Table of Contents

Copyright

“LEVIATHANS IN THE CLOUDS”

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

I Knew a Real Victorian Adventurer

Space: 1889 & Beyond—Leviathans in the Clouds

By David Parish-Whittaker & Steven Savile

Copyright 2013 by David Parish-Whittaker & Steven Savile

Space: 1889 © & ™ Frank Chadwick 1988, 2013

Cover Design & Art © Lukas Thelin and

Untreed Reads Publishing, 2013

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

Mundus Cerialis

The Forever Journey

A Handful of Dust

Horizons of Deceit

http://www.untreedreads.com

“LEVIATHANS IN THE CLOUDS”

By David Parish-Whittaker

& Steven Savile

Chapter One

1.

It’s hard to sleep, listening to a friend being sick. Nathanial had tried to ignore the gargling sound of Arnaud’s fluid-filled lungs, but stuffing cotton into his ears did little for sleep. While Arnaud would have been the first to protest that he was far from leaving calling cards on death’s doorstep, Nathanial knew the Frenchman was suffering. So he’d fled to the engine room to find peace in smoothly operating machinery and technical discussions with Jack Fenn.

Would that the world outside that microcosm were so easily understood, or as readily dealt with provided one had the proper tools and schematics. A good hour after Fenn had apologised and headed off to sleep, Nathanial found he’d run out of things to adjust. He sat there, watching the Heaviside radiation pulse rhythmically across the main aether manifold that led to the propeller. Twelve seconds for each cycle, repeating.

Near hypnotised, Nathanial imagined he could sense the universe around the propeller, each pulse rippling its way through the aether, like the dots and dashes of a telegraph, singing its existence to eternity. But was eternity listening?

Nathanial stood up, wondering where that foolish notion had burbled up from. Born of fatigue, of course. Time to brave sleep again.

Inside the lab, a single Edison bulb threw crazed shadows across the chaos; in many ways it was really Arnaud’s lab these days. The fellow had a way of moving in and putting his mark on things. Despite the necessity of securing everything in zero-gravity, the geologist had managed to attain what was no doubt to him a comfortable state of clutter. It was as if when they’d left dock, he’d simply thrown restraint nets over assorted piles of notes and apparatus.

Perhaps he had done just that, come to think of it. Despite himself, Nathanial smiled. As for the man himself, Arnaud was wearing nothing but pants, his well-fed frame damp with sweat from the inexplicable heat of the cabin. Had he snuck a stove aboard? But there was no scent of fire, just a sharp metallic tang to the air.

Arnaud cleared his throat, discretely spitting the mess into a spittoon on his workbench. “So hard to take a quiet midnight stroll with shoe magnets clicking away on the floor, n’est ce pas? But I am not thinking that you are out and about simply to stretch your legs.”

“No,” Nathanial said. “I suppose, well, I am concerned about your health.”

Arnaud shrugged elegantly. “This is two of us, then.”

“That, and your damnable coughing was keeping me awake.”

Arnaud chuckled. “Ah, the truth, it hurts. And here I thought you had come to pay your respects to an old comrade in arms in his final hours. But mother always told me to prize honesty in all things. Save love, of course.”

“Love?”

“The mystery is important en l’amour, she would say to me. Makes a child wonder about his parentage, I must admit. Quels que soit. I have something for you to see and congratulate me on.”

“A perfumed letter from a young lady waylaid by your deceptive wiles?”

Arnaud looked amused. “Certainly not. No, someone must tend to my health, given the indifference of my travelling companions.”

“Here now, I was simply being—”

“Humorous, I know.” Arnaud winked. “Stay the course, as les anglais say. Don’t apologise for your wit. I never do.”

“I’ve noticed this, yes.”

Arnaud floated over to a massive armoire and opened it. Inside there were assorted flasks and a wild mass of tubing, all leading from a central alembic. A large Bunsen burner was opened to full bore beneath it, the heat from its flame noticeable even from where Nathanial stood.

“Rather thought I smelled something burning. Can’t be good for your cough, though.”

“Ah, but it will be. Regard!” Arnaud pulled a flask off the top rack. Inside, a floating mass of what looked like quicksilver flattened and expanded with clockwork rhythm.

“Mercury treatment?” Nathanial flushed. “I thought it was good for, well, other illnesses.”

“No worries in that sense, mon ami. You are correct, my malady is more akin to consumption—without the fashionable paleness, alas. But you are in error about what I hold in my hands. This is made from my smelting of some ore I brought back from Hygeia.”

“You’ve been smelting onboard?” Nathanial sniffed the air again. Definitely a metallic scent, but oddly enervating.

“Our illustrious captain doesn’t know, so it is no matter.” Arnaud waved a dismissive hand. “But tell me what you notice about it.”

Nathanial watched the metal as it floated in the middle of its flask. It flattened itself into a lozenge, first lengthwise, then sidewise. The orientation of the pulsation was constant, even when Arnaud rotated the flask.

“It’s responding to something,” Nathanial said.

“Vraiment. Four deformations along as many axes per cycle, with each cycle measuring twelve seconds.”

“The propeller!”

Arnaud nodded happily. “Indeed. Much as iron responding to the magnetism, it is responding to the fluctuations in the luminous aether that cunning device is creating.”

Arnaud was still talking, but Nathanial couldn’t hear him for all the thoughts running through his mind. The implications for future propeller research were astounding, to say the least. Or for general aetheric observation. It wouldn’t take much to sense an aether storm arriving. Lives could be saved. Lives like all those lost on the Peregrine.

That thought brought a pang of guilt that returned him to Arnaud’s words.

“…just as electrical fluid can stimulate the dead leg of a frog, I think.”

“I’m sorry?” Nathanial said. “You have frog legs here?”

Arnaud shook his head sadly. “You were not attending at all, were you? I am not speaking of déjeuner. The vapours of the metal, they have healed my lungs. What isn’t permanently damaged, of course.” He shrugged. “But the coughing is less now, for all that it interrupted your dreams. So I should imagine I have at least half a lung left. Enough for the day to day use, eh?”

“What has this to do with frogs?”

“Frog’s legs. You do remember those experiments? Apply a touch of electricity to them, and they regain the liveliness they had in life, jerking about as if a starved crane were nipping away at their tasty heels. But too much electrical fluid and poom! One very burnt recipient of a lightning bolt. One must have moderation in all things. Or so I am told.”

“And you were burnt on Ceres.”

“Exactement. I flew too close to that sun, and nearly drowned for my efforts. As with magnets and electricity, so is this and…something else. The life force, perhaps?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Invent a less dramatic name if it suits better. But how else to explain its healing? Enough, and perhaps even what I believe to be dead tissue might heal. For that matter, how to explain the prolific life we saw on Ceres, by all account what should be a near lifeless rock?”

“People said that about Luna.” Nathanial considered this. “But perhaps Luna has such ore in it as well. Iron can be found across the Solar System, after all. Why not this?”

“Mais oui. But so far, only on Hygeia. A pity, as I think our reunion with the Bubalus would be less than joyful, should we return. Would have liked to have that other lung of mine back. I am certain I could find use for it. But la. Allow me to take some more vapours. I would like to cough less tonight, and to judge by those circles underneath your eyes, I suspect you desire more sleep.”

With that, Arnaud turned a petcock on the distillation apparatus. It fed a long tube that resembled nothing so much as the end of a hookah. Curling his legs underneath him as he floated in zero gravity, he looked rather like a patron of an opium den. Or perhaps the Caterpillar from that Alice book that the captain liked to read so much, Nathanial decided. It wouldn’t surprise Nathanial at all if Arnaud were to metamorphose into a butterfly, given enough of those vapours. Things had been that odd of late. If anything, their current circumstances were more fantastical than any mythic Wonderland.

