstrous thing.

He had no time left to contemplate his chances, only to hold up the makeshift weapon and brace for impact.

The first man to break on the path had to be Cadogan, of course, but still Arnaud knew he had to try reason.

“I’m innocent. Listen to me, oui? I didn’t kill…”

The distance whittled down from twenty feet to ten, then half that distance again. Arnaud prepared to swing…and jerked back startled by the appearance of something large and lumbering coming at him from the side. He had time to take in the muscular shape of a man with dark brown leathery skin, dark eyes, black wet snout, tusks protruding over both upper and lower lips. Horns, long and curved projected from the sides of the head, and he could see markings on both horn and flesh. Then…the beast blew out a breath that flared the nostrils and gave Arnaud the impression of a bull charging. Time slowed so that he saw that breath frost out on the cooler air, and the ears twitched. Then the creature turned, the movement sure and swift, limber, graceful—the kind of move one would expect a dancer to make. Or a trained warrior.

Shock registered in Cadogan’s eyes, even before a large hand closed about his throat. Arnaud took a step, not knowing what he could do when the creature lifted Cadogan off his feet. Body dangling, the miner made a vain attempt to pry the fingers from his throat, even as his eyes began to roll back to show the whites, gurgling noises spilling from his mouth. One squeeze and snap. Arnaud winced, at once grateful still to be alive, sorry for the man, afraid of what might happen next.

Then something hit him in the back of the head and knocked him flat on his face. The strange sand puffed up around him, getting into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, clogging his airways, making him cough and blink. While he fought to gather his wits, he heard shouts, cries, much snorting. By the time he could see again the only thing to fill his vision was a cloven hoof. A moment later, and he got his wish—the white went away, and everything turned dark.

6.

WHAT WAS THAT noise? Arnaud shifted in his sleep. Much pounding in his head—far more severe than earlier—made him huddle down and for a short while the world went away again.

His peace was broken by the sound of a shout, something snapping, a scream… Some urgency stirred Arnaud to movement, but pain made him reject the idea. He recalled…peril, but for now the thought remained vague as did everything around him. He knew he lay upon a hard surface—possibly the ground—but he could not feel it as much as he ought. It was as if a smothering layer existed between him and…everything. The most he managed after a few minutes was to move one hand enough to touch the side of his head from where the pain seemed to originate. He flinched, or attempted to, when he felt the size of the bump. The pain of the surrounding bruise flared but he felt it at a distance. He heard…

“The Frenchie’s alive then.” The voice was male, quite light.

Another, deeper voice replied, “Good. At least he’ll face the same.”

The first spoke again. “But what if he’s…”

“What?”

“You know. Innocent?”

Arnaud waited for the answer—the topic was important; he just couldn’t recall why—but none came. He waited, or thought he did, but realised he had gone away again. The question was how long. This time, memory returned with awareness. The chase. The ice jungle. The lake. Beasts.

Arnaud bolted upright…or imagined so. Instead, when he finally managed to pry one eyelid open, it was to discover he lay in some type of cave. Enough light filtered in through holes in the ceiling and the opening to see by.

Had the men captured him, dragged him back to the tunnel? How long had he been out for? What of the beasts he had seen?

All good questions, and he had another one. What was that sound?

With one hand braced against the ground, he managed to lift his head enough to gaze around.

The first thing he saw was a row of spears against one wall. In front of them one of the bull-type creatures stood, arms folded. He recalled the appearance of the skin in the light—thick like hide. Muscles bulged and on a man, Arnaud might have been able to admire the effect. A narrow strip encircled the waist from which two flaps of—fabric? Skin?—hung providing modesty both front and back. More strips covered the forearms and calves. His first thought was minotaur, but the markings—what appeared to be tattoos and even purposely imposed scars—looked tribal.

That sound again, thick and…wet. Compelled to look but with some instinct telling him he wasn’t going to like what he saw, Arnaud slowly turned his head.

The sight refused to unveil itself. He saw but his mind refused to see the picture as complete. There was blood, and bone, and flesh, and hair, and entrails…but these things alone refused to coalesce to form men.

He had lain down again, but he couldn’t remember when. Bile burned the back of his throat but he had not the energy to be sick. He couldn’t move—too weak—and even if he made it to the cave entrance he had less chance escaping these creatures than he had the men.

He hoped, when they came for him, it would be quick. Unable to change the events happening around him and determined not to die with nothing but terror in mind, he tried to conjure up a pleasant image. He was only a little surprised when the face of Nathanial popped into mind. What would the beasts would think when they came for him and found him smiling?

Chapter Three

“Icy Reception”

1.

AFTER ALMOST FOUR weeks of seeing nothing outside but the star-spangled blackness of space, Annabelle found herself looking at the off-white surface of Ceres with anticipation. Very few travelled this far out, mostly because the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter was as far as a solar boiler could take them. Even now, barely an hour away from Ceres, she could feel Esmeralda protesting around her, the pressure level in the boiler was as low as it had ever been. It was sufficient for flight, but the Esmeralda 2 was moving at a sluggish pace. For most aether travellers there was nothing of interest beyond Mars, unless mining was something they enjoyed. The asteroid belt was a rich source of minerals, and scientific research. She remembered many stories her uncle had told her of the mysteries surrounding the lost planet of Vulcan, which was now survived by the thousands of asteroids that made up the belt.

Personally she had little interest in the asteroid belt. Mining had never been an interest of hers; even as a child her father’s stories of the gold mines had held little fascination. Stories of Red Indians had appealed to her much more—until they had turned horribly real. But she knew they needed Arnaud’s experience, which meant a trip to Ceres was necessary. Folkard was still not entirely convinced, but she had regaled him with tales of Arnaud’s bravery on Mercury, and his role in solving the mystery of Hermes. She wasn’t certain it had helped convince the captain, but he had grumbled less about it in the past two weeks. Which was something at least.

The tension on the flyer was fraught enough as it was.

Nathanial was as far away from Annabelle as he could be—both literally and figuratively. He was in the engine room with Mister Fenn, assisting in preparations for planet fall… Not that Ceres was classed as a planet any longer, of course, but Annabelle had argued that since it had gravity and an eco-system of some kind, she would consider it a planet whether the astronomers agreed or not—it seemed every conversation with Nathanial ended in debate at the moment, Annabelle reflected. She never went to him with the intention of fighting, but ever since his revelation after leaving Mercury she found she just didn’t know how to speak to him.

Truth always conveys its own moral to those who are able to receive it. She had read that somewhere, but what was the moral here?

It hurt her knowing that he had shown no consideration of her during her incarceration in London, yet she knew he had had his own troubles with which to contend. Was she being selfish, expecting her own problems to be of more concern to him than his own? If not more, then they should have least been some concern. After all, despite being locked up in the Tower of London, and then spending some time as a prisoner in Dorset House, she never once forgot about Nathanial and had even sought George’s help in finding out about Nathanial’s wellbeing.

No, she decided, she was not wrong for feeling abandoned by him. Nathanial should have made more effort, especially after all they had been through since Peregrine.

She turned from her position at the heliograph station and looked at Folkard, who was strapped in his seat, one hand on the ratchet-wheel that controlled the aether propeller, the other tapping a lazy tune on the attitude indicator in readiness for entering the Ceren gravity, such as it was. His attention was focussed entirely on the planet; even an hour away it filled the entire window. It was barely a speck, but she was sure she could see Messor Base on the surface, a collection of linked spherical structures. Folkard had told her a little bit about the base; run by a British administration, the base was used as a place for all miners with an interest in the asteroids to use as an ore refining platform, or for the scientifically minded there were the labs. She had been impressed by the generosity of the British, until Folkard had mentioned how it enabled the Empire to keep a close eye on any rivals. Regardless, Annabelle looked forward to setting foot on the planet, despite her lack of interest in mining. There was something almost thrilling about visiting a planet most people wouldn’t even go near.

“Are we close enough now, Captain?” she asked.

Folkard glanced back, and smiled through his bearded face. “Yes, Miss Somerset,” he replied.

He generally used “Miss Annabelle” these days, but she had noticed that when she worked on the control deck with him, he tended to address her more formally. She didn’t mind so much, after all soon she would cease to be Miss Somerset forever.

“Please announce our intention to land on Messor Base, and to inform Doctor Fontaine of our arrival.”

Annabelle saluted. “Aye, aye, sir!” she said in her best English accent, and turned back to the heliograph.

2.

DYLAN BLAYNEY DOWNED his ale in one go and looked across the table at Craig Callaghan, his ears disbelieving. “Boyo, you need to be telling me this is one of your practical jokes, you do.”

Callaghan looked around the canteen, a bead of sweat running from beneath his cap to his left eyebrow. “I’m telling you I’m not. There’s a flyer approaching the base right now. I saw it with my own eyes, I did.”

Blayney knew his men well enough to know if they were lying to him; the boy may have had a silver tongue, but he’d learned to keep to the truth when talking to the base manager.

Blayney stood up. “Right, then, let’s go and welcome the examiner. Bloody idiot’s here too early!” He looked around the canteen. “Hobbs,” he called, his Welsh baritone booming across the canteen, “go and make sure Budrys and his gang have Occator Six secured fast. Don’t want to have any trouble while the examiner’s here, do we?” Blayney waited until Hobbs had left the canteen before he looked at the rest of his miners. A lot of his most trusted workers were still off Ceres, working the asteroids, which was just as well. They knew how to improvise, and would keep the examiner happy. His problem was making sure the examiner didn’t get suspicious while he was on Messor Base. “The rest of you listen now. Spread the word, let our people know the examiner’s on his way. If we can get through this without any hiccoughs, then he’ll bring no trouble to us. It’s our livelihood that’s at stake here now, so just you all make sure you remember that. Okay, then?” He clapped his hands. “Get to it!”

Within seconds the canteen was cleared of all but he and Callaghan.

“What if the examiner asks about Cadogan and the others?”

Blayney looked at Callaghan sharply. Ferguson had returned with the remains of Pettitt, and Blayney had sent him straight back in there, to back up Cadogan and the rest of his posse who had pursued Fontaine; none had returned. It was unlikely they would now. But that wasn’t Callaghan’s problem, it was Blayney’s. “Don’t you go worrying about that now. I’ll take care of the examiner’s concerns there. Mining the asteroid belt is treacherous work. Accidents happen, don’t they?”

Callaghan swallowed. “But Cadogan was your friend.”

“You think I’ve forgotten that, do you, boyo? Ivor and me, we grew up together, and that’s why we made sure the doctor paid for what he did. But if it gets out what happened, we’re all for it. Every single one of us. And don’t you go forgetting that now.” He placed a hand on each of Callaghan’s shoulders. The boy was barely out of his teens, but he had worked as hard as any of the older men, it was just a shame he had a loose tongue. “Now, I want you to go and make sure Doctor Gully is kept occupied while the examiner is here. Archaeologists ask too many questions, they always want to know too much, him more so than others. Make sure he doesn’t learn nothing, right?”

For a moment he held Callaghan’s eyes in his, before the boy looked down. “You can count on me, boss.”

“Bloody better. Now, off you go.”

Once Callaghan had left Blayney alone, his composure slipped a little. He had spent all his life working the mines; trapper, chainrunner, slopeman, underground manager—he’d done it all, both in Llanfairfach and out here on the asteroids. He had worked his way up from the bottom, and he had no intention of losing his grip on Messor Base. Miners from all over the Earth came to work the asteroids, and it was a matter of some pride that he, a miner from a small Welsh colliery town, was now in charge of all mining operations in the asteroid belt. It was he who decided who went were, and it was he who was responsible when things went wrong.

Responsibility did not bother him; that was his job, and he knew he could talk his way out of most things. The life of a miner was fraught with danger, even more so this far from Earth. But what had happened…

He didn’t see how he’d be able to talk his way out of that!

The examiner was not supposed to be due for another month, plenty of time for Blayney to get everything together again. But now?

“Dylan!”

Blayney turned around, regaining his composure as he did so, wondering why Emrys Morgan had left the heliograph room. It had to been manned at all times, in case they received an important message from Mars, or one of the serritor teams needed help. He almost laughed at the perplexed look on the small man’s face, and once again wondered why Morgan had even come to Ceres. The man had been far too dainty to be on a mining station, but Blayney couldn’t deny that the higher gravity of Ceres had done wonders for the man’s muscles. One day he’d have to get Morgan down one of the mines back home. No one would have a problem with his strength when they got back to Llanfairfach.

“What is it? Special orders from the examiner?”

If it were at possible, Morgan looked even more confused. “Sorry? The examiner’s not due until next month.”

“Well I know that, don’t I? Nonetheless, his ship is…” Blayney stopped. “Wait. That’s not the examiner’s flyer approaching us?”

“Well no.” Morgan nodded slowly. “Oh, you thought it was, didn’t you? No, man, it belongs to some scientist chap. But…” At this Morgan paused, looking around the canteen, and lowered his voice. “Apparently they’re here to collect Doctor Fontaine.”

For a moment Blayney wished it had been the examiner. A French mineralogist would have been of little concern, and he would almost certainly not have questioned the lack of Fontaine on Messor Base, but someone who had come there especially for Fontaine. Blayney frowned. Tricky. “What the bloody hell do they want with him, then?”

3.

IT HAD TAKEN Arnaud over three weeks to realise why the thought of a bull didn’t quite fit. The shape of the horns was wrong and far too large. More like water buffalo. This seemed even more accurate when he discovered that they liked the water, and he was grateful to find that there was a nearby source—an off-shoot of the main lake that, sheltered by trees, did not suffer a sheet of ice. Still, he drank from the leaves more often than the stream as he didn’t like to imbibe that in which these creatures wallowed. He washed in the same stream, but sparingly—it was certainly too cold to wash more than one limb at a time—and his curses seemed to amuse them, although they ceased the strange rasping sound he took for laughter and looked away whenever he looked at them. Fine for them to dive straight in when they could swim and had such thick skins. Arnaud preferred to stay at the edge and could not be persuaded even into the shallows. He hadn’t forgotten the sight of that squid creature that had stopped to look at him.

Strangely enough, the idea of a water buffalo had come to mind one night while he was sitting with them just as he was doing now. Even that had taken a while. For the first few days they had seemed…more frightened by him than anything, although they outweighed him by several pounds of muscle. Even now they kept their offspring away, and the females—he could identify them by their smaller horns—would get out of his way. The males were more tolerant, but these changes had all taken time. They appeared as curious about him as he was about them, and even tried to hide their amusement or disgust. He’d received both reactions over his choice of food.

Not a day had gone by before Arnaud had realised he had a very real problem with food. It was take a chance or starve, so noting what the wildlife consumed and avoided, he’d tried some plants, finding many too bitter or too tough, but persevering until he finally located some he could tolerate. Understandably, the Bubalus—as he had named them—found this strange. They were meat-eaters…as he had learned the hard way. One month on, what he still couldn’t figure out was why they hadn’t eaten him.

He ignored it when one of the Bubalus nudged his foot and held out a piece of meat. While he was fairly certain this was the flesh of an animal, they had preserved and stored some of the men for a good while and he preferred to seek his own sustenance. They’d offered before and often met his refusal with perplexed glances.

This time a hand encircled one of his ankles and pulled…hard, making Arnaud slide a few inches. If he hadn’t been sitting on one of the fleshy leaves the ground might have scored his backside even through his trousers, even ripped his clothing. He bit back a curse—from the rough handling and because his garments were looking threadbare in enough places as it was. Still, that one should touch him was usually enough that he paid attention.