Once fastened in the cot, a rare occurrence since he more oft slept on the floor while Arnaud made use of the cot to help his ailment, Nathanial’s thoughts wandered as he began to nod off. He wondered if Arnaud was right about tissue regeneration. It was hardly out of the question, after all. Arnaud had brought up the subject of frogs, and it was well known that tadpoles could regenerate tissue. While no biologist, Nathanial had a vague memory of a monograph on leg regeneration in salamanders. Given the proper stimulation, no doubt it could be induced in other animals, even higher level ones such as humans.

Leg regeneration.

Chapter Two

1.

In space, Annabelle could waltz.

One two three, turn two three, down the passageway. The magnets in her shoes clicked in time to a half-remembered tune she hummed without any real enthusiasm. Dancing should have made her feel better, but all it was doing was reminding her of limitations.

Her mechanical leg was as artful as dear Nathanial could make it, built with that strangely light metal from the ancient cities of Luna, inlaid with brass and teak. It as was lovely as it was ingenious.

And it wasn’t a real leg. She could hear it ticking as it moved with her, storing the energy of her dance steps in its clockwork and spending it with the next twirl. But for all that, it was a dead thing strapped to what remained of her leg. Were she back on Earth, she’d be stumbling through the steps as she tried to maintain her balance. Perhaps with time she’d learn to dance, perhaps even in time to turn around the floor at her wedding. She’d like that. But she still wouldn’t be able to feel the floor.

It was difficult admitting that one had weaknesses. Annabelle had always prided herself on a lack of vanity, as contradictory as that might sound. She had never understood the bustle wearing masses of fluttering femininity she’d see fanning themselves at the society functions she’d occasionally find herself at. Unlike them, she was capable of striding about on her own two feet without the need to cling to anyone’s arm, thank you very much. But now she no longer had both of those feet to stride with. She might find herself quite literally in need of that arm.

Annabelle stopped at the entrance to the greenhouse and stared at the unblinking stars in the perpetual night of space. Crippled or not, she was a long way from simpering and worrying about the latest gossip. She was a long way from anywhere, come to think of it. And she might do well to remember that it wasn’t in a fit of pity that George had agreed to marry her. That particular look in his eyes wasn’t one easily faked. No, at least one man didn’t think of her as damaged goods. Her cheeks flushed with the memory.

She was still the girl who could steer a flyer by herself, who’d taken down dinosaurs with bow and arrow, who had ridden barely tamed mustangs bareback with nothing more than twine for a bridle. She could still do those things, she told herself. Perhaps she’d even ride again, although these days she was as likely to find herself astride a gashant as a horse. Or aside, she reminded herself. Her new leg hadn’t the sensitivity to command a horse, but there was no reason she couldn’t ride sidesaddle. She’d once met a gentleman friend of her uncle’s who rode that way, thanks to an unfortunate incident with a Confederate cannon ball.

If that fellow could soldier on, so could she. She decided she believed that. Curtseying to an imaginary gentleman, she resumed the dance. For now, at least, she led. The thought made her laugh, perhaps excessively.

“Good to see that your spirits have improved,” Nathanial said from the depths of a wing-back chair facing the view.

Annabelle stopped her twirl, her skirts sagging downward with the aid of their hem magnets. “I didn’t see you there.”

“And if you had, you would have stifled yourself?” Nathanial uncurled himself from the chair and perched on the edge of a planter, an oversized tome tucked jauntily underneath his arm. “Hardly sounds like the Miss Somerset I know.”

“Miss Somerset? When did we stand on such formality?”

“Thought I might use the name while it’s still yours. I’m having a touch of difficulty imagining you as an officer’s wife. I hear the etiquette is…demanding.”

“Pfft. I’m marrying Commander Bedford, not the service. I like to think he knows what he’s getting. And I’m sure I’ll get on just fine. There’ll be other wives to show me the proverbial ropes and all that.”

“Oh, no doubt they’ll all be perfectly nice,” Nathanial said. He stared out at the vacuum. “But you? I admit, I’ve harboured hopes that perhaps you’d stop charging into the mouth of danger at every opportunity.”

“I don’t charge into danger, it just seems to find us.”

“Trust me, I know. I truly wish that danger didn’t seem to have your postal address. A month back on Hygeia, I would have happily have bundled you on the next steamer back to Earth. Anything to keep you safe. But now…” He trailed off, fiddling with a cufflink.

“Come now, Nathanial. How long have we known each other? After all we’ve been through I think I can ask for openness from you.”

“As I said, I’ve had time to think. To observe. It’s what we scientists do, you know.”

“And what has the esteemed professor observed?”

“A young woman who seems born for space and adventure. And I have to ask myself if a world of tea parties and formals is all she wants? Or does she expect to be able to hire an aether flyer when the itch to do some damn fool thing on some damn fool planet overtakes her? As it seems to do every other week, I might add.”

Nathanial would be one to bring up the very concerns gnawing at her. Annabelle sat down on a bench under a potted gumme tree. Its scent reminded her of the Blackjack chews Uncle Cyrus had given her when she had first arrived at his ranch. It had been the first time that she remembered being comfortable. Being safe. That feeling had hardly been unwelcome back then.

“Perhaps,” she said, toying with her skirt hem, “my adventuring days are over.”

“Oh? Shall we stop by Earth and drop you off at the nearest Home for Bored Young Girls?”

“Stop it.” She found herself gritting her teeth. “You truly are a brother to me. Only a brother could prick my hide so.”

Nathanial winced. “I’m just trying to say, I don’t see you being content with such a life.”

“What? Are you trying to warn me off? I love George! I’m more than willing to entertain at a few functions for him. What, you think me some sort of feral child who…” A vague memory flitted at the back of her mind, stopping her. She remembered something about running barefoot across dried mud under the sun. Her feet were blistered, but she’d needed to run. She’d forgotten why, though.

Nathanial didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve nothing but the highest regard for your young man. Why, for someone who once threw me in chains and charged me with treason, he’s agreeable enough. Not so dull as to think you’re anyone but whom you are.”

“Oh? And what, pray tell, am I?”

“Bold to the point of impetuous, brilliant to the point of madness, with enough verve and energy to run our aether propeller, if I could just discover how to harness it.” He attempted a smile. “Perhaps we could hook a generator up to that leg of yours.”

“The crippled girl might still be useful, then?”

Nathanial’s eyes widened. “Oh, here now, that isn’t what I—”

“Meant to say. Of course not, you’re far too kind. You’re trying to cheer me with your whimsy, but you can’t forget what I am, can you? You’re trying ever so hard, telling me what an adventurous sort I am, making me the best false leg in the history of humanity, all that. Don’t think I don’t know that. Appreciate it, even.”

Nathanial leaned over and patted her arm. Annabelle pushed it away, standing up with minimal awkwardness. But then, there was no gravity to inhibit her. Not out here in the void.

“Please sit back down,” Nathanial said. “I can’t bear to see you like this. And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?” To her anger, she felt wetness on her cheeks. “For doing everything you can to try to allow me some normality? No doubt you’re plotting some improvement on this as we speak.” She batted her hand at the leg, making a dull thud. She shook her head. “It’s no good. I’m no stranger to denial, either. I keep telling myself that I can lead a normal life. That I’ll be able to dance, ride, explore, everything I used to do.”

“My dear, you know that every one of us will help you any way we can. Just tell us what you need and we’ll be there for you.”

Annabelle wiped her eyes. “I know. As I love all of you, I know. But I don’t want what you’re trying to give me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Pity.”

She strode out of the greenhouse as quickly as she could. She hardly wobbled at all.

Chapter Three

1.

“I tell you it’s of vital import that we hunt this mineral down.” Nathanial tapped the monograph on Folkard’s desk. “It’s all here. Sightings of what has to be asterium ore.”

“Asterium?” Folkard sat behind his sturdy iron desk, its pigeonholes filled with a hundred documents, all no doubt sorted and ordered. With his captain’s cap on, he managed to look as if he was standing on the bridge of an ironclad, steering his ship into battle. Then again, in a sense he was doing just that.

“It’s what Arnaud calls it,” Nathanial said. “Rather an awkward name, but he was the discoverer, after all. Sadly, cerium was already taken. But more importantly, it has remarkable properties should it be refined.”

“Oh? And how did you reach that conclusion?”

Nathan shifted uncomfortably. “I am simply parroting Arnaud’s evaluation.”

Folkard smiled that damnably superior smile of his. “An evaluation he arrived at with his smelting apparatus.” He held a hand up. “If I didn’t approve, I’d have pitched it out the airlock myself. Possibly followed by our French troublemaker.”

“He’s a good man,” Nathanial said, with a heat that surprised him.

“Or at least an ingenuous one. That’s what matters to me. If I restricted my crews to only those of impeccable morals, why, I would be hard pressed to find a single able-bodied seaman in the whole of the Empire.” He picked up the monograph and studied it. “But to the point. He says there’s asterium ore in these swamps?”

“My discovery, actually. Arnaud needed his sleep, so I took over sorting through the Royal Geographer’s minutes.”

“Brotherly of you. If brothers cared for each other that much, I should say.”

Nathanial’s face grew hot, but if Folkard noticed, he said nothing.

The captain put the monograph down. “Interesting, of course. But to drop in on his latest obsession would take us out of our way, to say the least. So far we’ve been pursuing already developed leads, mining colonies and such. It helps if someone else has already done a bit of groundwork, don’t you agree?”

“It’s admittedly a touch remote.”

Folkard steepled his fingers. “Middle of the lower Venusian jungle? Ordinarily, I’d be hard pressed to think of a place I’d be less likely to visit.”

“But the implications of the aetheric effects of—” Nathan paused. “You said ‘ordinarily’?”

Again with that smile. “The Heart refined our course a few days back. I feel a tug towards the southern German colonies, which are conveniently near this untrammeled wilderness you are ever so interested in. In short, your little discovery is quite in line with its plans. In fact, it may even be part of them.” Folkard shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t quite understand its influence on me, either.” The smile vanished. “It’s a deucedly quixotic thing, I have to admit.”

“We’ve been confronted with things that defy understanding on nearly a daily basis, it seems.”

“True.” Folkard stared out the office porthole. “And I hate unknowns.”

“Science is about confronting the unknown.”

“Perhaps scientists and military men have more in common than you think, then. An officer also must concern himself with unknowns.”

“How so?”

Folkard’s smile vanished. “I try to keep my crewmen alive. And it’s usually the unknowns that get people killed. It would be best for you to remember that, Professor. “

2.

Nathanial had visited few places as poorly named as Adonis Station. If the god of beauty were to take an afternoon stroll down its corridors, the poor fellow would no doubt expire in a fit of apoplexy born of horror. The corridors themselves resembled nothing so much as sewer pipes, and scarcely smelt better. For all the constant Venusian rains on the planet it orbited, fresh water seemed in short supply here. While one might suppose that the balloon shuttles could bring a few extra gallons up for purposes of mopping, he was told that they had limited cargo space.

“Casks are heavy as anything, my friend,” said the dishevelled airman deputised with escorting them to the station commander’s office. “And if we were to waste the cargo, I’d want them filled with beer.”

“Venusian beer?”

The airman shrugged. “Can’t say it’s any good. Think it’s made from some sort of squash. Or ’saur droppings. Hard to tell, honestly. On the other hand, it’s unlikely to make you blind. More than I can say for what the boys in the boiler room are selling.”

“Rum ration not enough for them?” Folkard asked.

“Never see it, sir. Suppose we don’t even rate that out here. Arsehole of the Empire, this place is. Just in case the smell didn’t clue you in there.”

“There’s a lady present,” Folkard snapped. Nathanial had forgotten how menacing the man could look when he felt like it. “I’ll thank you to curb your tongue or I’ll—”

“Do nothing silly,” Annabelle said. She touched Folkard’s sleeve. “I’ve a nose, myself. And my ears have heard worse. I’ll save my fainting in shock for the end of the day when we have time for it.”

The airman nodded amiably. “Appreciate that, miss. And begging your pardon while I’m at it. We don’t get many ladies here. What passenger liners get out here, they use gas bags. But the Navy can’t be arsed to build ’em special just for Venus. So here we sit up here, just so all their pricey liftwood ships don’t get swamp rot. You’re the first civvie skiff we’ve seen in, hell, since last time I took a bath. Must be nice to have your own liftwood flyer to zoom around the skies in. You wouldn’t see me here if I did, no how.”

“We’re safe enough up here, yes?” Nathanial asked.

“Don’t you worry, sir. Liftwood’s about the only thing that doesn’t rot here. Stay out of those clouds, and you’ll be safe enough.”

“The commander has scheduled a balloon to the surface for us, hasn’t he?” asked Folkard.

“I expect he’ll tell you whether he has, himself,” the airman said, escorting them into a greenhouse filled with ferns and a significant quantity of hanging moss that had managed to gain a foothold on the iron bulkhead. Venus filled most of the mildew streaked view. Its swirling clouds were bright with sunlight, completely obscuring the surface of the planet proper.

The airman jerked his head at the planet. “You ask me, you’d be better off holidaying in the Sudan. That was my last home away from home. Hated it enough to ask for posting here. Biggest mistake of my life. At least in the desert, we stayed dry. And I’ll take a Fuzzy-Wuzzy’s spear over becoming a lizard’s lunch any road. Hate this station, but no dinosaurs here.”

“That’s fine,” Nathanial said. “They give my sister something to hunt.”

“Oh ah?” The airman scowled sceptically at him. “I’ll let the commander know that you gents and the Amazon are here, then.”

3.

The station commander’s office had escaped the general rot of the rest of the station, albeit not the clutter. It resembled nothing so much as one’s eccentric explorer uncle’s attic, the scent of tobacco covering up the mildew and filled to the point of impassibility with Venusian artefacts. These random trophies included the head of a Tyrannosaur mounted on the wall, more than somewhat tatty but still menacing despite the lack of eyes. Looking overstuffed and threadbare himself, Commander Hawkins slouched behind a desk made from the cross section of a redwood sized tree, nursing a large crystal bulb of amber fluid.

“Ah, my mysterious crew of the good ship Esmeralda 2,” Hawkins said, perching a monocle atop a chubby cheek. He took a pull from the drinking bulb, taking a long moment to swish his drink in his mouth. “Captain…Matheson, is it?”

“Yes,” Folkard said. “You’ve been informed of our needs?”

“My dear Captain, we all have needs.” The monocle fell. “This is a military outpost, and we are here to serve Her Majesty’s needs in that regard. But in your case, I’ve received notice that you may avail yourself of our facilities. Trusted member of the empire, sound moral character, former officer, et cetera ad nauseum.” He gestured indifferently at one of the piles of paper on his desk. “Odd that the Navy takes such an interest in a geological expedition. We’re usually more of the shoot ’em first, then take what’s left school. Pity there’s really nothing down below worth shooting over. Blam blam!” He mimed taking aim with a rifle.