When the meat was again offered, Arnaud shook his head. The one who returned his stare shook his, leaned forwards and grabbed another piece of meat. Arnaud put up his hands to stop a lump of flesh hitting him in the face and was left holding what looked like a chicken leg, roughly plucked so that some blue and yellow feathers remained embedded in the skin.

Arnaud swallowed, disgusted with the fact that saliva flooded his mouth. The bird was raw; he couldn’t…shouldn’t be salivating. At least, he recognised this as one of the parrot-type creatures he’d first seen.

“Minos…” Arnaud said, sounding uncertain. How could he explain that his kind cooked meat? He’d found no way to create a fire here. The caves were warm enough and the leaves kept him from freezing, but…fire? He couldn’t create a flame and keep it burning long enough to catch hold. It was as if the frost itself was determined to thwart every attempt, and the one way he’d found of preparation wouldn’t work on such tough flesh.

How strange he must appear to them—pale skin, a strange creature that ate leaves and wrapped himself in them, would not shuck his clothes and wade in to bathe. Weak.

The one he’d named Minos still regarded him, that great maw working, chewing. Not wanting to lose the leeway he had gained, to belittle the progress he had made communicating, Arnaud reached for a spearhead that lay on the ground. As well as using these for weapons, the Bubalus used them for knives. Some were fashioned from stone, some from bone. Arnaud didn’t stop to wonder over the construction of the one he had selected. Under watchful eyes he used it to cut and pull away the skin. Fortunately, the flesh beneath was pale, almost bloodless. He’d always refused meat before but this time he could identify it, and to prepare it was like skinning chicken. He wasn’t sure he should eat fowl raw but…what choice did he have? Maybe he’d be lucky. He’d risked food-poisoning often enough, yet was still breathing; aside from one instance of a resulting upset stomach and rough few hours, he was surviving.

He handed the skin back to Minos who took it and tossed it in his mouth, complete with feathers. He pressed a hand to where Arnaud assumed his heart lay and then to his mouth, which seemed to be a particular way to the Bubalus of giving thanks. As far as he could make out it meant gratitude for the sacrifice, of giving something up. Maybe Minos thought the skin an offering. Arnaud cut the rest of the portion up into small bites. This way he could pop them into his mouth and swallow them without chewing, or tasting. He needed to show gratitude, fortitude…and he required nourishment, and not only because he had lost weight.

The sickness had come upon him after he’d been bitten by one of the “butterflies”. Pretty they might be, but their bite was more vicious than any mosquito’s. Still, he hadn’t thought anything of it—he could hardly protect himself from every threat—until the bite became inflamed. Minos had taken one look at it, nodding, as if he’d expected this. The Bubalus put up with these bites, too, but either their blood was different or their thicker hides protected them, because they seldom grew sick. Even when they did, the effects did not last, and they knew how to treat the disease. They had shown Arnaud how to mix the juices from two separate plants, to use the squeezed leaf as a poultice for the bite itself, and to drink down the liquid. The first time the rancid taste had been so unexpected, Arnaud would have spat it out if Minos had not clamped one of those great hands over his mouth and forced it down. He’d drunk the rest without complaining, shuddering at every swallow. Even with medication, for Arnaud, the suffering lingered.

He threw raw meat down his throat hoping it would bolster his immune system to beat this illness. Which reminded him: worried that his strength might fail, he always kept his own stocks. He would have to go out tomorrow to replenish supplies.

4.

ANNABELLE WAS THE last to emerge from Esmeralda 2, and as she took her first step outside she found herself stumbling down. Folkard, who was only a few steps before her, turned quickly and prevented her from making a fool of herself. No one seemed to notice, the few people in the bay were too busy going about their business. Even if she had fallen all the way down the steps leading out of the flyer, she doubted they would have heard her anyway. The bay was noisy, mining carts being pulled on wheels to and from smaller flyers, some full of ore and minerals, others empty.

“A problem with your leg?” Folkard asked.

Annabelle looked down at the offending appendage. “I feel so.” She stood up straight, feeling all her muscles strain under the pressure. “The gravity of this planet is unusually low…”

“High actually,” Folkard corrected her, “it’s one point one five of Earth’s, which explains the extra weight we are feeling. Given the diminutive size of Ceres, its intense gravity had long been a genuine mystery—still is to those scientists innocent of the discovery of gravitar. The core of the world must contain a considerable quantity of the substance. A lengthy stay here would do wonders for our bodies; loss of excess fat, our hearts would eventually pump a greater supply of blood, our extensor muscles would develop.” He raised an eyebrow and nodded at a passing miner. “You don’t think he got like that from an excessive health regime, do you?”

Annabelle watched the brawny miner in question. For quite some moments. She turned away, feeling she should probably blush at the sweat running down his extremely firm forearms, but instead she simply thought of George, and idly wondered if he would be allowed to work on Ceres for a few months before their honeymoon. Folkard was now watching her, and this time she did blush. What would Jacob think if he could read her mind?

“Yes, well, I think Nathanial needs to fix this leg of mine. I feel like I can barely move it! At this rate I will have one vastus medialis bigger than the other…”

“Not to mention the vastus lateralis and then…”

Annabelle held up a hand. “Please, Captain, let us not stretch the point.”

Folkard laughed. “Ah yes, very good, Miss Annabelle. I see the gravity of your situation has not dulled your humour.”

Annabelle joined him in his laughter, an act that elicited the admiring look of several miners. She was almost tempted to give them a wave, but she had to remember she was now betrothed and had to act with a certain degree of decorum. Even if her instinct insisted she do otherwise.

“Let us see how Nathanial is doing, shall we?”

Folkard nodded, and offered Annabelle his arm. Together they joined Nathanial, who was talking to a particularly tall miner. Not that he was a patch on Nathanial, of course, but he towered over Annabelle, and just about beat Folkard, too. His blond hair was dirty, sweat and grime over his face. Annabelle would have thought the miners on Messor Base would at least clean themselves from time to time.

“Ah,” Nathanial said, noticing them, “this is my sister, Miss Ann-Marie Brooker, and our captain, Richard Matheson. This is Eero Koivunen, he has been sent by Mister Blayney, the base manager, to welcome us.”

Mister Koivunen regarded Annabelle for longer than she found comfortable, his blue eyes speaking of dark thoughts. He smiled, and offered her a slight bow. “Noin kaunis nainen, tarvitsevien miehien ympäri, ole hyvää.”

Annabelle frowned, but did not step forward; instead she continued to hold on to Folkard’s arm. “I’m sorry?”

“You do not speak Finnish?” Koivunen nodded, with another smile that betrayed his lust. “I was saying you are welcome to Messor Base. All of you are,” he added, reaching out a hand to Folkard.

The captain stepped forward and gripped hands firmly. “Thank you, Mister Koivunen,” he said, his voice carrying a warning.

“Perhaps you are hungry after your long journey? We have fresh meat should you like some.”

Nathanial looked at Koivunen, puzzled. “How did you get fresh meat out here?”

“We have our own means, Professori Brooker.” He waved it away. “You want to see the boss?”

“Yes, I do. We have a schedule to keep.” Nathanial looked around the bay. “I don’t suppose Doctor Fontaine is nearby?”

This seemed to amuse Koivunen. “He is not. Come, I shall take you to the boss.”

He began to lead them away from Esmeralda 2, Nathanial by his side, looking around at everything as they went. Annabelle held back, mostly because she had little choice since her mechanical leg did not function very well in the high gravity, but also because she wished to talk to Folkard out of earshot.

“Something is not right here,” she whispered, looking up at him, but the captain was paying her no mind. Instead he was looking elsewhere. She followed his eye-line but she could see nothing of interest. “Captain?” There was no response. She pulled gently at his arm. “Jacob?”

He blinked and looked down at her. “Ah, do forgive me, Miss Annabelle. It was the Heart calling. We can get some of the required minerals here.”

“That is rather fortunate.”

Folkard frowned. “One would think so, but as I understand it, such minerals are located throughout the Solar System, I believe the Heart is simply making use of our detour.”

“If that is so, why do we need to go to specific places?”

“Because the Heart wishes to guide us to places where the minerals are easier to reach. As Stone said, we are on a schedule, and the Heart understands that.” He frowned again, that distant look returning to his eyes. “Interesting. I do not know how, but I just got this strangest feeling. As if the Heart wishes us to make haste.”

Annabelle wished she understood the connection that both Folkard and her Uncle Cyrus had to the Heart, but like so much else about this mission it seemed that it would forever be a mystery to her. And a source of concern. Sometimes it felt like the Heart had its own agenda. She could not believe it was simply helping them out of the goodness of its own…well, heart.

“We should probably do so, then, before we lose sight of our guide,” she said, and together, Annabelle moving as fast as her leg would allow, they both moved to narrow the distance between them and Mister Koivunen.

5.

“A WASTED JOURNEY,” Mister Blayney said, “but that is the problem being so far out here, isn’t it? You would have been wiser to stop off on Mars and send a heliograph message. It’s going to be a long wait now then.”

Not what Nathanial had wanted to hear. He looked around Blayney’s office, his eyes resting on a daguerreotype of a team of miners outside a colliery on Earth. Wales, no doubt, judging by his strong accent. What he knew of small Welsh towns, which tended to include all colliery towns, the locals were not overly keen on strangers. It seemed Blayney had brought such an attitude with him to Ceres.

“Then where is he? I certainly did not come all this way to be fobbed off with excuses,” Nathanial responded with equal obstinacy. He was supposed to be a wealthy professor, so he would play the part with fervour. Of course, he had to admit, if only to himself, that Dylan Blayney had got his dander up the moment Koivunen had seen them into Blayney’s office.

Blayney regarded Nathanial with an aggressive look. “Now, you listen to me, boyo, there’s no need to get chopsy. Don’t think you can come here with all your wealth and status and lord it over us. This is a place for hard working men, not people born with silver spoons in their mouths!”

Nathanial narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his closed fists on Blayney’s over-crowded desk. “No, you listen to me, Mister Blayney. You know nothing of my life, so do not sit there passing judgements.” He stopped, and for a moment he could see his brother, Dorian, looking back at him scornfully. No, Blayney may be an obstinate fool with too much power, but he did not deserve the kind of bile Nathanial had when he thought of Dorian. “I can see you are a hardworking man,” he started again, his tone more even, “and I can respect that. But, please, do not disrespect me by thinking I have attained my position by sitting on my hide.”

A gentle cough came from behind him and a hand rested on his shoulder. Nathanial glanced back and saw Annabelle looking at him. Sweet, gentle Annabelle. There was something in her eyes, something that gave him pause. She had frustrated him, irritated him, teased him, and always been there. He didn’t deserve her loyalty, but what would he do without her?

“Gentlemen, please,” she said, “there is no need for this. All we need to know is the whereabouts of Doctor Fontaine. We have a very efficient aether flyer, I’m sure we can reach him ourselves without putting any of your staff out.”

Still a peacemaker, despite the fire in her heart. She would make a most excellent wife for Commander Bedford, Nathanial knew. And then he would see her no more. He needed to find Arnaud. Nathanial stood back, and allowed Annabelle to take up Blayney’s attention.

“Miss Brooker, I can see you knows how to talk to a man of my position, something your brother could stand to learn.” He smiled at her and stood. “Doctor Fontaine is still out on Hygeia, and I’m afraid I cannot authorise a visit.”

“We have our own flyer,” Nathanial said. “We do not need authorisation. No one nation has claim to the belt, and I believe your authority only extends to the supervision of the miners and the administration of this base.”

“That’s as may be, Professor Brooker, but I doubt your flyer is equipped to navigate the asteroid belt. No.” Blayney shook his head. “Fontaine isn’t due back here for another week. You are, of course, welcome to wait here. We have little amenities, and are not set up for long visits, so you’ll have to use your own ship for anything you need.” He smiled at Nathanial, challenging him. “And if you are to remain here, then I insist you all pitch in.”

Nathanial glanced back at Folkard. It was clear that Blayney was attempting to call their bluff. “I’m suddenly reminded of our first trip to Lunar,” he said in a low voice.

“The bore drill,” Folkard said, with a sharp nod. “Yes. Fancy getting your hands dirty again, Professor?”

“Of course, you’d probably be better off waiting on Mars,” Blayney said. “I’m sure someone with your influence will find suitable lodgings there.”

Either Blayney really didn’t like him, or he just wanted them off Ceres. Nathanial wasn’t sure which, but he’d wager money on the latter. Returning to Mars would put another four weeks onto their journey. Time they did not have. “Well, I certainly am not averse to getting my hands dirty. And I daresay the captain here will do his share while we wait. What of you?” he asked Annabelle.

“I think I will be quite happy to look around the base,” she said, getting into the spirit of things, “what woman wouldn’t wish to be surrounded by such strong men?”

“Really, Ann-Marie, what would mother say?”

“I’m sure she would commend me.”

Nathanial turned from Annabelle to Blayney with a smug smile. “You see? We shall wait until Doctor Fontaine returns. And we would appreciate it if you could send a heliograph to, where did you say, 10 Hygeia?”

Blayney did not look impressed. “So, you knows the names of the asteroids. I guess that makes you one of us, does it?”

“My brother knows a great deal about a lot of things. You have scientists here, too, do you not?” Annabelle looked up at Nathanial, her face the picture of sibling pride. “I’m sure you would love to talk about Vulcan with them.”

Blayney folded his arms. “I’m sure he would. So happy to oblige you all,” he mumbled, clearly not happy with being outfoxed by a wealthy man and his spoilt sister.

6.

HE’D GOT THE idea watching the birds, and he’d watched the birds because the Bubalus used them as a food source.

Arnaud set out accompanied by a round of snickering. The Bubalus knew what he was doing and some shook their heads and rolled their eyes—part amusement, part disgust if he could judge. Oddly, they were unconcerned with the things he carried—a sack he’d fashioned from the remnants of the clothes that had been worn by the miners; one of the spearhead blades, and a long beak taken from the discarded bones of one of the parrots. The strange design of the birds’ beaks served a very specific purpose.

As well as constructing a sack from what remained of the ripped clothing—Arnaud tried not to think of how the men had been ripped apart as easily—he’d managed to salvage a couple of items for himself, ignoring or washing out any bloody marks. His survival kit now included a pair of boots that fit well enough, a warm jacket (only one rip) and even a miner’s cap. He’d tied two strips of fabric together to form a scarf and wrapped others around his hands as gloves. He’d been tempted to wrap his fingers, but found it too awkward. Today, he needed his hands bare for dexterity.

He hadn’t gone far when a round of coughing overtook him, bringing with it a bout of dizziness. When his head cleared, Arnaud was hunched over, gripping the side of a tree, blinking away tears—he couldn’t be certain whether he wept from the struggle, or frustration. All he wanted to do was to sink to his knees, curl up and sleep.

No. Not yet. He couldn’t afford to suffer another bad turn until he fetched enough food to sustain him for a while.

He set out, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. At least he knew exactly where he was going and his purpose.

The “snails” were easy to find. The trouble was getting them out of their shells. He’d first come across the molluscs because the Bubalus used them as bait to entrap the birds. The birds sought the snails because they were easy pickings. The long curved design of the beak meant the birds could reach into the cavity and pull the snail’s body out of its shell piece by piece.

At first Arnaud had winced at the thought, but nature was cruel sometimes by necessity, and he had found a neater, more humane method of extraction.

Having reached the area where he would find the most snails, Arnaud spent some time picking the right one. He’d found the smaller ones surprisingly tough, while the biggest had the most unpleasant texture in the mouth. About two by two feet in size was perfect.

“Pardonnez-moi. Je suis désolé ainsi.” Although the apology didn’t make much difference to the snail, and Arnaud had never been in a habit of expressing regret to his food before, somehow he couldn’t help it.