“You, sir, are drunk,” Folkard said.

“It would be a waste of this excellent brandy were I not.”

“Is everyone on this damnable station a sot?” Nathanial asked.

“No, but it helps,” the commander said. He waved an easy hand. “But let’s not quarrel. I am here to oblige you.”

“The brandy, might I have a glass?” Arnaud asked. “My health is bad and I could use the strength.”

“Certainment, my dear boy. Sorry to hear about your constitutional challenges. Then again, I suppose that makes for a ready enough excuse, eh?” The commander gave his bulb a deft twist and decanted a jigger of the drink, which formed itself into an amber sphere that floated slowly towards Arnaud. The Frenchman grabbed a flask from a nearby cabinet and scooped the brandy up.

“Merci,” Arnaud said with a grateful nod, sipping with evident pleasure as he wandered around the room, examining the various objets d’art.

Folkard produced a map and slapped it on the commander’s desk. “You may oblige me by transporting us to here.” He tapped his finger impatiently over the destination on the map.

“Hmm, yes, of course. A touch problematic, of course.”

Folkard sighed. “I was beginning to suspect so. Fine. Not much we can do; you’ve got us tied over the cannon here. How much or what do you need from me?”

“Aren’t we colourful?” the commander said, leaning over the map. “Nothing of the sort. It’s in both of our interests to get you off my station.” Picking up his monocle, he peered at the map. “Thought so. Deep in the swamp.”

“One might suppose that were it easy to find, found it would be,” said Arnaud, looking up from collection of minerals under glass. “I see nothing here that one might value. Curiosities, nothing more. Is this all to be found?”

“All that has been found,” the commander said, waving his hand back and forth. “A bit of bitumen here, some amber there. Nothing to interest a geological expedition at all. But here you are. Fortunately for you, you’re not the first, you know.”

“First what?” said Folkard, staring at the bulkhead with impassive restraint.

“Swamp hopping rock lovers, sir. Or do you have a preferred appellation for such as yourselves?”

“‘Passengers to the surface’ might do.”

The commander waggled a finger. “Ah, but Venus is a large place, as planets often are. You need direction. And we’ve a Johnny on the spot geologist sort down there already. Name of Collins, also known as Jungle Ned. Mad as a hatter, but perhaps that’s what it takes to survive down there. The man makes a career out of going where the air is warm, wet and rotten. Before he wandered out here, he spent three years eating mushrooms with the wogs in the New Guinea swamps.”

“Why on Earth?” asked Nathanial.

“Good question. Perhaps he finds malarial fevers add spice to life. Be as that may, came out of it richer than Croesus, thanks to a few gold deposits. You or I might settle on the Riviera, but sadly for his sanity, it just seemed to encourage Collins. So he came here.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps he reasoned that the wetter a place was, the more gold he’d—ˮ

“And this Collins, his operation base is where you recommend we begin?” Folkard interrupted.

“Hideout, more like. You see, sir, your chosen get away destination is in German territory. Not that it’s easy to stake out claims in the swamplands, of course. One section of God forsaken peat bog looks fair much like any other. But our Teutonic friends can be disagreeable should they decide we’re encroaching on their settlements. And they’ve been expanding in that region of late.”

“Do you think they might have discovered something?” Nathanial asked.

“No doubt just feeling their oats,” the commander said. “Those sausage eaters do love their territorial expansion. You might ask the French about that. Not that anyone aside from the local lizzies care awfully much out here. Be as that may, we asked Collins to keep an eye on it. Haven’t heard from him since. Mind you, he isn’t good about writing. Didn’t even send me a Christmas card. That said, it’s been four months. Even for him, that’s long. So, I’d be obliged if you could track him down. It’ll be a bit of a hike, of course. But should you survive the journey without being nibbled upon, it’s entirely possible that he’ll be of some help to you.”

Folkard sighed. “Don’t suppose you can just drop us down in the area.” He held a hand up. “Never mind, I’m sure you’ll explain to me something about your delicate position and diplomatic incidents. Just have someone show us a room and we’ll leave tomorrow.”

“The next balloon shuttle with empty room is in three days.”

“Tomorrow,” Folkard said. “Or do you need me to spread the word about the wayward rum ration?”

The commander sat upright. “That’s a rumour.”

“Rumours make the Navy run, sir,” Folkard said.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Four

1.

It had all been Annabelle’s idea, and Nathanial was delighted by that. For one, that fact would give him a certain level of plausible deniability should Folkard find out about their skulking around the station in the middle of the night, or rather, the middle of the station’s passage through the planet’s shadow. The captain had been clear about the need to stay in their quarters until departure. Their aliases seemed thin enough as it was; as civilians, they were already making an impression on the station’s personnel. They were probably the most exciting thing to arrive here since the last shipment of potentially fermentable sugar. While a surreptitious visit was now out of the question, there was still no need to stroll about and attach faces to the already rampant gossip.

Or so they were told. Annabelle was less than convinced, or at least stir-crazed enough to produce objections, albeit rather flimsy objections.

“No one has ever won a battle without a knowledge of the lay of the land,” she said, glaring at the confines of her stateroom.

“I had no idea that we were in for a battle,” Nathanial said. “I’d simply popped by to wish you a good night.”

“I’m finding sleep difficult. Too much is unknown!”

“Shall I lend you a book?”

Annabelle sighed. “I’d almost say you were patronising me.”

“I know better. Trust me, I’ve far too much concern for my continued existence.”

“You think me so dangerous?” She patted his hand. “Thank you. But seriously, I don’t trust the commander, or anyone else here. I think we need to conduct a bit of reconnaissance.”

“We?”

“Come now, Nathanial. An unescorted young lady in the middle of the night?” She fluttered her eyes. “People would talk.”

“I thought we were to go spying.”

“Doesn’t mean that we need throw propriety out the window.”

“Shall I run back to my stateroom to fetch my calling cards?”

Annabelle seized the crook of his arm. “It’s still the frontier. We’ll make do. Come on!”

Truthfully, he was just delighted to see her spirits up so after her previous moodiness. Besides, what harm could befall them onboard a military station? Surely, they’d exhausted the Solar System’s supply of anarchist saboteurs by now. If wandering the darkened corridors would restore her adventurous soul, he was all for it.

Still, he found himself wishing for a gun. If they ran into serious trouble, he could always hand it over to Annabelle. He remembered well how coldly she had dispatched Blayney on Ceres.

The station might have had the ambience of a seedy port town, but so far as they could see, it had none of its nightlife. There were a few bored patrols, but none so awake or dutiful as to discover the wandering couple. That said, there was also precious little interesting about the station: just crew quarters, cargo storage and the engine rooms.

“No grand conspiracies here,” Nathanial said. “Quiet as a slumbering church mouse. Why, they’ve even shut the solar boiler down for the night. No doubt due to lack of sun. Merely a hypothesis.”

“We haven’t seen the balloon shuttles,” Annabelle said, once again tugging at his arm. “Aren’t you curious about them?”

“We’ll see them tomorrow. My powers of observation are stronger when there’s light to see by. They are even further enhanced by the additional salutary effects of sleep.”

“Now you’re just being difficult. If someone were trying to stop our expedition, our shuttle would be the first thing they’d think of sabotaging.”

Nathanial almost pointed out that there was no indication that anyone was trying to stop them. Then it occurred to him that there wasn’t any indication that anyone wasn’t. He’d been shot at often enough to develop a healthy sense of paranoia. Better to look a bit foolish than perish.

Of course, it was entirely possible to do both.

The two wandered down to the station’s observation deck, where by the external Edison lights of the station they could view the balloon shuttles attached to the outside of the terminal passageway like sparsely settled barnacles on a driftwood log.

The shuttles were less than impressive. Unlike the conscious aestheticism of an aether liner or the imposing military functionality found in ships of the line, the shuttles had all the beauty of a washtub. They resembled washtubs as well, squat and slightly tapered cylinders thirty paces across with no discerning features, not even portholes.

“How do they fly at all?” Annabelle said. “No navigational bridge? Surely they’d hit something.”

“I don’t think they fly so much as drop. Slowed by the balloon, of course, but still straight down. Hard to miss the planet.”

“And we’re sailing off in one of these tomorrow?”

Nathanial risked a wink. “I thought you wanted an adventure.”

“Adventure is when you have control of your risks.”

Nathanial wiped the glass with his sleeve. It didn’t improve the view much. “You have control. You could stay here on the Esmeralda.”

“And tend to my knitting?”

Nathanial shook his head. “Far too warm on Venus to need a scarf. But I’ve some socks that want darning.”

“Oh? I’ve a sharp needle that wants—wait, look at the far shuttle!” She tugged at his arm.

Outside in the vacuum, a man in a bulky suit was working his way towards the rear of the shuttle’s gondola. They could see sparks flying from a large tool he was carrying.

“Is that our shuttle, I wonder?” Nathanial said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Annabelle said, heading down the passageway. She ran with quick hopping steps, touching the floor with her shoes just often enough to propel her forward. Nathanial wondered where she had learned the trick. Perhaps she’d been practicing onboard the Esmeralda. Odd that she hadn’t mentioned that, much less taught him the technique. In the meantime, she was getting far too ahead of him. So much for his chivalric escorting service.

Annabelle was still close enough for him to see that she now had a pistol in hand. It had to be that revolver she’d taken from Blayney. She was far too frugal, and perhaps all too bloodthirsty to discard it. Wouldn’t bring a dinosaur down, of course. But it was easy enough to conceal in one’s skirts.

As she disappeared around the curve of the passageway, Nathanial felt ill. Common sense was telling him that it was no doubt just a workman, but it also occurred to him that there wasn’t anyone else around. Solo repairs just weren’t done in space—far too many things that could go wrong, far too many little things that needed tending to. Little things such as the oxygen supply. He tried to hurry up, but just ended up bouncing off the ceiling.

He forced himself to maintain what felt like an impossibly languid stroll as he heard Annabelle shouting up ahead. He tried to quiet the sick feeling in his stomach by noting that she didn’t sound as if she was concerned, at least not yet. He couldn’t make out the words, but they carried the air of barked orders more than the yelp of fear.

Finally making his way to the shuttle terminal, he found the entry hatch undogged. Swinging it open with a metallic bang that echoed down the passageway, he saw Annabelle holding a man in a vacuum suit at gunpoint. She held the Colt with a rock steady hand. That much about the girl hadn’t changed, at least. Her other hand was on what appeared to be an air compressor, at least judging by the hose that lead to the suit. Like most vacuum suits, it resembled nothing so much as a deep sea diving suit, awkward and heavy with a spherical brass helmet whose thick glass view-plate revealed nothing about its owner’s identity.

The man had his hands above his head, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Despite the imposing appearance of the suit, Nathanial couldn’t bring himself to feel worried, at least not for Annabelle and himself. He could summon some worry for the man in the suit. He doubted that Annabelle would deliberately shoot the fellow, but she hadn’t been in the best of moods of late.

“My dear girl,” Nathanial said. “I think you’ve got him dead to rights, as you Americans say.”

“Do we now?” She could arch her eyebrow rather adroitly when circumstances demanded.

“Yes. But I suspect we could actually learn something should we let him take the helmet off.”

The man nodded vigorously. He was clearly shouting inside the helmet, but it only came out as muffled whimpers.

“He might try something,” Annabelle said, absently running a finger over the gun barrel. Nathanial noticed that she was holding back a smile.

Judging by the way the man was shaking his head and holding his palms out, any smirking of Annabelle was unseen by him, or at least misinterpreted.

“Ann-Marie…” Nathanial said with as much authority as he could muster. At least he’d remembered to use her assumed name.

“Well, fine.” She waved the gun at her captive. “Take the helmet off, sir.”

One unlatched helmet later, a decidedly unnerved Geoffrey Forbes-Hamilton, Esquire was goggling at them.

“Good Lord, woman!” he said. “I was simply out performing some repairs when my air compressor’s operation went agly on me.”

“Agly, you say,” said Annabelle, dropping her hand from the air valve.

“Hardly a reason to point a—wait a half, aren’t you Miss Somerset?” He pulled a monocle from a pouch and peered. “Why, you are indeed!”

“I appreciate you clearing that matter up, sir, as I was wondering myself,” she replied. “But may I ask what you were doing outside? I have to admit, I thought you a saboteur.”

“Can’t leave the proper maintenance of my balloon shuttles to the fools that pass for technicians out here. Why, just look at the state of this station.” He waved an indignant arm at their surrounds.

“You have a point,” Nathanial admitted. He felt himself flush. They had jumped to conclusions with an excess of vigour, hadn’t they? Well, water under the proverbial bridge. It was pleasant enough to see a familiar face here, even if it was Forbes-Hamilton. On the other hand, it did rather blow their cover. Folkard would not be best pleased.

“I suppose I must apologise, Mister Forbes-Hamilton,” said Annabelle.

“I should say so!” Forbes-Hamilton said, his voice bordering on yelping. “I mean to say, what? It’s bad enough that I find myself here shanghaied into balloonautics, without needing to find myself waylaid by a half-civilized colonial someone was fool enough to allow a gun.”

“Consider the apology rescinded,” said Annabelle.

Nathanial raised a finger. Amazingly enough, this stopped the ongoing dialogue long enough for him to interject a suggestion of tea back at the Esmeralda.

“Or brandy,” added Forbes-Hamilton.

Nathanial looked at him sideways. “I see you’ve learned to fit in around here.”

2.

“I ought to have you keel hauled for this, Professor,” Folkard said, not sounding particularly upset. “Sadly, as I’ve said before, I can’t even have anyone flogged these days. Damnable Liberals.”

Nathanial tried to decide if there was any seriousness beneath the captain’s nonchalant façade. It reminded him of the ease a fencing master exuded before driving home the final thrust.

“Simply for finding Mister Forbes-Hamilton?” Nathanial asked.

“For giving away our admittedly tenuous cover story and for taking Annabelle on a foolish gallivant about the docks in the middle of the night. Speaking of said girl, damn near letting her blow out poor Forbes-Hamilton’s brains.” Folkard poked him rhythmically in the chest as he recited this litany of errors.

Nathanial stepped back. “You know as well as I do that Annabelle is her own woman. It’s all I can do just to keep her from shooting things. I think it’s a biological need of hers.”

Looking slightly mollified, Folkard nodded. “Point taken, but I’d hoped you’d rise to the challenge. No matter. Now I’ve got our mad Scotsman onboard in a literal and figurative sense, I’ve impressed on him the necessity of secrecy. And speaking of his brains, it seems he’s been using them to some good effect of late. Effects that will be deucedly useful once you find yourself out and about on that soggy surface down there.”