Rolling the shell so that he could rest it with the opening pointing slightly away at an angle, he used the beak as a tool. Taking a good grip, he then inserted it in against the outer rim of the shell. The beak was several inches in length, well over a foot. Arnaud had chosen the largest beak of an adult bird on purpose—perfect for the task, perfect for this size of mollusc. Once he’d inserted it as far as it would go, he slid it in a curve towards him while trying to ignore the easy way the beak cut through the flesh within. When he met resistance, he applied more pressure. For a second, his arm shook with the effort, and then he felt the now familiar jolt as he succeeded. In a matter of moments, he had pulled the body whole out of the shell.

A grunt made him start, but he relaxed as swiftly when he saw Minos had followed him. Although the close attention was strange, he was always aware of the Bubalus watching. So far they had neither harmed him nor let him leave. Minos seemed the most easy-going, the most interested, so Arnaud had named him and taken to talking to him. Besides, without someone to talk to, and his studies, he would have felt too much like a shipwrecked mariner marooned in a land out of time.

Without waiting, Arnaud cut off the snail’s head so that its suffering was short-lived. The sound that now came from Minos was without doubt one of disgust.

“I do not blame you,” Arnaud said. He gazed at the pale slug that now lay dead outside of its shell. “It does look most…odd, non? I mean, no?”

He kept to English with the Bubalus as much as he could in the hope they might pick up enough of the language so that by the time a rescue party arrived—if one ever did—they might be understood. Maybe with perseverance, he could persuade them not to eat the next team.

Now working with a spearhead, he sliced the flesh thinly, carefully rolling each piece so he could transport the meat to complete the next stage of the process. While he did, he kept talking. “There are many strange things eaten in the…”—he hesitated, considering that the concept of a universe might be too big for a Bubalus—“…world. Some with a look much stranger than this. These…not so much.” Arnaud smiled up at Minos. “I could make a fortune with a little garlic.”

When Minos lowered his head and looked down at him from under a furrowed brow, Arnaud pointed to the rolls of meat he had prepared. “Escargot,” he said, and started laughing.

7.

DESPITE MISTER BLAYNEY’S insistence that the amenities of the base were not at their disposal, Annabelle had insisted on a visit to the canteen. She really wanted to taste this fresh meat Koivunen had told them about, and besides, as she reasoned with Nathanial, if he wished to learn more about Arnaud’s absence, where better than the canteen where the miners would be more relaxed and more open to casual conversation. Nathanial had acquiesced at that. Folkard chose not join them, however, he decided his time would be best served taking the Esmeralda 2 out among the asteroids, in the hope that he could get a heliograph message to the team on Hygeia. The sooner they had Arnaud, the sooner they could find the minerals the Heart claimed were on Ceres.

“It is a pity the new governor is not ready yet,” Nathanial was saying. “It would be of great assistance to the captain now. Navigating the asteroids requires precise measurements, or a smaller flyer than Esmeralda. Of course, if…” He stopped and looked at Annabelle, who was studiously ignoring him.

They sat at a table, “beef” stew in a tin bowl before Annabelle. She scooped some and offered the spoon to Nathanial. “You really ought to try this; it’s delicious!”

“Better than your hash?” he asked, his eyes scouting the room for a likely candidate for conversation.

“Best beef I’ve tasted in a long while.”

He took the spoon off her and peered closely at the meat on it. “But is it, though? How can they possibly get fresh beef out here? Perhaps a ruumet breehr?”

Annabelle was not sure she wanted to continue with the food if that was the case. She had travelled with a caravan on Mars, on the back of a ruumet breehr. They were powerful animals, and she had a lot of respect for them. To be eating one…

“Hallo!”

Annabelle looked from the spoon that had been handed back to her and over at the man that had attracted Nathanial’s attention. Dishevelled in his dirty clothes, the man was robust with a deeply lined face. The eyes beneath his spectacles showing a keen intelligence. Clearly not a miner, Annabelle reflected.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Nathanial said, and removed himself from the table before Annabelle could respond.

She shrugged. It did not matter; she was quite content with her own company. Not that she was alone for long. But how she wished she was. The Finnish man who had greeted them in the bay approached her. He bowed and sat opposite her without even the politeness one would expect upon approaching a lady who sat on her own. Annabelle chose to ignore the insult. The miners had been here for a long time, and such manners were bound to be in little supply.

“Mister Koivunen, a pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“It is what I can do for you,” he said, his accent thick, mangling his pronunciation. “Would you like to see more of Messor Base?”

Annabelle wanted to, and she certainly was finished with her stew, but touring the base with Koivunen was not the ideal situation. There was something about him she did not trust. At that moment she was saved by the return of Nathanial. She looked up at him gratefully.

“Ann…Marie,” he said, almost slipping up in his excitement, “Doctor Gully wishes to take me to see a chap called Orlondo Quintana, a palaeontologist who works with Arnaud.” He glanced at Koivunen, who had a look of disinterest about him. “Will you take care of my sister while I attend Mister Quintana?”

Koivunen gave one of his half-hearted bows. “Of course. It will be a pleasure,” he said, offering a smile that Annabelle really did not care for.

“Thank you.”

Annabelle barely had a chance to blink at Nathanial’s sudden departure before Koivunen was speaking to her.

“Where shall we start the tour? I hear the view from the south loading bay is beautiful. The bay is no longer used, so we will be alone. You will like this I think, yes?”

She wasn’t listening, instead her mind was working overtime. Things were becoming strained between her and Nathanial. He would never have left her behind before they had returned to Earth. The last time he had done so was on Peregrine, but even then he had done his best to find her again. This time…Annabelle was not so sure. He was much more interested in locating Arnaud.

“Miss Brooker?”

“Fine,” she said, and forced herself to her feet, “wherever you suggest, Mister Koivunen.”

Chapter Four

“All That Remains…”

1.

“WHY THE BLOODY hell didn’t you stop him?”

Blayney stood in the loading bay, looking at the spot once occupied by Brooker’s flyer. He turned on Callaghan again. “You’re a bloody idiot, you are! What if he finds out that Fontaine isn’t on Hygeia? How will we look then? You obviously don’t care about your job, do you, boyo?”

“But…” Callaghan looked around helplessly, but there was no help coming his way from the other miners, who were well used to Blayney’s moods. They all kept their heads down and continued on with their work. “Boss, what could I do?”

“You tell me!” Blayney pushed his way past Callaghan and called over to another miner. “Wright, you just back from provender?”

Paul Wright looked up from the ore he was loading. “Yes, boss! Brooker was in the canteen, too, with his sister. Left with Lester,” he said, derision escaping his mouth with the name, “and Miss Brooker went with the Fin.”

That came as a surprise to Blayney; he didn’t think a man like Eero would have been Miss Brooker’s cup of tea. Didn’t he see an engagement ring on her finger, too? Well, while the mice were away… As for the professor; Gully and his butties were just the kind of people Blayney didn’t want Brooker talking to. Controlling the miners’ tongues was one thing, but keeping people like Gully under control was another.

“Thank you. At least someone knows what’s going on here!” He turned back to Callaghan. “I’ll deal with you when I get back now.” He had to find a solution, put Brooker and his party off the scent, and he knew just the way.

2.

ORLONDO QUINTANA WOULD normally have been Nathanial’s kind of hands-on palaeontologist. He could tell by the calluses on the Spaniard’s hands that he liked to get involved, although he clearly did his best to appear presentable. Even now he was dressed in a smart suit, albeit a dusty one. He handed the remains of a skull to Nathanial, who took it politely, but did not look at it.

“Gully’s people, they do an amazing job out on Pallas! Some of the best archaeologists I have known. He borrowed me some of his team. I work alone mostly, you see?”

“Yes, but you called Doctor Fontaine in from Mercury?”

Quintana smiled, his rheumy eyes twinkling. “Of course! I needed a good mineralogist, and he was well recommended. Plus,” at this he winked, “he likes his cognac as much as me.” Nathanial smiled indulgently, memories of Arnaud’s insistence on sharing his cognac on Mercury filling his mind. Quintana continued. “I have found some kind of…well, can only call them ruins. It wasn’t easy. Blayney, he’s the local pit-boss—you have met him, sí?”

“I have had that pleasure, yes,” Nathanial said, trying to keep the irritation from his voice.

“He will keep us out there weeks at a time. Does not like us much, I think. Took us a long time to arrange for Gully’s people to come to Hygeia, but this we did.” Quintana pointed a chubby finger at the skull. “This I found in the ruins; I have seen such remains on Phobos. Have you been to Phobos?”

“No, I have not. Mister Quintana, please, as much as I am…”

Quintana held up a hand. “Orlondo, please! Arnaud often told me of his friend, a Nathanial Stone. You might know him, sí?” He waited for Nathanial’s response, but none was given. “Hmm. He, too, has ginger hair. Like you.”

Nathanial could not help but smile. “I fear you are leading me to a place I cannot follow. I maintain I am Professor William Brooker, and further, it is in your best interests to accept that as true.”

Quintana held Nathanial’s eyes in his, then nodded with a smile. “Su secreto es mi secreto, Señor Brooker.”

“Gracias.”

“Arnaud told me that Professor Stone would be very interested in my work here. But you…” He shook his head. “Why are you not interested?”

“I’m sorry,” Nathanial said, realising he had offended Quintana, but equally pleased to hear that Arnaud had talked fondly of him. “I am interested, but I am also anxious to see Doctor Fontaine again. I suppose my impatience has made me appear dismissive. Perdóname?”

Quintana looked at Nathanial for a moment. “Mucho secretos,” he said quietly, then pointed at the skull. “Please do look. What do you know of Vulcan?”

“Very little, only that the asteroid belt is all that remains of that lost world. At least that is the perceived academic wisdom. It has never truly interested me, but you believe there is a connection between Vulcan and Phobos?”

“Yes, there is a monument on Phobos near where I found this.”

“But you said you found this on Hygeia.”

“Sí, sí! But this is same.”

“Oh, I see. You found similar bones on Phobos? Why do you suppose that is? Parallel evolution? Although, of course, we have never found any species that looks human on the other worlds, it does not rule out that other species could evolve on more than one world. Unless…” At the new thought Nathanial smiled. The palaeontologist had drawn his interest after all. “Aether flight was possible before mankind developed it? Yes, yes, we know that is possible from the Heart…”

“Now you understand!” Quintana’s smiled widened, and he took the skull off Nathanial. “Arnaud told me tales of this Heart, tales you told him!” He nodded. “I was right.”

His cover was blown, Nathanial knew it. “Por favor, continue.”

“An ancient civilization, like the Moon Men Arnaud told me about… Could they have…ah…originated on Vulcan?”

“I do not believe so, no, the Heart came from beyond the asteroid belt. I am…” Nathanial stopped and clicked his fingers. “May I?” he asked and retrieved the skull from Quintana. The size of its cranium, the length of the jaw… Of course! “It’s a Drobate skull! Sorry, one of the Moon Men about which Arnaud informed you—which, I should point out, was not his place to mention.”

“Secreto,” Quintana said, waving it away. “I would like to see these…Drobates, but your government will not allow me to Lunar. So I come here. Not as nice I think.”

“Perhaps, but this discovery adds so much to what we know, or don’t know, about the Drobates. They once existed on Vulcan and Phobos. This is incredible!” Nathanial handed the skull back to Quintana, a plan forming in his mind. He could use Quintana’s enthusiasm to his advantage. “Can you take me to Hygeia? I would like to see these ruins myself, and perhaps Doctor Fontaine will be of help, too, since he is already there.”

“He is not! I get so excited about my work and I thought…” Quintana’s expression swiftly changed, sadness replacing his previous enthusiasm for his work. “Arnaud has not been seen for…one month? Yes, one month!”

“But Blayney said he’s still on…” Nathanial’s mood darkened. All thoughts of Quintana’s discovery on Hygeia vanished. “Damn that blackguard! Excuse me, Mister Quintana, but it appears Blayney and I need to have a much more frank talk.”

3.

DESPITE PROJECTING SOME perverse merriment into the day, by the time Arnaud took his food to the area where he could cook it, his usual exuberance had once again faded. When he reached up to brush away an irritating lock of hair it was to discover beads of sweat. He didn’t need to feel his too-hot forehead to know his temperature had risen. He might have thought it was owing to the bird meat he’d eaten, but this wasn’t the first time fever had overcome him.

“Non, monami, non.” It did little good to scold himself, but someone had to. He was strong, but the flu-like effects of the contagious disease transmitted by local insects often left him debilitated. He likened it to someone suffering with malaria having a relapse.

As fast as he could, Arnaud reached into the sack, pulled out the meat and lay out the slices, unrolling them onto the sphere-shaped fungus he had found. At once they began to sear, the meat contracting, changing from a light grey to solid white. When he was happy with one side, Arnaud used the spearhead to flip them over. These mushrooms were so cold that should his fingers happen to brush one, he’d be lucky not to leave skin behind.

Minos stood nearby watching. Although the Bubalus didn’t seem to like his choice of menu, they regarded him curiously because of it. Minos had once gone so far as to take a slice of snail and set about examining it, prodding it, possibly trying to figure out how it had changed in consistency. While this particular Bubalus was no leader, Arnaud couldn’t help contemplating that he should be. Minos’ inquisitive nature was often met as sceptically as Arnaud’s behaviour by the rest of the Bubalus, but Arnaud considered that quirk to be a most redeeming quality.

“I will tell you a little about myself, non?” He couldn’t hope Minos would understand much of what he was saying, much less listen, but one thing Arnaud lacked and sorely missed was company. Maybe man had more in common with beasts than he realised, for he needed his own kind. The sound of his own voice would have to suffice and maybe something would get through.

Arnaud talked about his life growing up as the youngest son of a popular and affluent politician in France, of his love for geology and mineralogy. All this, and not once did Minos show any sign that he was doing anything but listening. “I have always known my mind, Pére always told me to know what I wanted, to see my future before me, and to never waver. And I have not, but last year…” He paused here, and looked down. “It is difficult, non, when society is against what you are? If ever I see Nathanial again it will be a most sad time… I cannot… Non, he cannot…”

Arnaud looked up from the cooking snails, to Minos’ impassive face. “Je suis fou! I am talking to a buffalo!”

He was almost done with his task and with talking. In minutes, he would have cooked snail, but alas, still no garlic. Although his circumstances seemed dire, Arnaud couldn’t help grinning. He didn’t know whether he had invented this method of cooking or someone had already discovered it, but he was grateful. As the first slice came off ready, Arnaud grabbed it with both hands, tearing great chunks off with his teeth, and devoured it.

A little rubbery. Not unlike seafood, but with a meatier taste. To a starving man? Magnifique!

4.

ANNABELLE THOUGHT SHE knew boredom, after months-at-a-time trapped inside an aether flyer, but she had been mistaken. Eero Koivunen was quite possibly the most tedious person she had ever met. She had travelled widely, more so than most women of twenty, but she had yet to visit Finland, and if Koivunen was any indication, she suspected she was missing nothing. Of course, she expected most Fins to not engage in talk about the ever-exciting topic of mining.

“This is different to normal mining, but it is better than boghead coal,” he was saying, laughing to himself.

Annabelle rolled her eyes. If the view had been beautiful that would have, at least, been something. Instead all she could see from the south loading bay was more asteroids. Thousands of them drifting in the aether, freer than she. “Mister Koivunen, I think I would like to return to my flyer now.”

“Call me Eero,” he tried once again, placing his arm over her shoulders.

She stepped aside. “That would hardly be proper. Whatever would my fiancé say?”

“He is not here.”

At this Annabelle turned on him, incensed. “And if he were would you carry on in such a way? Really, Mister Koivunen, my brother asked you to look after me not…”

“Then entertain me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He grabbed hold of her and pulled her to him. “Entertain me. I have been on this rock for many long months. Men have needs.”

Annabelle tried to pull away from him, but he held her tight, his muscles were used to the high gravity. She put as much pressure as she could on her mechanical leg. “Release me this instance! I am not your plaything!”

Without warning Koivunen’s right hand slammed against her cheek, his ring tearing at it, and she fell to the cold wood floor. With a lustful grin, Koivunen leaned towards her, one hand held out. “Know your place, woman!”

The fire in Annabelle’s heart ignited. She knew her place very well, and it was beside George Bedford. She had been through so much in her life, and she would not give in to someone like Koivunen. With as much force as she could manage, she kicked out with her false leg. Koivunen gave out a very satisfying yell as the metal sole connected with his nether regions, and he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Annabelle struggled to her feet, and looked down at the pathetic shape of the man. “I will have you off this ‘rock’ before the day is out, of that you can be sure, Mister Koivunen!” She turned to walk away, only to find that her mechanical leg would not move. She stumbled forward, only saved from landing back on the wooden floor by the wall against which she braced herself.

She lifted the hem of her dress and looked at the artificial appendage aghast. Something metal, rusty from lack of use, was sticking out of it. A horrible laugh, like gravel being moved in water, came from behind her. She swallowed and looked.

Koivunen was back on his feet, waving his arms around the bay. “We can’t afford to dispose of the old equipment,” he said, “but it still comes in useful.” He brandished a small wooden handle, from which the metal of the chisel had been torn. The chisel that was now interfering with her leg. He flung the handle aside and reached down to his ill-fitting trousers. “Vitun huora!”

Annabelle closed her eyes. She couldn’t fight him, she was too weak in comparison, and now she could not even scramble away. She had never felt so helpless in her life, not even when she had been forced to lie in the sled that Nathanial had fashioned for her on Mars. Not even…

She is a young girl and she wants to return home. To be safe in her father’s arms again. She has been away for so long now.

She sits in a tent, tears dirtying her face. No, not a tent, a tepee. A flap opens and one of the Chiricahua enter. She knows him, she has seen him talking to Goyahkla, looking at her. Even at only twelve years old she knows what that look means. She closes her eyes, and gives a silent cry to her parents.

As the Indian’s clammy hand touches her skin, Annabelle knows her parents will find her soon. They have to!

She opened her eyes. No, this would not happen again, she was not twelve anymore. She would fight to her last breath, she would…

Koivunen’s eyes opened wide in surprise and slowly, as if his own reactions were caught in gravity higher than even Ceres owned, he raised one hand to the back of his head. He looked at the hand in surprise, and even from her position on the floor—when had she slid to the floor?—she could see the dark red substance.

Blood.

Koivunen fell.

Behind him stood a much thinner man, his dark brown hair poking out from under his cap. He held in his hand an iron bar.

“Fräulein,” he said, surprising Annabelle with his accent, “please allow me to help you.” The man held out a hand, and Annabelle took it. He lifted her with ease, and noticed her leg. “You are the most unusual woman.”

Annabelle offered him a smile of gratitude. “It is a long story.”

“Then you can tell me on the way. I will fix your…leg.” Without warning, the German miner scooped Annabelle up in his arms. “Do not worry about that Kroppzeug, he has many enemies here.”

Annabelle looked over his shoulder. Still Koivunen did not move. “That does not surprise me, Mister…?”

“Chauncy Wendt, Fräulein, a pleasure.”

For her, too. Anyone who saved her from an animal like Koivunen was a pleasure to meet. She smiled, hoping that they did not pass Nathanial on the way. He would be most distraught to see his creation damaged.

5.

ALTHOUGH HE NEEDED rest, Arnaud became distracted when he spotted yet another new mineral. Time slipped away. Lost in the thing he loved doing most, Arnaud failed to notice. He even forgot about feeling unwell.

Only much later did he look up, realise he had walked further away from the Bubalus’ camp than at any other time and, much to his surprise, had wandered in the general direction of the entrance tunnel. What should he do now?

Should he try to escape? Had they let him, finally, leave? Where was Minos? Had he grown bored and finally let Arnaud wander off? Was this his chance? So this was what it felt like to be frozen in indecision.

What if he succeeded?

Thoughts tumbled through Arnaud’s mind. He was sick of being here, tired of being afraid. Although one could only sustain that constant level of fear for so long before it got pushed to the back of one’s mind, the pit of one’s stomach, he’d never forget the sounds of men being ripped apart. Fortunately, he’d not seen or heard much—slipping into unconsciousness had likely saved him from insanity. Still, he wanted to leave that terrible place behind, often felt guilty over not suffering a single nightmare, hated staying there; but it was sleep in caves or die. Outside, he felt constantly cold.

There were other things to consider, though. What kind of greeting would he receive? Would he be blamed not only for the death of Pettitt, but all those who had followed? Even if his name had been cleared—although he didn’t see how—what would happen when he told of the Bubalus presence? Of what had happened to the other men? He didn’t want more raiding parties descending into the heart of Ceres to be pulled apart. He didn’t want to think of the resulting destruction, and not only of man and beasts, but possibly to this incredible world and all it had to offer.

He was again fingering some mineral samples—some of which he had taken to carrying, and some he had picked up today—as he tried to puzzle this out. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life here. Eventually, someone would come. Was now the right time to try to run?

Pressing the heel of one hand to the bridge of his nose as if to rub away the muzziness in his brain, Arnaud tried not to wince. His forehead was still hot to the touch. A bone-deep ache was beginning to set in, and he forgot thoughts of running, too distracted by simply feeling unwell. He could only hope he never suffered another night as bad as the worst, where he had shivered and shook even as he dripped sweat, gradually dehydrating. Minos had brought him water, keeping him alive, though whether he had imagined the Bubalus wiping his face he still couldn’t say. He didn’t believe for one moment that he had made a true friend. Some instinct warned him that Minos was not to be trusted, and not wholly because he had eaten the flesh of men.

The question seemed too big to contend with. Another frustrating condition of the disease was a loss of concentration. He should return to the caves, eat some more, rest; then later, if he felt well enough, he could continue his examination of the mineral specimens he’d collected during his stay here.

Wait. Non. He was supposed to be running away. When had he got turned around? Half unconscious on his feet, Arnaud spun back towards the tunnel entrance and barely had enough sense to notice he’d walked into a solid, immovable object. It was possible his feet even tried to keep walking for a second or two before Minos shoved him. Arnaud was far too startled when he suddenly found no ground under his feet, that he was falling before he could utter a sound.

He didn’t drop far, but the impact on his ankle sent a flare of pain up his leg that turned into a dull, numbing ache even as he hit the ground and rolled. He’d stepped over the lip of a slope, fortunately not into mid-air, but hitting the ground only turned his drop into a roll and then to a slide. Cracking, tinkling sounds followed his passage—the noise almost musical—as he broke off leaves and stems of ice plants as he slid by. Things smooth, sharp and rough swept under his clasping hands in turn. A jolting pain, wrenching one arm, brought him up short.

Relief washed through him and he took a few breaths before Arnaud pulled himself up, and turned his head only to discover his fingers were ensnared in a rib-cage.

6.

BROOKER WAS NOT very good at hiding his emotions, although he clearly thought otherwise. Blayney worked with “tough” men every day, men who liked to pretend they had no emotions, but the more a man tried to hide, the easier it became to read. He thought he should feel for Brooker, but the truth was Brooker’s little group were interfering in things that did not concern them, and although what Blayney had told him was a lie, Brooker’s horror was real.

He had not intended to tell the lie in such a cruel way, but Brooker had come at Blayney with such righteous anger that Blayney could not help but respond in a scathing way. Some liked to say that Blayney handled confrontations badly, but he liked to think he handled them the best way possible. By striking the first blow, and making sure it was powerful enough to keep his opponent off balance for the rest of the encounter.

“How did this happen?” Brooker asked, his face pale, his grey eyes disbelieving. “How can you be sure it was Doctor Fontaine?”

“There were witnesses. I am sorry we kept this from you, but you have to understand how it works here. Accidents happen all the time, but if this got out… We could be shut down. I can’t allow that.”

Brooker shook his head. “A man has died. A friend of mine. You should have…”

Blayney held up a hand. “Don’t take that tone with me, boyo. I knows that you are in shock, but many families depend on the work that takes places here. I have more to think about than the feelings of a wealthy toff like you.” He looked over at Zachery Flint, who was standing nearby, casually resting against the wall with his arms folded. “If you wish, Flint here will take you to see what’s left of Fontaine, but I must warn you, it’s not a pretty sight.”

“I…” Brooker looked from Blayney to Flint. He tried to offer a smile, but it was so weak as to be almost non-existent. Blayney didn’t realise the Frenchie had such close friends. “Thank you, please…”

Sorry, Pettitt, Blayney thought as Flint led Brooker away. He felt a little like he was disrespecting a hard-working miner’s memory by using his mauled carcass in such a grisly way, but he had to work with what he had.

Blayney turned his mind to other problems. It had been over a month and still the team he had sent after Fontaine had not returned, which he took to mean all had perished in that underworld. Victims of those beasts. It didn’t matter. Accidents happened in a major mining operation like this; they could easily be buried away. But what if the Frenchie had survived? Blayney could not risk his return.

He stood up from his desk. He knew just the man to lead another team; Craig Callaghan. And if that boy did not return, either, all the better. He was proving bloody useless anyhow.

7.

HUMAN. THE RIBS could have belonged to any creature, maybe even a small Bubalus, but not the skull. Arnaud didn’t have the energy to be disgusted or upset. He didn’t know whether the Bubalus had eaten these men—of which he’d found two—shocked by the proof that men had been here before him.

Other miners? Why then had no talk been made of this underground world?

At first glance he thought the bodies had been buried, but as he started brushing things aside to examine the remains more closely, he realised that it was more a case of the plant life having grown up around them, through them. How long for decomposition? Hard to say here. Although the cool air would have preserved the bodies awhile, he had no doubt the wildlife would have stripped the bones long before rot set in. There were bits of clothing but so shredded he couldn’t piece together… The scrap of cloth he held…could it be from a uniform? If so, what regiment?

Something glittered. Arnaud peered closer; attached to the skeletal finger of one of the bodies was a gold ring, embossed with an eagle. It looked vaguely familiar.

Using the spearhead—fortunately, he’d not lost his bag carrying his tools and food—he dug around but the only thing he came up with was…

“Nose!”

Starting, Arnaud looked up the slope. He’d forgotten about Minos—the creature stared down at him, mighty arms folded across a massive chest, expression as close to cross as he had ever seen it. Although he’d tried to teach him, the mangled version of his name seemed to be all Minos could manage. Still, he said it so little, it always surprised Arnaud to hear it, and usually amused him. Today, he had other things on his mind.

“Did you know about these?” He asked but Minos seemed…annoyed more than anything. He actually growled. Why so put out? Minos spat, pawed the ground. Understanding both signs, Arnaud only hesitated for a moment when Minos indicated he should leave, now. The creature’s anger together with a renewed onset of fever, made up Arnaud’s mind for him. As Minos turned away, Arnaud grabbed handfuls of the minerals that he’d found by the bones and put them into his bag. Then he scrambled up to the top, and hurried after Minos. He didn’t even think of making a break for the tunnel entrance. Minos would never let him reach it.

One question burned brightest. Had he stumbled on a grave site? Had the Bubalus eaten these men? After all, to the Bubalus, maybe he was just another animal. They might be ignorant of what they had done.

Could he teach them? How could he explain that to eat one form was acceptable and another wasn’t?

He glanced at Minos who had stayed with him for most of the time. No doubt, he found the quiet pace back to camp irritating, but it gave Arnaud time to talk.

“Did you eat those men?” He made gestures that Minos seemed to understand to indicate eating and then pointed back the way they had come.

Minos shook his head. Arnaud was prepared to accept that as a denial. If the Bubalus had done so, why would they go to the trouble of burying them, or even bringing them out to here to leave their bones? They used bones as tools so…

Arrghhh. He wished his head was clear. The flu-like symptoms made it difficult to think. He thought back to the skeletons. His tumble had disturbed them but they were formed enough that he knew they were laid out as they should be. The Bubalus would not have bothered to do that. They would not have abandoned bodies that still had meat on the bone, even if the bone happened to be useless for some reason. His studies of them told him as much. They were…cannibals. The memory was not as unpleasant as the death of the men, but he’d been staggered and more than a little unnerved when one of their own had died and they’d eaten him that very night. Hysteria had won out when he’d wondered if the meat tasted like boeuf.

Perhaps to eat their own was natural to them and they were ignorant enough to see no wrong in it. They were more than intelligent animals, but they were not the same as men. Maybe it was unfair to judge them on those terms, but at least it clarified something: they would not have bothered to lay out skeletal remains in the right order. Had they put the bodies there for some other reason?

“Why…” Arnaud cleared his throat, afraid he might say something to incite the very thing he wanted to discuss. “Why have you not eaten me?” Again, he gestured—food—and then pointed at himself. It took a few tries but finally, Minos turned his head and spat just as he had done back at the slope—a thing Bubalus seemed to do to indicate something bad.

“I’m…inedible?” Not that he wasn’t glad…but why? Was it because of the illness? He could think of no other cause, but he’d seen the creatures take down other beasts that carried the same red-swellings left by the insect bites. Before he accepted that as the case, he tried another question.

“The men who chased me, yes?” Arnaud indicated the jacket he wore. “The miners? The…” He waved a hand, tried to indicate many. “The other men.” Finally, he received a look that he hoped meant Minos understood. “Did you attack them because they hunted? Because they chased me? Did you…help? Protect?” He made a gesture, palm pointing down, two waves, taps in the air as if telling someone to sit. The Bubalus seemed to use this to ask another for aid. Usually only with simple tasks but perhaps it would translate well enough.

He wasn’t sure Minos understood, but the Bubalus stopped walking. He spread his arms wide and then thumped his own chest. Gestured again.

All this? Ours?

“This is your land.” Hmm… Arnaud stared out at a panorama of white. “Did you think they were invading?”

Again, Bubalus thumped his chest, growled, touched Arnaud on the shoulder. Although the push was slight, Arnaud nearly went over. He had to widen his stance and brace for impact when Bubalus tapped him in the chest—a poke that hurt more than he’d expected.

“You. Nose. Take.”

Did Bubalus think Arnaud meant men as in plural? He could see why he might have taken that as the meaning. Maybe Bubalus had no concept of names.

Minos tapped his own chest. Then he pointed in the direction of the entrance tunnel. Minos leaned forwards until nothing but that great dark face filled Arnaud’s vision. Speech came in a series of grunts and growls, but Arnaud had spent enough time here to understand, was able to translate the sounds to mean, “We warned.”

For once his head cleared. He was able to think, see a pattern of events. “You killed Pettitt.” Why had he not seen it before? The bizarre injury. The placement of the body. He hadn’t connected the first to the Bubalus because of the second. But what if Pettitt had been injured as a warning? It didn’t matter if he’d escaped or they’d let him live to return with some kind of message. Pettitt had investigated the tunnel for some reason, found this world, and fought his way back, or was sent…only to die in time for Arnaud to be blamed.

Of all the bad luck…

Minos grunted, pointed ahead, but Arnaud suddenly couldn’t take another step. Either the fever, fatigue, or despair itself made Arnaud sway on his feet. Why had he walked so far? It was a long way back.

Arnaud opened his eyes some time later to find he was being carried, but as he didn’t think he could get his legs to work, he was hardly in a position to complain.

8.