Nathanial felt slightly dizzy. “Once I? Aren’t you coming? And what effects? We aren’t enlisting Forbes-Hamilton, are we?”

“Academics. Always with the questions.” Folkard looked oddly uncomfortable for a moment. “Fair enough, though. I’m staying up here with the Esmeralda. Don’t exactly trust the station personnel to keep her intact. Never know when some enterprising airman might spot a brass fitting or two that might help him pay off his obligations to the local bookie. The boys can shoot that sort of ruffian all by themselves, of course. But I’d rather be up here to defend them from any…unpleasantness that might result should they do the necessary.”

“I see.”

No doubt it meant that there was something else on the captain’s mind besides the possibility of casual thievery. In the past he’d always seemed loath to send civilians out without military escort. But Nathanial knew with equal certainty it would be fruitless asking what that something was. Folkard dispensed information like a sniper fired rounds, only as needed to achieve the necessary effect.

Besides, it would just be a simple scientific expedition, not a pitched battle through enemy territory. This wouldn’t be like Luna. Or Ceres. Or even Mars.

Nathanial found himself pacing. “You should send Arnaud, of course. He’s the geologist.”

“Indeed. But I still need you with him. His health isn’t good, and besides, I find that you keep him focused.”

“I do?”

“He respects you. Fellow student of the universe, or some such. Me? I’m a simple sailor.” Folkard held up a hand as Nathanial opened his mouth in protest. “No need to say anything, Professor. I know you know better.” He frowned briefly. “And Annabelle. Best take her, too.”

“What? You—”

“Can’t be serious? After scolding you for letting her loose upon the station? Well, for one, it will keep her more supervised than I have time for. And she can handle herself well enough down there. We’ve seen that.”

“Yes, but after all that business on Messor Base…”

Folkard stood up and faced the view. A hundred miles below, the clouds of Venus were as featureless as they always were. “I know. In a sense, I think a trip to her old hunting grounds might be just the thing for her. Especially without Papa Jacob at her elbow, hovering over her like a mother hen.”

Nathanial stared at him. There was no emotion at all in that face. “I think I know what you mean, sir. But surely, there’s been enough danger in her life. And the lowland swamp is filled with danger.”

“Of course. That’s why you’ll need her along.” He turned to face Nathanial. “Do take care of her, Professor.”

“I shall.”

“Good. Of course, should you fail to, you’d be best off not returning.”

Nathanial looked for a smile, but saw none. When did Folkard assign himself as her protector, Nathanial wondered?

Chapter Five

1.

“Could you have made that balloon’s cabin at least a touch larger?” Nathanial asked, massaging his back as he stepped off the balloon shuttle onto the airship’s boarding ramp. This airship was half as large as the one Forbes-Hamilton had taken them up in the last time they were on Venus, but it had lost none of his penchant for the chaotic and baroque. From the mad tangle of gasbags held together by various nets to the sprawling gondola with its various cabins linked by stairwells, the airship looked less like a vehicle than something hobbled together by some aeronautical Swiss Family Robinson.

Forbes-Hamilton had kept the Viking style dragonhead prow, Nathanial saw.

“You could try being shorter, mon ami. I feel refreshed from the cosiness of our chamber,” Arnaud said. He prodded Nathanial behind the shoulder blades. “La. There is the problem. Allow me.” He pounded at the offending muscles for a minute. “How is that?”

Nathanial stood up straight. “Better. I’ll take a few bruises from you over being forced to stare at the floor for the rest of the trip.”

Forbes-Hamilton looked annoyed. “Did you want a ballroom to lounge about in? Have you any idea how large the gasbag would have needed to be? My designs are exactly as they need to be.”

Nathanial stared up at the zeppelin looming above them. “Oh? What was the name of this ship again?”

“The Aeronaut VI. Why?”

“I find myself wondering about its five predecessors. Were their designs exactly as they needed to be?”

Forbes-Hamilton stopped at the end of the gangway. “Oh, we are so very humorous. I have simply been making improvements.”

“Such as reductions in the tendency to crash?” Arnaud asked. “Pardon. I imagine that is a rumour, nothing more.”

“I am underfunded and underappreciated, I’ll have you know,” Forbes-Hamilton said. “Is it any wonder that up until now I’ve had to make do with faulty materials? The best designed bridge in the world will collapse if one is forced to make it out of sandstone.”

“Or one finds the discretion to not make it,” murmured Nathanial, looking down. The wickerwork gantry had the twin failings of being far too lightweight for Nathanial’s taste, and far too easy to see through. For better or worse, the lack of features on the cloud blanket below made it hard to discern exactly how high up they were. Thankfully there was no wind. Forbes-Hamilton had explained this was due to the fact that both airship and shuttle were drifting freely with the air currents. Nathanial wasn’t sure of his feelings about leaving the steering to the weather, but he would have felt more uneasy if the bridge had been swaying in a gale.

“It’s a beautiful ship,” Annabelle said as she stepped onboard. Her steps were faltering in the near Earth gravity, but she had shrugged off Arnaud’s offer of an arm.

“Mais oui,” Arnaud said, glancing down the polished wickerwork passageway. “Gauguin would be proud. Woven by genuine Tahitians, I imagine.”

“Genuine lizard-men, in fact,” Forbes-Hamilton said. “They’re a far more talented race than we give them credit for. I’ll admit, I was sceptical at first about the strength of this stuff,” he said, rapping a lacquered door. “But truthfully, it’s far lighter than traditional wood and metal construction. And it’s almost as strong.”

“Almost?” said Nathanial.

“It’s tensile strength is well within design parameters,” Forbes-Hamilton said with an easy wave of his hand. His previous irritation seemed gone, replaced by a school boy’s enthusiasm for his favourite toy. “And best of all, it’s completely non-conductive. Just the thing for all those nasty electrical storms we get around here.”

“Lovely,” Nathanial breathed. He made the mistake of watching the shuttle crewmen disengage the gangway. It reminded him far too much of the air to air transfer he’d made in the skies of Earth when he’d just met Folkard. The captain had clearly been watching him to see how he’d react under stress. At the time, Nathanial hadn’t appreciated being manipulated and tested like some sort of lab animal.

Over the last months he’d become used to the captain’s ways, but he hadn’t grown used to heights. Nathanial’s feelings of vertigo were just as strong as on that first day, and it was all he could do to walk down the breezy corridor without being overwhelmed by the thought that he was being held back from the void by nothing more than wickerwork flooring. But he wasn’t about to collapse today, for all that the judgmental Folkard was a hundred miles above him at the moment.

Nathanial was perfectly capable of judging himself.

2.

“Ah, here we are,” Forbes-Hamilton said. “Just what the captain ordered.”

He opened a set of double doors onto a large room with five fabric and wood winged contraptions hanging from the ceiling. Each had a rudimentary seat, more of a trapeze than anything else. A solitary catwalk ran next to them, a good ten feet above the curved floor below. Nathanial noted the flooring looked as if it could be hinged open like an oversized trapdoor. Almost certainly would, in fact, given the pulley arrangements leading away. He decided to stick to the doorway.

Forbes-Hamilton didn’t seem as if he was going to lead the tour through the room, however. Standing at the edge, he waved diffidently at the contraptions.

“Heavier than air gliders. Not my idea, the Navy’s.” He snorted. “Some Kraut defector named Lilienthal designed them. I’m told that the Germans quite sensibly sent him packing when he asked for funding.” He shook his head. “Wings, indeed.”

“Birds have wings. It seems to work for them,” Annabelle pointed out.