BARELY A CADAVER. Nathanial had seen many grim sights in his travels, but he would have taken any of them over what his eyes now saw. The mutilated remains of a body; crumbled bones and viscera. He gagged at the stench.

He closed his eyes, and saw another horror. A house alight with flames, and in the top window a charred body pointing at him accusingly. Edwin. His brother.

And now Arnaud…

Nathanial turned away, and would have fallen if not for the strong arms of Flint. “It… It looks like he’s been eaten.”

“An ore processor will do that, Professor,” Flint said.

The room began to spin around him. Nathanial knew he had to get out. He didn’t care where, just out. Away from all of this. He couldn’t know this anymore.

“I’m done,” he said, his voice cracking. “Done with all of this death.”

Chapter Five

“Point of No Return”

1.

THE SICKNESS THIS time kept Arnaud off his feet for longer than before, but when he recovered he felt stronger than he had at any other time. Perhaps he could still beat this thing.

Minos had brought him water and even helped him sit up so he could eat some of the prepared snail, although the Bubalus always made a great show of looking the other way when he did. The time spent lying down had given Arnaud nothing to do but sleep and, when not sleeping, examine the minerals he had found. It was only when Minos arrived with fresh water, but refused to approach while Arnaud sat with the minerals spread out around him, that he made a discovery.

“They’re just rocks,” Arnaud said. It pained him to call them such—these were far from just rocks and many were exciting finds—but he couldn’t hope Minos would understand that. The only response was Minos curling his lips back from his teeth. Confused, tired, aching all over, and decidedly not in the mood to deal with the Bubalus’ stubbornness when all he could think of was the taste of cool, fresh water, Arnaud struggled to hold on to the scientific part of his intellect. What was Minos afraid of? Why would he not approach?

Taking up the minerals one at a time, Arnaud held them out in turn. He was about to give up having invoked no reaction, when Minos recoiled. A growl trickled out of his throat, erupting into a full blown snarl. Afraid he was about to be eaten, Arnaud shoved the offending stone into a pocket and then quickly gathered the rest, shoving them under a nearby pile of leaves and clothes. Once the minerals were out of sight, he got his water, but for the first time, Minos remained distinctly unhappy.

The Bubalus made to withdraw and then paused. Those eyes that were so dark as to appear almost black, stared straight at Arnaud. The beast entwined the fingers of both hands together into a single fist, tapped them against its chest, and bowed. Arnaud was so startled, by the time he thought of reacting, Minos had gone.

He’d seen such gestures before, usually performed with both hands wrapped around a spear at the end of a hunt or when one of their number had done something hazardous.

Reaching into his pocket, Arnaud drew out the stone that had upset Minos so. Dark, smoky brown quartz. Clearly, the Bubalus didn’t like them. This was the same mineral he had found with the skeletal remains, and logic dictated that they were the reason the Bubalus hadn’t touched those bodies. Had the men been removing them? Were these stones the reason Arnaud was still alive?

That didn’t explain who those men were or why they had died, but he might never know the answer to that. Although his inquisitive mind found it hard to accept, he put the question aside to concentrate on the quartz. It did have a certain…tactile quality. A small point of golden light gleamed in its depths. Although doing so with the mere use of his thumb and index finger would take many years to buff it, he couldn’t help wondering how the stone would look cut, shaped and polished. Setting aside other unknown properties the rock might have, he wondered whether it would be worthy of a gem? Suitable for a ring?

Aware of stroking the quartz, he was heedless of the smile on his face or where the image of a ring led his thoughts until one name blazed brightly. Nathanial. He almost cast the mineral aside in disgust. Such things were impossible, but…a token of affection? Something simpler? Maybe that would be allowed, but he would give up all the sentimental trappings in the world to know for certain he would see Nathanial again.

His mind was wandering. He grew tired. He would have to set his query aside. Still, one question drove him crazy and even followed him down into sleep. “Why would Minos think me brave?”

He almost drifted off again when the act of swallowing hurt his throat. Water. Drink.

Fighting fatigue, Arnaud pushed up with one hand, his need to drink outweighing other pains so that he ignored the sharp sensation in the palm of his hand. Thirst quenched, he looked for the cause, only mildly surprised. Of course: the quartz. He’d almost fallen asleep holding the stone that had frightened Minos.

Mon dieu!

What if the stones tired him? There was no doubt the insect bites had made him ill, but if the Bubalus were afraid of these stones maybe there was a good reason. Thinking back was difficult, but the first thing to do was to put the quartz away. Arnaud did, and then sat there trying to organise the pattern of events. Times he’d felt most ill, what he’d been doing on days when he was tired. As his head cleared he realised this was not the first time he had noticed that the brown minerals had a fatiguing effect, but coupled with the disease and moments when his concentration waned, it had taken him until now to connect the details.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the thought that the Bubalus let him live because they were scared of him. Was it a form of worship or did they think him too crazy to eat? Simply poisonous? Did it matter? Arnaud had other worries on his mind.

For now the stones had stopped the natives from eating him, but even wrapped up, what were the long term effects?

Then there was Minos. Was the Bubalus watching him out of curiosity or for some more nefarious reason? While he learned about them, might they not be learning of him? Despite the earlier show of respect, Minos displayed a greater show of emotion than the others. Should the time come when Minos tried to test him, Arnaud had no idea what he would do.

2.

CALLAGHAN HATED THESE deeper corridors. He couldn’t let it show, of course. Couldn’t let the men with him know he was spooked.

Anyone exploring while studying a schematic would have no problems working out this section went on far longer than it should. The lack of light helped to keep away the curious.

“Lift the lantern there!” Callaghan snapped to the man carrying it. A chill made him shiver and he gave a thought to ghosts.

Straining to see as well as keep a steady nerve, Callaghan almost walked into the hatch. Despite the need for haste, he was mindful of rough and sharp edges.

“Lend a hand there.” Were the men as reluctant as he to open this thing? He thought of going back. Better to let Fontaine rot down here, but Blayney was right—they could not guarantee he was dead, and the Frenchman needed to die. Callaghan almost wanted to kill him just because of the predicament he faced. He feared his boss as much as what was on the other side of the hatch. How had the Frenchman found his way down here, anyway? Where had he thought he was escaping to?

The bar holding the hatch in place turned. A sliver of light broke through. Blinking to adjust his vision, Callaghan opened the door to an interior world. Looking back at the men, he said; “Are you lot ready for this?” Without waiting for a reply, he stepped out into a landscape of ice.

3.

FOLKARD HAD RETURNED from his fool’s errand about an hour ago, and since then he failed to find either Stone or Blayney. He had, however, located Miss Annabelle, in the infirmary. She had insisted on coming with him to find Blayney, but both he and Messor’s medic refused her. Her mechanical leg was still damaged from Koivunen’s attack, although it seemed to be working slightly thanks to the technical know-how of Mister Wendt, and the bruise on her cheek had transformed into a nice welt. Doctor Mason had attached a Ceren slug to the wound, to prevent infection. The ring Koivunen wore had been rusty, and covered in all kinds of dirt from mining.

Before leaving Folkard thanked Wendt. “What of that Finnish chap? I don’t suppose a good thrashing is out of order,” Folkard said, once he had taken Wendt aside.

“It is being taken care of.”

“Capital.” Folkard looked back at Annabelle. Bedford would not be happy about this; Miss Annabelle’s care had been given over to Folkard explicitly, not that she would agree, of course. “I rather feel like swinging the cat his way myself, but I think it’s high time I had a few words with the scoundrel who runs this place.”

“Ich bin einverstanden,” Wendt said. “The Kaiser would have him put to death for his inaction.”

Folkard raised an eyebrow. “We shall see,” he said, and bid Wendt goodbye, thinking that death was too kind a punishment for someone who allowed rapists to walk free.

4.

“THIS IS POINTLESS. He must have frozen to death by now.”

It warmed Callaghan to hear that the other men were beginning to sound as disgruntled as he felt. All very well for Blayney to say go hunt down the Frenchman, but the area was vast to a man on foot.

He was damn cold. He was getting tired. There was no sign of Fontaine, or Cadogan, or any of the men who had gone with him. Callaghan was relying on at least finding some remains as an indication of what had happened here. He’d held out some small hope Cadogan was alive. If he could have taken the man back to his boss, returned Blayney’s friend, he’d have curried favour with him. Of course, if Cadogan were still alive he’d have been pounding to get out, at least tried to stay near the entrance, if he had any sense. Although—Callaghan looked around—the chances were indeed that by this time he would have frozen to death. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to returning without news of Cadogan or Fontaine.

“I don’t like it here,” another man said. “Did you see those webs back there? Unnatural, that’s what.”

Could that be what had happened to the men? Had Cadogan, the fool, kept at it, chasing Fontaine down? If he’d blundered into the webs… Callaghan shuddered, hoping if the men noticed they would take it for his being cold. He didn’t know what had spun those webs, but much like everything else down here, he could understand why they inspired the creeps.

At least the webs were easily avoided. As long as one didn’t do a mad dash through the trees and kept to the more open spaces there was no risk. They were strung, Callaghan suspected, to catch the birds as they swooped, and he didn’t want to think what type of spider was large enough to eat a bird.

Pity he couldn’t catch a few of the birds himself. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had chicken and it would make a change from beef, but food on the hoof was easier.

Speaking of…

Callaghan gestured with his head, although the other men had gone silent and obviously spotted the small herd of young cattle, too. “I don’t know about you lot, but I suggest we get out of here.”

“Blayney won’t be pleased,” Wright said.

“That’s why we’ll take those back with us.”

He gave Wright a nod. The men spread out. Callaghan would get closest then direct the rest. It would be better if this small herd had been closer to the entrance but it wasn’t far; he didn’t see a problem.

He signalled and swung the pickaxe, even as one of the herd noticed him and bleated. It didn’t take long to silence the rest.

“Callaghan!”

He was turning even as he heard his name. From out of the bushes a large beast came. Off to the side he heard the cry of another.

“What do we do?”

Was Wright joking? “Get back to the entrance.” Blayney sometimes accused him of not being the brightest of men, but Callaghan knew when to run.

5.

THE FIRST INKLING Arnaud had that anything was amiss was when several Bubalus females hurried past him. He’d grown quite used to them keeping their distance and even his segregation from their children. For all he knew their behaviour was some form of social etiquette of their race that he could never hope to understand. It could equally be owing to the Bubalus’ dislike of the minerals and the obvious side-effects. That several females would willingly pass close by was surprising enough. For their children to follow—herded by their parents—had him on his feet at once. Only as one of the females snarled did he realise that the sudden movement could be construed as hostile. He took a step back, putting distance between them.

More Bubalus—mostly young, female, injured or old—were wending into the back of the caves. The adult males also crowded into the entrance, but they spared no more time than it took to snatch up spears and head out again. Even some of the females joined them.

A wild anticipation sped through Arnaud—one that he was instantly ashamed of. The daily grind of survival, foraging, maintaining his health had hereto only been broken up with the time spent sleeping or in the study of minerals. While Arnaud had made many finds, he lacked the materials with which to experiment or even make notes. He had plenty of specimens but now longed for a laboratory. Existence had become…dull. Here was excitement. Some change to the usual routine. He could not deny that the very thought swept through his fatigue.

He’d taken several steps before he hesitated. What if he had the chance to slip away or he was being rescued? Too much to hope for perhaps, but he could not discount the possibility. Besides, what was he thinking? He’d almost gone outside without a coat and that would never do. Returning to his possessions, Arnaud dressed quickly. He packed his samples into the largest of his bags, and slipped it over his head, slinging the weight across his body. In that short time the processions both going in and out of the entrance had lessened and Arnaud was able to join them without getting in anyone’s way or attracting any glances. Whatever had happened, clearly the Bubalus had other things besides Arnaud on their minds.

Despite his excitement he began to lag. Perhaps if he left the bag somewhere he could return for it later.

Even as Arnaud had the thought he dismissed it. He didn’t know what had happened, or what he faced ahead. As more Bubalus trotted passed him he had to admit defeat and slow his pace. At first he’d tried to match their strides but quickly realised this was impossible. He tried running at a slower, steadier pace, but he was not as strong as he had been a few weeks back when he’d arrived here. He swiftly fell behind.

It was a strange feeling to be amid a group of Bubalus and then to have them move ahead, the pounding of their feet diminishing, a now familiar silence descending.

Only the world wasn’t silent. It was filled with small snaps and pings, soft whispering, and the sound of dripping, and the crunch of the gritty ice sand under his boots. Arnaud had always considered that he was alone on his excursions, even though he knew the Bubalus watched him, but he’d not been alone at all. This was an entire system of interacting organisms, as alive and flourishing as any of that on Earth. He’d forgot to feel humbled, awed, by this experience, but he supposed that could be forgiven. A prison was a prison, and he’d not known whether he’d see another human being again to tell them of it.

The thought of rescue, liberation, redoubled his efforts, but still Arnaud was unable to pick up speed for long. To his horror, he found he was blinking back tears. Frustration to be certain, but what if this was his one chance and he missed out on freedom because he’d grown too weak in the intervening weeks?

Give up the samples.

That was like telling a librarian to give up his books or… Arnaud laughed aloud, wiping tears of merriment now from his eyes. It was akin to asking Nathanial to give up his experiments. Non. For now he would soldier on. Only if he grew too tired…

Arnaud spun, the sudden awareness of thundering hooves speeding his pulse. Several more Bubalus passed him at a run. Their gazes were intent and set—they were definitely heading in the direction of the main entrance—spears held horizontal to their bodies, grips almost light and casual. Although he’d known they carried them, the sight of Minos among the pack, holding a similar weapon chilled Arnaud. Then Minos was past him, Arnaud turning to follow his movement.

Yet another surprise in a long list to add to the day, Minos slowed, and as he fell to the back of the chasing group, he stopped and turned to look at Arnaud. It took Minos only a few steps to reach Arnaud, pick him up, and fling him over his shoulder.

Chapter Six

“Upping the Ante”

1.

HE LOOKED DREADFUL. Something very bad had happened, so bad that it brought that haunted look back to the fore of Nathanial’s eyes. Annabelle had not felt it so keenly since they had met in Dumba’s office at the Austrian Embassy in London, shortly after his brother had died.

She turned to Doctor Mason, and asked for some privacy. Mason was clearly put out by this, but after seeing the look on Nathanial’s face, he agreed and pulled a curtain around them.

“Nathanial, where have you been? Jacob has been looking for you. He received a message from Hygeia; Arnaud is not there. Hasn’t been for…” She paused. His eyes glistened at the mention of Arnaud. Annabelle threw her legs over the side of the bed, straightened her dress, and patted the space beside her. “Tell me, what has happened?”

For a second he remained standing there, looked around as if lost, then rested his eyes on Annabelle. “He is dead.” The words came out hollow, bereft of feeling.

“Who? Arnaud?” Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh my! Nathanial, how did…?” She did not know what to say, but in her mind’s eyes she saw that funny little Frenchman in his lab on Mercury. The first time they met he had kissed her on both cheeks, the familiarity so very French. “He called me ‘enchanting’, do you remember that?”

Nathanial swallowed. “I do. He was so infuriating, always drinking that damned cognac of his. Never taking anything serious. He nearly drowned, but I saved him…”

Annabelle smiled sadly. She had not thought much about Arnaud after leaving Mercury the first time, but she had been looking forward to seeing him once more. Only… “What happened to him? You do not need to tell me if you do not wish,” she added quickly, noticing the pained expression on his face.

He sat on the bed, his body almost folded, like the air had been drained out of it, and he told her. She listened intently, her mind seeing images she would rather not. The more he talked the more her own pain deepened. How could they go on like this? Losing more as they travelled. She had wanted adventure, had welcomed the chance to accompany Nathanial to Venus when he received the request for help from Jericho. No, that was not true; she had positively thrust herself upon him. And after that adventure had she been content to return to Earth as Nathanial had wanted? No, she had insisted they go on to Mercury.

In fact she could say it was all her fault. If she had only listened to Nathanial then none of this would have happened. She would be whole, and Nathanial would not be in pain. She could not answer as to whether Arnaud would be alive, but certainly Edwin would have been. It had been her insistence on going to Mercury that had started the chain of events that had led them to their involvement in this mission.

“It must be so hard for you,” she said, “walking like a god amongst mortals. No wonder you wanted Arnaud’s company so badly.”

Nathanial lifted his eyes. “I do not understand,” he said, a shadow across his expression. Annabelle could only wonder what was going through his brain.

“A genius like you, dear Nathanial, of course you need someone like Arnaud with you, an intellect to challenge your own. I’m sorry neither the captain nor I can be that kind of person, but we do offer you other things. You are not alone,” she said softly, placing a hand gently on his knee.

“It’s not like that, Annabelle. It was never about intellect. I…” There was a real struggle going on, although Annabelle could not fathom why. His eyes travelled across her face, searching for something. “We must take his remains back to Earth, to his family.”

“No,” she said gently, “you are not thinking clearly. Four weeks inside a wooden box? Can you imagine how such…” She winced. “Fresh meat would not survive such a journey. It would be most unpleasant.”

“But…”

“We can perform some kind of service here, on Ceres. I’m sure even Blayney would not deny us that. They have a furnace here, we can cremate his remains.” Juddering breaths of air came from Nathanial, and Annabelle found herself holding him in her arms. “Oh, sweet Nathanial, I am so sorry. We have lost so much. You, me… Sometimes I think I have lost more than I know.”

“We have lost each other, too,” Nathanial said through the tears.

“No,” Annabelle said, running her fingers through his hair soothingly, “we hang on by a thread still, but if you are willing to strengthen that, then so am I.”

With a final sniff, Nathanial pulled away from Annabelle. Using the sleeve of his coat he wiped his eyes. “Very poetic, Arnaud would have approved,” he said, laughing lightly. “Do you mean this? I feel I have lost your respect, that I was not there for you when you needed me most.”

Annabelle considered this. And it was not without some truth. “And if I had not insisted on going to Mercury to see Uncle Ernest, then we would not be here now. There is blame enough to share.”

“Yes, but I believe that people come into our lives for a reason.” He offered her a smile. “We are led to those who help us to grow, if we let them. Do not blame yourself, Annabelle; if you had not dragged me to Mercury then I would never have met Arnaud. And that, I believe, would have been a loss.”

“Another for the list,” Annabelle said, smiling despite the hurt. She stood up, wincing slightly at the pressure on her muscles. “Let us go to Blayney, and insist on a service for Arnaud. I think he will be willing, after all Jacob has surely chewed him out by now.”

“Yes.” Nathanial stood, too, and offered Annabelle his arm. “I do not envy Blayney if he has incurred the wrath of the mighty Jacob Folkard.”

2.

“WHAT THE HELL is that?” Wright had never sounded so scared.

Callaghan was about to curse him—he didn’t have time for histrionics—when he turned his head and looked at the beast Wright was talking about.

He didn’t know what it was. Well, it was another beast, the same as those he’d slaughtered to be sure, but this one was bigger, muscled, had huge horns, markings on its skin, carried a spear. It blew out through its nostrils and Callaghan heard the sound of a bull about to charge as well as saw the puff of air emerge as white mist in the cool atmosphere. It had tusks and murder in its eyes.

“There are more!”

Adults? Then those others are young?

He didn’t stop to think, just shoved Wright away from him, turned and ran. He didn’t look back to see whether Wright followed him; didn’t once look to see whether he made it. He had to get back to warn the boss. Had to get the hatch closed.

He made it to the entrance, aware he lost at least two men on the way, but the moment he turned it was to face a great bull coming at him full-pelt.

“Push! Shove!” He tried to do it himself, but it was useless, and then the bull was there forcing its way in, horns and spear cutting up men. He turned and ran, leaving the rest to get the door closed if they could. If they failed, someone had to survive to give the warning.

He fled to get Blayney. He was supposed to be in charge. Let him figure out what to do.

3.

IF ARNAUD HAD thought being slung over Minos’ back uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to what he was suffering now. He was being carried, only this time by the throat. If he let go of that great forearm he would choke. If he couldn’t get Minos to let him go, he wouldn’t be able to get another word out. If the Bubalus didn’t release him, he would suffocate. The word began to dim, turn a little grey.

Then mercifully the pressure released. A rush of air blew past Arnaud’s ears, stirred his hair. He sucked it down even as he landed and bounced. He was so taken with breathing again that it took moments for him to realised he’d been thrown. Why then was he not hurting? As the world grew bright again, he glanced around.

He hung several feet from the ground, cast into one of the great white ice webs he had often seen. He tried to turn his head and couldn’t. Neither could he move his legs, and one of his arms had stuck fast. He had partial movement only in his left.

“Minos!” His shout was only just shy of a scream. He didn’t want to die…like this. Anything but… “Please!” The Bubalus was already turning away, lifting his spear. Throwing back his head, bellowing, he charged. Presumably to join the confrontation they had witnessed. Arnaud hadn’t had time to process the details before Minos had turned on him, and now he found himself ensnared.

Left alone, Arnaud cast his gaze about trying to see from which direction the danger would come. How big a spider? How big? The size of bones on the ground was not encouraging. He had to cut himself free somehow. Stretching with his free hand he managed to reach the fastening to his bag. Undoing it was tedious and consuming precious time he was sure he did not have.

Trying not to let his heart race, mindful to breath, to blink back unbidden tears so he could see, Arnaud took what felt like many minutes but was probably only one or two to fish out the spearhead. Was he truly crying? Arnaud stifled a laugh. Well, why not? He was crying and laughing by turn, aware that it was unwise to cause vibrations in the web but equally that it was too late to worry about that. Every movement, every act of breathing sent alerts along the threads.

Ignoring the sounds of distant fighting and anything other than the thought of getting free, Arnaud’s world narrowed down to him against the web.

Do not drop it. Do not drop it. Although Arnaud didn’t hold out much hope that the spearhead would protect him from a giant spider, maybe he could break the threads holding him. He held his breath as he reached down, turning the blade around. Alas, his arm caught and he had to jerk himself loose, the spearhead slipping in his hand. The sound that left his mouth sounded too much like a whimper. He was gripping the blade almost too tightly so that he struggled to manoeuvre it. Suppressing his panic, he tried again and almost shouted out in triumph when he managed to cut a couple of the threads. The smile fell from his face when the third one did not give so easily and snagged the spearhead. It wasn’t stuck, but he struggled with it and every tug sent vibrations in every direction.

He had to get free before his luck run out, but as Arnaud saw movement from the corner of his eye he knew he had no more time left.

4.

“I HAVE SEEN workhouses run better!” Folkard bellowed, staring Blayney down across the desk. “You have a rapist working here, knowingly so if I am to believe Mister Wendt, and then you lie about the location of Doctor Fontaine in the most barefaced manner I have ever seen. Do you realise that if Wendt had not heard the commotion in the south loading bay, Miss Brooker would have been violated? What do you have to say for yourself, man?”

Under normal circumstances Folkard would have been impressed by the steel Blayney was showing, but these were far from normal circumstances. The Welshman took the accusations on the chin and allowed Folkard to finish before he spoke.

“What occurs on this base is none of your concern, boyo, I am the authority here, not some jumped up captain who ferries around wealthy scientists. If I were you I’d get back in that flyer of yours and leave Messor Base.”

Folkard smiled at this. Miss Annabelle was right; there was something unusual going on, something that Blayney wished to keep hidden. Folkard sat down. He was going nowhere until the man gave a full account of himself. Besides which, there were minerals on this asteroid that would be of immeasurable help to Grant and his efforts on Earth.

“This is what is going to happen, Mister Blayney, you will tell me the whereabouts of Fontaine, and also what is so secretive that you wish us off this base. And if I am not satisfied with your story, I will have you removed from your position.” For a moment he allowed Blayney to stew under his glare, before he looked away and picked up the picture on the desk. “I’m sure your fellows will not look down on you when you return to Wales.”

Finally Blayney snapped. “I don’t know what you think your game is, Matheson, but you’re playing against the wrong man here!” Blayney leaned forward, his brown eyes speaking of fury, and also worry. This was a man with something to hide if ever Folkard had seen one. “Just who do you bloody well think you are? I do not need to explain myself to you.”

“Very well.” Folkard got to his feet, and smiled politely. “I have given you an opportunity, and you have squandered it. When we next meet, you shall understand a…”

The door to Blayney’s office flew open and a miner who could have been no more than twenty rushed in, blood on his clothes, his hair wild and wet. No, Folkard realised, as the boy drew nearer, it was not sweat or water, but more blood.

“What the deuce?”

A look of horror swept across Blayney’s face. And something else. It was the look of a man who knew his world was about to collapse around him.

“Boss, they’re coming! We tried to stop them, but they’re right behind me!”

Blayney darted around his desk, grabbing the young man by his shoulder, verily shaking him. “How? You were supposed to take care of it, not lead them here! Where are the others?”

“Dead, they’re all dead. Those things tore them apart!” The boy looked at Blayney wildly. “I’m sorry, but they’re…animals! I thought if I got you more meat you’d be pleased, but I didn’t realise… I’m sorry.”

Blayney released the young man with disgust and turned on Folkard. “Now we’ll see if your bite is as good as that bark of yours, butty.”

Folkard frowned, surprised at the mounting aggression in Blayney’s eyes. “What the devil is going on? Who’s coming?”

“The horned beasts of hell, that’s who!”

Chapter Seven

“The Battle of Occator Six”

1.

ARACHNIDA. ARANEAE. CLASS and order of air-breathing joint-legged invertebrates, otherwise known as spiders. Arnaud was no entomologist and many would argue that arachnids weren’t insects, but right now all Arnaud could think was unrepeatable.

These were white. They were many. His terror was no less than if he’d faced a single giant. In a sense, these were worse. He could already imagine them crawling over his skin. They came down, hanging on thin threads. One landed on the web and…hesitated. The others waited. Although the question of why moved through his mind, gratitude for the reprieve and the horror of what he still faced tore into him. He had no defence against these creatures. They would crawl over his face, into his hair, find the gaps in his clothing. If their bites were poisonous he was already dead. Even if they weren’t, death could come in numbers. He’d be able to shut his eyes, close his mouth, but they could invade his ears, his nose. It was all Arnaud could do to keep from shuddering.

The spider wasn’t close enough to examine truly so he couldn’t tell whether it had eight eyes, but it seemed to have far more legs. Technically, someone like Nathanial would likely argue this was no arachnid. Arnaud didn’t care how a scientist would define the thing, it still terrified him.

As slowly and carefully as he could, he tried to drag the blade through more of the threads. He was aware of the single spider now moving towards him but he didn’t let himself think about it. He worked steadily trying to concentrate on haste over speed. More threads broke and his weight shifted. The spider moved forwards and now Arnaud could see it. Two large eyes at the front and a strong… What was the word? Chel… Chelicerae. That was it. The mouth parts, which included the fangs. As crazy as it was, Arnaud examined it as he cut almost analytically. He was wide awake, his body zinging with adrenaline. His mind was screaming. The only way he could keep calm was to analyse.

Spiders weren’t pack hunters—he seemed to recall reading that somewhere—as they were cannibals. Buffalo weren’t. Why couldn’t the logic of this place work like that on Earth? He’d have given just about anything to see these things turn on each other.

Distracting his mind worked to ward off his panic, until he had extracted the right side of his body. Now he needed to cut the left. The moment he reached over the thing sprang at him. It landed on the back of his hand and that was almost enough to make him scream. When it bit, the pain was so terrible he couldn’t even think, let alone react to it.

2.

PANDEMONIUM! IT WAS a twenty minute walk from the infirmary to Blayney’s office, made even longer by the failure of Annabelle’s leg to work properly. During the long walk she had told Nathanial all about Koivunen’s attack, and the subsequent rescue by a German miner called Wendt, and the damage Koivunen had done to her leg. Nathanial determined that he now owed the Fin two lumps, one for the leg, and one for Annabelle. As if she had not been through enough in the last six months.

But it looked as if Koivunen was the least of their worries. Miners were rushing all around them, most of them carrying some kind of tool—everything from pickaxes to drill bits. And all wielding them like they were weapons. In the last year Nathanial had seen a readiness for battle on several occasions.

He stopped one of the miners, and recognised Zachery Flint. “What’s going on, man?”

Flint pulled away. “We’re under attack! Every able bodied man is ordered to report to section Occator Six.”

“Under attack by whom?” Annabelle asked, dodging out of the way of a group of mean looking miners. She watched them go, then glanced at Nathanial. He knew that look in her eyes. She was almost looking forward to getting involved.

“Beasts from hell itself,” Flint said, “the boss is at Occator Six now. I suggest you join us, Brooker, that is if you don’t mind a bit of blood on your hands.”

“I have had enough blood on my hands for one life, thank you.”

Flint looked him up and down. “I doubt that, toffs like you wouldn’t know the meaning of hard work. Why don’t you run back to your flyer with the lady here? Reckon you’ll be safe there. At least your captain knows to get involved when he’s needed.”

Nathanial supposed he should have felt offended by the accusation, but he knew it was merely a consequence of his cover. What did any of the men on Messor Base know of Nathanial Stone, and the sacrifices he had made to keep the Empire safe? Would they even care? He doubted it.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a tugging of his arm. “Nathanial, we should help.”

“Of course we should, but your leg…”

“Will suffice.”

Nathanial sighed. “Very well, the adventure never ends. Do you know where this Occator Six is?”

“I do not, but I think if we follow that man we will find out.”

Nathanial watched Flint’s retreating back and got that sinking feeling again. Once more, it seemed, they were about to get involved in events which had little to do with them. He really would have to step out of this life at some point soon.

3.

ORDERS WERE BEING given when they arrived, a crowd of miners being moved into position by Blayney while up near the front of the corridor Folkard was commanding a diminishing group of miners. Most of the miners were shorter than Nathanial and from his vantage point he got a good look at the enemy.

At first he thought they were bulls, but looking closer he saw they were more akin to buffalos—water buffalos if he wasn’t mistaken. They stood on their hind legs, their skin dark and thick. The ones at the nearest edge of the tunnel, opened into the corridor by a hatch that had virtually been torn off its hinges, had slashes and cuts, dark red blood on display, but the miners didn’t seem to be stopping them. Indeed many of the miners were either dead or lay dying on the floor, spears and knives embedded deep into them. Despite Folkard’s best efforts to contain them, the buffalo creatures were pushing their way forward.

Nathanial was not a strategist, and he knew he had no head for military thinking, but it seemed clear to him that keeping the creatures bottlenecked in the tunnel was only going to last for so long. But, of course, there was little else that could be done. The corridor itself was narrow, and they were being pushed back bit by bit, each inch costing them the life of at least one miner. He looked around. What could he add? Just another body carrying a useless weapon.

He caught Blayney’s eye. The man was talking to one of his miners. He beckoned Nathanial over. “Professor, I need you to go with Wendt here, we’re going to blow this corridor, bring the whole thing down on them.”

Now Nathanial understood. They had no intention of keeping the creatures back, Folkard and the miners were merely a diversion, attempting to hold them at bay while Blayney blew the corridor.

“Anything I can do,” Nathanial agreed.