“Birds breakfast on worms and defecate on statues. Can’t say I’m inclined to do either,” Forbes-Hamilton said. “Now then, we humans, we have this thing called intellect—well, a few of us do, in any event. We are the tool users, and there is no more reason for us to rely on antiquated methods of aviation than there is for us to stay put on the ground. Balloons and airships are the future, not this foolishness.” He had the look of a man who wanted to spit but was being forcibly restrained by an unwanted sense of etiquette. “Those are the things that took us into space, not flapping about like a brainless butterfly.”

“Don’t forget liftwood flyers,” said Nathanial.

“Another crutch dependent on nature!” Forbes-Hamilton was developing a decidedly pink cast to his face. “I hear just that from the unimaginative fools back in the naval yards. Tell me, should we sail the seas grasping at logs like Polynesian savages? Why then do we take our cues from the savages of Mars?”

“We can learn many things from savages, as you call them,” said Annabelle with an excess of sweetness in her voice. Nathanial knew that meant trouble.

“Given your feelings, sir,” Nathanial interjected, “one has to wonder what on Earth—or Venus—these are doing aboard your inestimable airship.”

Forbes-Hamilton gave him a suspicious look, then relaxed. “Ah, well, I rely on funding from those fools I mentioned, and they feel that these are an effective method of descent from the airship. They claim my descender balloons are all too visible for covert operations such as yours.”

“Might I suggest the possibility of a ladder?” asked Arnaud. “It is a more proven device, in my opinion.”

“Well, under normal circumstances, but not on covert missions,” said Forbes-Hamilton. “I’m going to take this ship down into the clouds, you see. We’ll be well hidden there. Can’t get too close to the ground, one might get spotted.”

“Or crash into a plateau!” protested Nathanial. “You’re really planning on relying on aught but dead reckoning for navigation?”

“Emphasising the word ‘dead’, I think,” said Arnaud. “I am in agreement with my friend on this. There is the danger of Germans finding us, but I dislike the danger of not knowing where one is even more. Especially when one considers the part of the plan that involves us playing at being birds.”

“Do you think I haven’t thought all these things out?” Forbes-Hamilton said. “Since we wouldn’t be able to use visual reference, I devised what I call an inertial navigation system. It relies upon nothing more than measuring acceleration and rotation, then uses those inputs to ascertain the spatial displacement of the reference system. Buggers me why I didn’t figure out something so obvious sooner. Was the work of nothing to make the prototype. I’ve already tested and used it out on those shuttle balloons, in fact.”

“Lose anyone in the process of testing?” Nathanial asked. To his chagrin, he realised he’d never asked about how a windowless balloon had managed to find the Aeronaut. He’d been too preoccupied with his queasy stomach. Among other things.

But Forbes-Hamilton wasn’t listening. “Of course, once again Her Majesty’s finest failed to trust me completely and insisted on a backup system. So I had to install a single man balloon I can send up to take a sextant shot should my lovely INS fail me.”

“Surely a balloon doesn’t weigh that much,” Arnaud said. “Less than nothing, I suppose one might say. Is that not a feature of their design?”

“It’s their lack of faith that disturbs me,” Forbes-Hamilton said.

“Oh, stop bickering,” Annabelle said, walking haltingly along a catwalk to the nearest glider. She ran her hand over a lacquered wing. “Whatever you say, I think these are amazing devices. Will they really allow us to fly like birds?”

“Not precisely,” said Forbes-Hamilton. “Glide like the soaring birds, yes. But Lilienthal wasn’t clever enough to actually get the wings to flap. Would have required actual mechanical ingenuity, I suppose. Haven’t met him myself, but I get the impression he’s rather more of the broody Goethe sort of German, not the proper Nietzsche sort who might actually get things done. More prone towards pining over a flower than invading a country, one might say.”

Annabelle studied the craft. The fabric was stretched tightly over delicately carved spruce ribs that splayed out like a fan. Resting her palm on the wing, she could feel it vibrate as Forbes-Hamilton talked. With each stray breeze in the hangar, it pressed itself against her like a dog straining at his lead.

“Poet or not, I think he’s an artist,” Annabelle said. “It seems almost alive.”

“Cooling corpses are almost alive,” Forbes-Hamilton said. “But their aerodynamic attributes are less than satisfactory.”

“You’re impossible,” Annabelle said, turning back to examine the glider. She could see control cables that led to a bar hanging in front of the seat, but she couldn’t quite decipher how it worked. Presumably, one moved the bar back and forth like the tiller of a flyer, but she wasn’t about to assume anything. Forbes-Hamilton seemed just the sort to reverse the linkages in the name of improvement.

“Besides impossible,” Nathanial said, “you’re being altogether too reticent. I rather get the impression that you know more about this mission than we do.”

“D’accord,” said Arnaud. “You have this plan already for us to go flying in these? I am wondering when we begin to plan for ourselves. And I am wondering also why all this was prepared for us when in truth we have just arrived here.” He leaned against the gantry rail next to Forbes-Hamilton. “I think you need to be more…forthcoming? Is that the word, mon ami?”

“Exactament,” Nathanial said. He attempted to cast an intimidating frown in Forbes-Hamilton’s direction.

“Oh, fine,” said Forbes-Hamilton. “I received my orders to go forth to this benighted location over a month ago. Apparently, Whitehall’s been sniffing around this area you’re all hot and bothered about. It really has naught to do with you or any of your mineral snagging ways.”

“What, then?” Nathanial asked.

“Damn me if I know. I pressed old Jericho on the matter after he relayed the Admiralty’s marching orders to me. Told me he hadn’t a blessed clue. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the powers that be don’t, either. The Krauts are pushing into the middle of blessed nowhere, and no doubt they’ve their reasons. But they couldn’t just send in the usual members of the Thin Red Line to find out what was what. International incidents in the making, don’t you know.”

“I would have liked to have Jericho along, actually,” Nathanial said. “Good fellow, and truthfully, I’ve been thinking we could use a military man.” He looked embarrassed. “We seem to find ourselves in scraps with distressing regularity.”

Forbes-Hamilton nodded. “So I remember. But again, that’s exactly what the Admiralty wanted to avoid. They wanted this to be a civilian only operation.” He sighed. “Do miss Giles. Bit rough out here on my own.”

“You’ve your lizard-man friend, don’t you?” Annabelle asked. “I mean to say, at least you’ve someone to talk to, however odd.”

“Thymon? Oh, yes, he’s still running about with me. You’re right, miss, he is a fair good listener. Far more intelligent than you might guess, once you get past his appearance and what passes for his speech. Helped with some of the cabin designs, in fact.”

“Erm, yes,” Nathanial said, trying not to let his horror show. He hadn’t fallen through the flooring yet, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a future possibility. “Haven’t seen him yet.”

“You will, soon enough. He’s the one you’ll be meeting on the ground. Once he finds a suitable enough landing zone, he’ll be firing off a signal flare for us. He’s rather good at the reconnoitring business. For one, it’s easy enough for a lizard-man to stroll about in German territory. It’s not as if they can tell one tribe from another. I barely can, myself, and I’ve been working with the fellows for a year now.”

“That’s it?” Nathanial asked. “The only help we’re getting is a ride in these…devices? That and an admittedly intelligent lizard-man for a guide?”

“Afraid so. Again, they don’t want any military men on this mission.”

So that was it, Nathanial realised. That was the real reason Folkard wasn’t here. His teeth clenched with irritation. He should have been told what was going on. But then it wouldn’t have seemed as if the captain trusted Nathanial enough to be on his own, instead of being forced to stay behind due to a direct order. And that would have undercut Nathanial’s confidence. Confidence that a leader of an expedition needed.