Blayney noticed Annabelle, who was even now retrieving a weapon from a dying man who had been pulled from the front line. “And get your sister out of here. This is no place for womenfolk!”

Nathanial nodded knowingly. “Would that I could,” he said, then looked at Wendt. “Dynamite then?”

The German miner grinned at him. Without another word the two men hared off. Nathanial did not give Annabelle another thought for he knew she was quite capable of defending herself. Besides which, he hoped she would show Blayney a thing or two about womenfolk that he didn’t know.

As they ran, Nathanial said; “Thank you, for saving my sister.”

Wendt glanced at Nathanial, smiling. “She is remarkable.”

That she was. “Do we even know why these creatures are attacking? Or where they came from?”

The look on Wendt’s face said it all. He knew the answer to both questions, but he was not at liberty to say. It was a pity, but by the time they returned with the dynamite Nathanial was certain he’d get the truth out of Wendt. Seemed to be a good and honourable chap, and Nathanial could not help but think that this attack was the consequence of the actions of less honourable men.

4.

FOLKARD WAS STILL not convinced Blayney would hold his end of the plan, and if he did then how much time would he give the men to get out of the corridor? He would have preferred to be handling the deployment of the explosives himself, but he trusted Blayney at the head of the defensive position even less. Although Folkard was certain Blayney deserved to be here, fighting these things off. Who knows, maybe he would be one of the dead miners by now? There was no doubt in Folkard’s mind that Blayney was responsible for all this.

It was his experience that natives did not attack without cause.

Another miner fell, the bull-like creature snapping his neck with its large hands. “Morgan, get him out of here!” Folkard ordered, and the short heliograph operator brushed forward to pull the dead man away. Several miners around him took up hacking and slashing at the creatures to make sure little harm came to Morgan.

This was useless. Unless Blayney set those charges soon there’d be no one in Messor Base to protect. Once again they were forced back, as more of the bull creatures surged forward, spears ripping into the miners at the front.

Folkard glanced back at Mister Fenn, who was moving more miners into position. They needed a show of force. He didn’t know how intelligent these creatures were, but he hoped they were as frightened of loud noises as their Earth counterparts.

“Fenn, here!”

The seaman looked over at his captain and forced his way through the miners. “Sir?” he asked, barely having room for a salute.

“Are you armed?”

Fenn looked down at the iron bar he held, but pulled out his revolver.

“Of course you are,” Folkard said with a smile. He would never have selected Fenn for this mission had he not been fully trained. “Let’s see if we can slow these creatures down a bit, shall we?”

With a nod both men aimed their guns and fired. Two clean shots and two of the bull creatures dropped. For a moment the rest of them stopped. Folkard was not an expert on the expressions of beasts of burden, but he felt sure he saw alarm in their dark eyes. Grunts and hisses came from the creatures. He was about to order the miners to push them back, when he felt it again.

The Heart.

He had to go through that tunnel.

He shook his head. Now was not the time, but what else could he do? “Fenn, try and hold the line, I’m going in!”

The seaman looked at his captain as if he were mad, and for all Folkard knew maybe he was. How many other men listened to the voices in their heads?

He raised his gun and fired again, and with each shot one of the creatures dropped, but their alarm had abated. Now they simply surged forward with increased fury, making sure to steer clear of the man with the deadly weapon. Folkard couldn’t worry about the miners now, although he feared their resistance to the creatures was waning.

It couldn’t matter to him. He had to heed the Heart.

5.

HE KNEW IT! That damned captain. Blayney knew he couldn’t be trusted. He just wanted to be at the front so he could snoop himself, uncover the secrets he was so interested in.

Blayney would show him. He removed his own revolver—it had belonged to his father, a Colt Single Action Peacemaker, one he kept in good working order, and pushed his way through the miners. Up until now he had needed to be careful as he carried it; as was typical of the type, the revolver had a touchy hammer, just the slightest movement would set it off, and to that end it only ever carried five bullets, the empty cylinder safe against the hammer. But such safety measures were not needed now.

It was like walking against a tide. The miners were being forced back, the horned beasts winning out through sheer brute force. But Blayney was not to be beaten. He raised his gun, but before he could use it a miner was slammed into him, knocked back by the force of a particularly brutal buffalo. The gun fell from his grasp.

Any chance of finding the gun was gone. The buffalo was almost upon him. Blayney looked up at it in horror.

“Come on then, boyo! Do your bloody worst, it won’t bring your children ba…!” His words were cut short by the splatter of dark thick blood hitting his face.

The creature dropped, half of its face missing. Blayney turned around, and found Brooker’s sister standing behind him, his gun held firmly in her hand.

“Fall back!” she said with such force that the miners around her did not hesitate. Blayney could only look at her in shock.

He had been saved by a woman. A woman!

6.

MON DIEU. HE hadn’t known such pain could come from such a small injury. He suffered what he could only describe as instant frostbite. The flesh around the bite lost colour. Ice seeped through his veins. A metallic taste filled his mouth; he’d bitten his own tongue!

As soon as awareness came back to him, he shook the spider off, but it fell only a short way and landed on his leg. Again, it rushed up his body and bit, but this time was defeated. Thank goodness for the tough fabric of the miner’s jacket and for the garment being long enough. If the spider had stayed on his leg its bite might have penetrated, but it was already moving. It seemed to work out it had bitten his hand and that was where it headed. With a yell, Arnaud twisted and somehow he managed to crush it, but he had little time left. Other spiders were dropping, and now he struggled to cling to the spearhead. The pain had eased into numbness, but his hand was stiffening.

Another spider landed. Arnaud tried to lift the blade. The spider crept along a thread. Sweat beaded his forehead. Another spider dropped beside him. His hand was shaking. The spider sprung…

Bang.

The sound of a shot made Arnaud start, but instead of worrying about the ringing in his ears, Arnaud spared hardly any time glancing at his saviour, sawing at the threads. His weight shifted. Another report of gunfire, another exploded spider. The creatures seemed to hesitate before another tried its luck.

Maybe there was another shot, maybe there wasn’t. Arnaud couldn’t hear well enough to be certain whether what he heard was reality or imagination. The threads parted, he fell, landed on his feet and stumbled forwards. A hand grabbed him, tugging him along, and he staggered out of the clearing, then kept going until that same grip pulled him around and made him stop.

Arnaud went to his knees, gasping, cradling his injured hand, amazed to see he still gripped the spearhead. White threads dangled from it. Were there any spiders on him? He shuddered at the thought, had not the energy to look. If he felt another bite, he’d know soon enough, but he believed he had escaped.

Sound gradually returned, muffled but increasing. He could hear his own breathing and that of the man beside him. He looked up. A tall man, bearded face, with kind eyes, stared back at him, his gun still in his hand. There was something about the way the man appraised him.

“Merci,” Arnaud said, “you found me in the stick of time.”

A dim recognition crossed the man’s features. “Doctor Fontaine, I presume?” he asked, and Arnaud nodded. “Bit of a sticky situation you found yourself in back there.”

7.

IT WAS OVER. At least, by the time Nathanial and Wendt returned, it might as well have been. The buffalo creatures had forced the miners deep into the corridor, and now it was almost a free for all. The miners were doing their best, but the buffalos continued, regardless of the bits of mining tools that happened to be sticking out of their hides.

Nathanial looked around. They couldn’t plant the dynamite now, too many of the miners would have been killed, including Annabelle. She was mid-way in the corridor, standing back to back with Jack, both fighting for their lives, while a further scan of the corridor showed no sign of Folkard. Dead bodies littered the floor, mostly human, but he couldn’t tell if Folkard was one of them.

Jack slammed the butt of his pistol into the weak point between one of the buffalos eyes. The creature staggered back, but it was not deterred for long. The distraction was all Fenn needed to retrieve a drill head from the floor, which he then rammed deep into the creature’s right eye. That, at last, dropped the brute.

Blayney rushed over to Nathanial and Wendt. “Get the dynamite in place!” he yelled.

Nathanial was dimly aware of Wendt moving away, but his attention was taken up by the sight of another miner backing against the wall. He was barely a man, blood covering his clothes and face. Nathanial looked around for a weapon. There, on the floor near Annabelle, a gun!

Nathanial forced his way through the fighting, but he was felled by the weight of a dead body thrown against him. He tried to pull himself back up, but stopped when his eyes alighted on the scene before him.

The young man was being torn, literally, limb from limb by two of the buffalos. Nathanial could do nothing but watch the brutal act. The boy—Nathanial could hardly call him a man—screamed, but as one of the bulls wrenched his head from his body, the scream died out into a gurgle.

As bile rose into his mouth, Nathanial’s analytical mind wondered why. Why had that boy been the victim of such an attack, when all the other dead miners were left, largely, intact?

8.

“THAT BITE LOOKS nasty.”

It was but it didn’t seem to be growing any worse. Arnaud wrapped a rag around it for now. “And you found me, how?”

“I didn’t.” Folkard hesitated. “You know more about this mission than I am comfortable with, and will likely learn anything of which you are not already aware from the professor if not I. I was following…” Folkard broke off. “Tell me, do you happen to have any minerals about your person?”

Arnaud couldn’t hide his surprise. He knew he was frowning but he lifted the bag over his head and set about showing Folkard some of the samples. The captain’s hand went straight to one roll of cloth and then another. Unerringly, he chose those that contained the brown stones.

“These are what we seek.” The captain looked around. “Do you know where there are more?”

“Nearby? Oui.”

“You would save me a great deal of time and trouble showing me where, especially as then we may need to fight our way out of here.”

Arnaud felt a little lost in the conversation but the sooner he did as Folkard asked the sooner he could be away from this place. He set off.

“Nathe… Pardonnez-moi. Professor Stone is here? You would not lie to me, non?” Fine so maybe the way he phrased the question did sound peculiar, but these British. So reserved. Did Folkard have to look at him like that? “Forgive me. I have…been through much.”

“Of that I have no doubt, but as I have told you, when you see the others do try to remember that we are using aliases.”

“Mais oui.” Arnaud tried to imagine calling Nathanial William and couldn’t. To Arnaud, he would always be Nathanial.

9.

“THESE WILL BE sufficient?” For some reason Folkard wanted these minerals, the more the better, if Arnaud wasn’t mistaken.

“I would like to carry more but these will suffice if needs be. They will do for now, and you’ve certainly led me to a rich deposit. One not all that far from the entrance, conveniently. Should we have the opportunity to return that is good to know.”

“The fighting increases.”

Folkard looked up from where he was stuffing some of the largest stones in his pockets. “Yes. We must move.”

“What began this?” Arnaud was partly talking to himself, but Folkard took it as a genuine question.

“I can only answer that in part. The first I knew of trouble was when one of Blayney’s men dashed into the office interrupting a discussion. He was ranting about horned beasts from hell.”

“Can we blame them?” When Folkard shot him a look, Arnaud grimaced. “I believe I may have the answer as to why they are fighting. Why they…turned on me.”

Weighed down with even more minerals—Arnaud refused to give up the other samples no matter how unimportant Folkard considered them to be—he felt the exertion more keenly, but within a few minutes they were at a point where they could look and see…

A pile of dead youngsters, one with the pickaxe that had taken its life buried in its skull.

He pointed. “Enfants. Children.”

Folkard blinked, clearly not understanding. “Well, I suppose any animal would protect its young.”

“Non! They are not animals, Folkard. Not as you mean.”

“Another race?”

“Oui. One not as advanced as some, but yes. I call them Bubalus. I thought they were defending their land, but they were in truth…protéger…fighting for their young.”

“We must get back and tell the others.”

That they must, but how could he ask Minos for forgiveness? If he could think of a way… Mon dieu but there wasn’t one. It hardly mattered whether these men had done this thing out of maliciousness or ignorance—he could never explain this as a mistake. The Bubalus were unpleasant and brutal in many ways, still had many years of development before they became civilised. They were neither men nor true beasts, but many from Earth would never understand the distinction. He wasn’t even sure he understood it himself.

Chapter Eight

“Blood Sacrifice”

1.

BLAYNEY WAS GOOD at giving orders and shoving people around, but when it came to being in the thick of things he wasn’t much use to anyone. He couldn’t even shoot his revolver properly. Annabelle had it in her hand once again, while Blayney stood behind her, and continued to interfere with the work Nathanial and Herr Wendt were doing. She didn’t like the thought of sacrificing so many, but she could see there was little option in that regard.

It puzzled her why these animals were attacking so viciously. There was something driving them forward, that much was clear. They had a purpose. No one attacked with such tenacity unless they were after something specific.

She was worried about Folkard. He had gone into the enemy’s territory, a place beyond Messor Base that she had heard nothing about. Not even a whisper in the whole time she’d been on the base. She wondered what would compel him to do such a…

Of course!

It had to be the Heart. If that was so, she trusted he was safe. The Heart had its own agenda, of that she was sure, and having Folkard killed would not serve that goal well. Fortunately Folkard had left Mister Fenn behind, and the engineer was doing a valiant job of rallying the miners in defence of the base. More so than anything Blayney had done so far. She could see Fenn having a long and distinguished naval career, assuming he survived this siege.

She was glad to see that Doctor Mason was not in the fray; they would need all the medical help they could get when this was over, and perhaps Nathanial would get to use his recent research from Blackwood’s. Miners were falling everywhere. There was only about five feet of the corridor left under their control, soon the buffalo creatures would force their way into the base-proper, and when that happened they might as well give up. The creatures would rampage through the base and no amount of mining equipment would stop them.

Annabelle checked the gun. Four down, so just one bullet left. She would have to make it count. She looked up and saw a miner struggling before her. Broad he may have been, but he wouldn’t last long in hand-to-hand combat with the buffalo.

“Hitto vie peto!”

Annabelle’s blood froze at the sound of that snarling voice. Eero Koivunen! When Blayney had said he wanted every able man he really meant it. For a moment Annabelle considered aiming the gun at him, but she fought against it. No, she would not be a cold blooded killer. But, then, Koivunen had tried to…

She raised the gun.

And watched as the buffalo tore at Koivunen’s neck with its large jaws. She knew she could pull the trigger, save the Fin with a single shot, but she didn’t. Instead she stood there watching him being mauled to death.

2.

“WE HAVE TO get down there.”

Past the marauding wildebeests. For one moment, Arnaud almost wished he had woken up to what constituted a normal day on Ceres. In a cave. Fetching water. Slicing up snails. He felt too tired for this. Although he had warned Folkard of the ill-effects of the stones, he, too, had picked up a large quantity at Folkard’s urging, necessity outweighing common sense, but he was beginning to slow. When Folkard struck up conversation, he was grateful.

“It is my experience that the locals do not go to war without reason.”

“The death of their children is not enough?”

“It is, but this…” Folkard gestured ahead. The main battle was not far off now. “I…have a bad feeling.” He went on to explain that when Callaghan had burst in—Arnaud had identified him by his description—screaming about beasts from hell, he had also referenced procuring more meat.

It took a few seconds for Arnaud’s sluggish brain to absorb the information and then he felt as if he would vomit. “I recall some…enticing smells from the canteen though I never had opportunity to partake.” Thank goodness. “Do you think they realised?”

“That they were slaughtering young, or that these creatures were in any form intelligent?” Folkard shrugged. “Who’s to know?” He took one look at Arnaud. “I feel rather sickened myself, Doctor. I can only imagine how you feel having lived with them these past weeks.”

He must look worse than he thought if Folkard was about to deduce so much from one glance. Arnaud chose not to tell Folkard that the Bubalus had eaten men. It seemed a more fitting end than he had previously considered, but he did not know how the captain would react. He was sure Nathanial would be more understanding…perhaps.

Thoughts of strategy escaped him. When Folkard told him to keep close, Arnaud followed. The world he’d lived in for the last few weeks was strange enough, but now, these events were bizarre.

“We will never break through.” Folkard drew up short, the tone in his voice conveying so many emotions at once.

“Oui, we will.”

Folkard shot him a look. Arnaud reached into his pockets and took a stone in each hand. “These are all the passage we need. Trust me.”

“I only hope you are right.”

Arnaud hoped so, too. Either they would make it through or die in the attempt. Only one thought bolstered his resolve. Somewhere in the midst of this mêlée was Nathanial…and the enchanting mademoiselle, of course.

3.

TIME WAS UP. Almost.

“Annabelle, get behind me!” Nathanial shouted over the noise of miners dying.

She glanced back at him, indecision in her eyes. She still held the Peacemaker, safe behind the few remaining miners, but that position was soon to change.

“Now!”

Surprise shot across her face, but she did as she was told. Blayney looked around, and noticed Annabelle retreat. He too stepped back, keeping to the far side of the corridor, as far from the dynamite as possible.

Nathanial had been right. Blayney was a man without any sense of honour. Hungry for the power he held while in charge of Messor Base, but with little consideration for those under his charge. On the way to collect the dynamite and detonators, Nathanial had tried to cajole some information out of Wendt, but the German would say little, other than to confirm Nathanial’s suspicions that things were not as they seemed on Ceres. Only Blayney could give the answers that were needed.

When this was all over, Nathanial had every intention of getting them. First Arnaud, and now possibly Folkard, too… Blayney had a lot to answer for.

“Bereit?”

Nathanial looked across at Wendt. He really should learn more German, but nonetheless he nodded, assuming he understood correctly. It was time to end this.

He wanted to call Jack back; he would miss the man’s conversation, but Jack was too important in keeping the buffalos contained.

He wound the final piece of wire to the terminal on the plunger, and looked up. He paused. The buffalos at the front seemed to stop, for the moment ignoring the miners who continued to hit at them. As one they lifted their snouts and sniffed. They turned, their dark eyes seeking out…

Nathanial looked back. At the lone man standing there.

Blayney. The buffalos were looking directly at him.

“Oh my God, it’s him,” Nathanial whispered, “it’s all because of him.”

4.

MANY BROKE AWAY as soon as they became aware of the minerals, but they were mostly the smaller creatures, the females and younger males. The Bubalus growled, but still gave ground, though reluctantly. Arnaud had so far not figured out how they detected the presence, but as the stones had a physical effect on him, maybe they had a similar effect on the Bubalus. He could well understand why the Bubalus wouldn’t want to be near anything that weakened them. Those tempted to rush him and Folkard were wary of the sight of Folkard’s revolver. Clearly, they had learned of guns.

The noise started to die down but the tension grew ever thicker if that were possible. Despite their dislike of the stones the Bubalus would not yield for long. Arnaud raised one hand in the air, holding one of the largest samples he had found, and shouted. “Minos!”

All noise faded to silence. A strange hush descended and Arnaud moved through the gathering, Folkard beside him. He still couldn’t see through to the corridor though.

“Who’s there?” A voice broke through, hesitant.

“Captain Matheson and Doctor Fontaine,” Folkard shouted back.

A ripple of, Arnaud wasn’t sure what, seemed to go through the men ahead. There were murmurs. The Bubalus responded with grunts. The tension again began to mount.

Arnaud cried out. “It’s Callaghan they want. He killed their young.” He wasn’t sure he was happy handing a man over, but he at least needed the men in the corridor to understand. He edged closer. If he could not find a solution, he wanted very much for him and Folkard to be on the other side when things got worse. He watched for signs that one might rush him. When he’d advanced several more steps and could find a way through, he said; “They were using these creatures for meat. They want Callaghan.”

“Ah…Arnaud.” Folkard touched him on the arm. “I do believe we are standing in all that remains of Callaghan.”

Not wanting to, but having no choice, Arnaud looked down. Merde!

5.

SHE’D HEARD THE names, they all had. She just couldn’t believe it. Annabelle looked for Nathanial, but although she could see the top of his head and identify him by his height and ginger hair, he wasn’t looking her way and others prevented her from having a clear view. Losing Arnaud had been one death too many, though they were all that, but especially after…Edwin. The look in Nathanial’s eyes, the expression on his face… The memory of those pains would not go away and she longed to see joy instead of devastation on his face again, but they were not safe yet.

Arnaud? Was it possible? Folkard would not lie, but maybe he had made a mistake.

“It’s Callaghan they want. He killed their young.”

She almost cried out when she heard that accent, but anger boiled her blood and she rounded on Blayney. The only thing that prevented her from screeching in his face was that she didn’t know what would set off another attack.

“You showed him Arnaud’s remains. You said…”

“They were using these creatures for meat. They want Callaghan,” Arnaud said.

She would be sick. She had eaten… No. She would not faint and if she needed to be ill, she would do that later, when and if there was time. Something must have shown on her face for Blayney flinched back.

“You knew.” She barely whispered but Blayney stared at her and she saw the guilt in his eyes. The look of a trapped animal.

She was aware of the crowd parting, of Arnaud coming forward. She looked for Nathanial but to her surprise he hung back. His gaze was set on Arnaud, but it was as if he had no faith in what his eyes told him. Arnaud glanced at Nathanial, a more direct look, but then turned away and faced the buffalo.

“Minos?”

Unbelievably, Arnaud seemed to be talking to one of the creatures. “There is too much loss on both sides.”

In reply, those dark eyes moved, studying Arnaud from the hand he held up in the air displaying some kind of rock, to his jacket. The buffalo seemed interested in several strange white threads which were stuck to the outside of Arnaud’s coat. Arnaud waited. The creature looked at others around it. A strange, silent communication seemed to take place.

“Minos? What will it take to stop this?” Arnaud asked.

The buffalo pointed straight at Blayney, and then made a gesture with its hand to its chest and then to its lips. For a second it looked as if Arnaud would close his eyes, but then he took a breath. “They will leave us alone if Blayney dies.”

Blayney barked out a disbelieving laugh. For a second he seemed sure of himself, then his confidence wavered. No one was moving. She saw anger set in. His expression hardened.

“Wendt, blow them back to hell!”

Still no one moved.

“Wendt?” Blayney sounded lost, as if he might cry.

Something about this did not make sense; how could these creatures know Blayney was responsible? “Doctor Fontaine…why him?”

“Raison?” For a moment Arnaud did not seem to understand, but then something lit up in his eyes. “The blood, oui!” He pointed at Blayney. “Le sang de L’Enfant!”

Annabelle’s French was rusty, but she knew enough to understand Arnaud’s meaning. “You are quite sure?”

He barely hesitated, and she was certain it was more a case of knowing what would happen next than because he harboured any doubt.

“Oui.”

She had one shot left.

She lifted the gun and shot Blayney in the head.

The body dropped.

Annabelle lowered her hand. It had been so quick, Blayney probably hadn’t even realised what was about to happen. She stared down at him. “That’s more mercy than you showed their young,” she told his corpse and then stepped back.

Everyone copied her action, lining the corridor walls. The creatures flowed in, picked up Blayney and then, on the way out, gathered what remained of Callaghan.

One paused in the entrance, turned back to look at Arnaud, the same one he had spoken to, she believed. It made another quite different gesture with its hands. Fingers entwined making a fist around a spear with both hands, bowing to tap both hands and spear to its forehead. She had no idea what that meant but Arnaud seemed to understand. He nodded, returned the gesture with only a rock in his hands, and then it left.

6.

IT TOOK OVER a day to restore some kind of order to Messor Base; Occator Six had been sealed off until the authorities had been informed and a decision was made on how to deal with the Bubalus. In the meantime Folkard had given temporary command of the base to Lester Gully, since he was the senior archaeologist and had plenty of administration work under his belt—Nathanial also thought appointing him was Folkard’s way of shaking up the status quo on Messor Base, since most of the miners regarded the doctor with a degree of derision. Gully had immediately enlisted Wendt as his liaison; he was aware of the difficulties he would be facing. It seemed to be a good arrangement and even now, as Nathanial sat on the steps of the Esmeralda’s airlock door, it looked like some kind of order had been restored.

The base itself was quieter than usual, depleted at it was of so many of the miners who had been enjoying a break from their duties on the asteroids. Work continued out there, while a skeleton crew was assembled from various serritor details.

Late last night Folkard and Annabelle had been found debating what was to be done. Nathanial tried to stay neutral, but he listened with rapt attention. Folkard was all for informing the British government and subjugating the Bubalus, after all Messor Base was a British instillation and the Empire’s interests had to be served. Annabelle was very much against that idea; the only reason the Bubalus attacked was because of the despicable actions of Blayney and a select number of miners. Slaughtering the young just to get a richer menu! Until that had transpired the Bubalus had kept to themselves; for years no one on Messor Base had even known there was an indigenous intelligent species on Ceres. In her opinion they should simply be left alone again.

Ultimately, with a little intervention from Nathanial, they agreed on a compromise. Folkard would write up a report and have it delivered to Syrtis Major; Sovereign was due to stop at Mars. Fortunately it was nearly in alignment with Ceres and so they would make planetfall in a little more than a month, if Folkard recalled the navigation tables correctly, and Routledge, the governor of the British colony, could then pass the report on to Captain Theobald, who would return it the Admiralty. Then it would be left in the hands of better men to decide the fate of Messor Base. It seemed like a good arrangement, and that morning Orlondo Quintana had agreed to take the report with him, as he was returning to Mars to insist on another chance to explore Phobos. Before he went, Nathanial had asked Folkard to recommend that Quintana be introduced to Grant and his team on Earth. The link between Vulcan, Phobos and Lunar needed further investigation.

And now they were all set to leave and continue on their mission. Folkard and Jack were inside Esmeralda preparing the flyer, while Annabelle was elsewhere on the base, saying goodbye to her protector, Chauncy Wendt. Nathanial remained on the steps, watching life return to the loading bay, and waited.

He was still overcome by the return of Arnaud and had found himself quite unable to express his happiness at seeing the Frenchman alive. A look had passed between them, once Minos took away Blayney’s body, but the subsequent commotion and restoration of order gave them little chance to reacquaint themselves with each other. During the course of the day, Folkard had let it be known that he had fully briefed Arnaud on their mission, and Arnaud had readily agreed. “A little too excitable about the whole thing, if you ask me,” Folkard had pointed out, which, for some obscure reason, caused Nathanial’s heart to jump into his throat.

He glanced over at the hatchway leading out of the loading bay at the sound of two familiar voices. A large trunk held between them, Annabelle and Arnaud appeared, a worn leather satchel slung over Arnaud’s shoulders. They were chatting fervently, much laughter passing between them. Nathanial stood up quickly. He should probably offer to help.

Arnaud noticed this abrupt movement and for a moment their eyes locked. A drop of sweat beaded on Nathanial’s brow. With a smile he turned and entered the flyer.

Epilogue

1.

TO EAVESDROP WAS not the ladylike thing to do, so Annabelle slowed her pace. The Esmeralda 2 was just about to leave Messor Base and she couldn’t say she was sorry to go. She had noted how the men looked at her after the shooting of Blayney, with a mixture of shock, outrage, and maybe she had seen some disgust from a few. Nathanial and Arnaud had looked…sorrowful but that had not lasted. Their expressions had changed to quiet respect—she hoped they did not begrudge her that sentiment in any way.

Folkard looked at her with understanding. She supposed that made sense; if anyone, he understood the need for what she did. She was, however, pleased to catch a few words exchanged between Nathanial and the captain as she drew near. She overhead Nathanial give thanks to Folkard for rescuing Arnaud. The two men shook hands. The exchange was a little stiff, but it was good to see that Nathanial might have begun some form of healing, and show some good feeling towards the captain again. Annabelle inclined her head to Folkard, who excused himself and went to oversee the next leg of their journey.

Nathanial also excused himself but she had a feeling his abrupt departure was owing to a case of urgency to be elsewhere than because of anything she had done. He had thought his friend lost and now he was found. Perhaps Nathanial would even let his hair down and let Arnaud ply him with a little cognac tonight—a bottle of which Mister Quintana had presented Arnaud with as he left.

It delighted Annabelle to see some light return to Nathanial’s eyes, and it suited her to be alone for a while. She had much to think on. Every stage in their journey constituted a beginning and an end of sorts. The past made a person who they were. No good or bad moment should be forgotten, ignored. Yet sometimes the past should be put to rest, and sometimes it should not.

Maybe there were things she still could not recall, but much of her memory was now restored.

She knew she would never thank Koivunen—how could she?—but his actions had opened up to her a memory she had forgot. A face. That of a little girl with dark hair…

2.

THE LAB DOOR was open when he returned from the control deck. He stopped there for a moment, surprised to see Arnaud struggling to fit his trunk underneath the cot at the far end of the room. Already he had emptied some of its contents and Nathanial’s lab was a mess of instruments and knick-knacks. He supposed he would have to get used to that, and, with a smile, he realised he didn’t mind that at all.

It was just good to have Arnaud here at last. There was simply so much they needed to talk about; that Nathanial had to tell Arnaud. Would he understand, or even care?

Arnaud noticed Nathanial standing there. “Annabelle suggested we ‘bunk together’. I do not think Captain Folkard would like me to be in his room.”

Nathanial glanced up the gangway towards the control deck. “No, I don’t suppose he would.”

Arnaud placed a finger in his mouth and looked around the lab. “Not much space, non? What to do? I have no sleeping bag.” He coughed abruptly, and looked up with the most pathetic expression Nathanial had ever seen.

“You are unwell?”

“Oui. A virus from the Ceres underground, I think. Ne vous inquiétez pas,” Arnaud said, waving away Nathanial’s concern. “No snuggling,” he added, with a slight smile.

Nathanial shook his head. There was a time when he would have responded to that, but instead he smiled. Always the same Arnaud.

“I think we shall have a lot to discuss, then,” Nathanial said and stepped into the lab, feeling better than he had in a long while.

Things were not perfect with Annabelle, but they were on the right path to healing the wounds, and he had made his peace with Folkard. Surely he still held some animosity because of Edwin’s death, but the captain had brought Arnaud back to him—from death in some respects. That went a long way.

He closed the door behind him. It was finally time to move forward again.

The End

Acknowledgements

First and foremost I have to thank Sharon for joining me on this one; I simply could not have done it at such short notice without her help. On top of that, thanks go to those friends who allowed me to steal their names (or at least create ancestors for them)—Joseph Quintana, Andrew Fenn, Charles Wendt, Chris Wright, Daniel Gully, Phillip Archer, Sean Davey and Ethan Horwell. And extra thanks to both Oscar Kaski and Marcus Gilman for Finnish and German translations. Lastly, thanks to Paul Ebbs, without whom I would never have ended up co-authoring with Sharon so soon (it would have happened eventually, though), and writing what has become one of my favourite Space: 1889 scenes yet (I’ll let you all work out which one that is).

Andy Frankham-Allen, 8th October 2012

So, acknowledgements. Firstly, to Andy who seems to have unerring faith in my writing ability. I’m never quite sure whether to feel grateful for his refusal to take no for an answer or irritated, but I’m amazed at what we accomplished at such short notice and so fast. I have to thank Kevin who shares my life—many spouses aren’t as understanding when their partners fill a house with bookshelves instead of furniture, let alone have a desire to write. It’s a more important thank you than many might assume. And also thanks to Anna Pragnell Toal who I still attribute to being one of those responsible for how well I’m writing now. She was there at a turning point, helped me to polish my work to gain that first acceptance. Favourite scenes? In this book I have many. I highly recommend reading them all.

Sharon Bidwell, 9th October 2012