And perhaps, confidence that Folkard wasn’t sure Nathanial had. Things hadn’t changed that much from the day they’d met, after all. Folkard was still happy to manipulate and test Nathanial. Perhaps the captain thought it necessary. After what had occurred in London, who could blame him? Or perhaps it simply amused him.

Probably both, Nathanial decided. Come to think of it, it wouldn’t surprise Nathanial if Folkard had known about the need to fly these gliders. It was just the sort of “test” that Folkard seemed altogether too fond of.

“Fine,” said Nathanial. “Just fine. We’ll do our level best not to look like an invading force. Hard not to be taken for a spy, even so.”

“I’d avoid being seen,” Forbes-Hamilton said helpfully. “The Krauts might just decide that they’d need to bundle you off for a bit of a chat.”

“I hope that’s not what happened to Collins.”

“Eh? No, they knew he was around, of that I’m certain. He’s hard to miss. Rather like the loud fellow at a conference who corners you with his latest theories on mushrooms. He just had the advantage of being enough of a certified fruit bat that no one would have supposed him to be a spy.”

“But he still disappeared.”

“Quite,” said Forbes-Hamilton, absently adjusting a tensioning cable. “There. Didn’t feel up to having the catwalk collapse on us. I’ve no desire to join you in the swamp, and I suppose you’d prefer a more controlled descent, eh?”

“So, these flying things…” Arnaud said.

“Gliding. Please be precise.” Forbes-Hamilton stared at the gliders with the look of a cat owner discovering his beloved moggy had left a gift on the bedroom floor. “As I said, an idea foisted on me by my backers. In this case, the agents of our dear queen who were more than concerned about darling Neddie. I was told I’d be meeting a special task group that was trained to fly these things, infiltrate once on the ground, impersonate German workers and shoot things should the impersonation fall through.”

“That’s certainly not us,” Nathanial said.

Forbes-Hamilton waved an indifferent hand. “Quite obviously. Please don’t bother asking me the details of my communication, but I’m told you’ll be taking that esteemed group’s place. So, you’ll have a contact on the ground and all that. This little mission is a good month in the planning, you see.”

“Now, see here,” said Nathanial, “we had no idea we were traipsing into a war zone. We’re scientists!”

“And Annabelle,” pointed out Arnaud. “But how will we keep her from this fray? I’ve heard the tales of her previous assaults upon the local fauna with her little bow and arrow. She will be putting on the war paint and screaming battle cries before we can so much as say Guten Tag.”

“I’m right over here, monsieur,” Annabelle said. “Your teasing to the contrary, I’ve no desire to be shot at.”

“Oh, do calm down,” Forbes-Hamilton said. “There is no war zone. But there was concern that, infiltration skills notwithstanding, there was still the possibility of discovery and subsequent derring-do. Unlike our young lady over there, the special operations lads haven’t always the common sense to restrain themselves. Always hoping some latter day Tennyson might immortalise them in verse, I imagine.”

“True. As you say, we’re less likely to be problematic,” Nathanial said with a significant glance at Annabelle.

“And should you be captured, you’ve a perfect cover story. You were simply looking for your precious minerals.”

“Story?” said Arnaud. “That is the reason for why we are here.”

“The truth doesn’t hurt, I suppose,” said Forbes-Hamilton.

“Not always,” said Nathanial.

Chapter Six

1.

“I have to admit that these things are safe enough to fly,” said Forbes-Hamilton as he helped Annabelle into the glider, spitting out a few cursory instructions. “Mind you, I can’t guarantee the landing. Just be sure to lift your legs up before landing and let the thing crash into the mud. Thoroughly inelegant design. For pity’s sake, the poor pilot sits like some toddler on a swing, legs all a-dangle.”

“I’ve always dreamed of flying.”

“My dear girl,” he said as he performed a last check of the flight control rigging, “you’re already flying. That isn’t the ground below us, at least not for another thousand feet.” He walked over to the hangar wall and pulled a largish lever. Warm, damp wind poured into the room, making the gliders tug against their moorings.

“Perhaps,” Annabelle said grabbing onto the control bar. “But there’s a certain elegance in doing things the same way Nature does. Perhaps there’s a reason there are no floating animals.”

Forbes-Hamilton stepped back from the gantry holding the gliders. “As you like. Say hello to Nature for me, should you have a chance. Plenty of it down there.” He turned to stare through a mounted spyglass into the distance.

“There!” he shouted. “Good old Thymon came through, once again. Flare just slightly off the starboard bow, estimated two miles. Should be visible for you in a minute or so, just fly straight. No aerial hi-jinks, if you please.”

“None forthcoming!” Nathanial shouted over the wind.

“Right,” said Forbes-Hamilton. “Best of luck and all that. Ready, steady, here you go!” With that, he turned the release crank.

Annabelle looked down. The floor of the hangar opened like a bay door, providing a clear view of the thick tendrils of clouds that swirled about the Aeronaut like smoke pouring out the nostrils of a cigar fancier.

There was a moment of stillness as the gliders dropped. Annabelle’s stomach lurched upwards to threaten her teeth, but it was an oddly exhilarating feeling, rather like floating about in space. Keeping in mind Forbes-Hamilton’s instructions, she held the control bar tightly to her chest. Ahead, she could see Nathanial and Arnaud diving alongside each other like a pair of pelicans after fish.

The glider seemed happy enough to fly along without too much control input. A good thing, she reflected, as her friends were barely visible in cloud, what with the dark mists whipping around them. Moisture beaded on the wings of the glider, turning into little rivulets that sprayed behind her. But at least it was warm, unlike the clouds she was accustomed to back home.

When she was a young girl, she remembered thinking that clouds would feel like cotton balls. She’d made the unfortunate mistake of telling her Uncle Cyrus that, and in his customary way, he launched into an impromptu lecture about the convective cycle of moisture and the adiabatic cooling. Most of it went over her eight year old head, but she didn’t misunderstand what he said next.

“Won’t have my niece growing up as ignorant as the local ploughboys.” He shook his head sadly. “Honestly, did your papa tell you that?”

“No, Uncle. Just my own notion, I suppose.” Annabelle felt tears welling. “I’m so stupid.”

“No!” he said with a vehemence that frightened her. “You were simply making hypotheses in the absence of experimental evidence.” He smiled, seemingly gentle again. “Frankly, nothing that the fellows at the Royal College don’t do all the time. But let me fix that.”

Uncle Cyrus knelt down, brushing the tears from Annabelle’s eyes. “Would you like to go up into the sky next time I test my balloon?”

Annabelle was so shocked that she could barely nod. Then she had a flash of dutifulness. “I’ll ask Mother first.”

“Ah,” said Uncle Cyrus. “How about we keep this a secret? You can surprise her someday with the story. Someday, as in ‘when you’re all grown up and your Uncle Cyrus isn’t in town’.”

Annabelle knew what naughty was. But she wasn’t above agreeing.

And when the time came, she discovered that clouds, like so many other things, were prettier from a distance. Up close, they were wet and cold, with edges that were hard to define. But for all that disappointment, their very size made her tremble with vertigo, just floating next to them. Just because something wasn’t traditionally beautiful didn’t mean it couldn’t stir one’s emotions.

Annabelle was certain there was a moral there somewhere. But Uncle Cyrus didn’t believe in pat stories with morals, he’d told her more than once. He believed in truth. And he’d be dashed if anyone stopped him from discovering that.

For her part, Annabelle had sworn that day wouldn’t be the last time she touched a cloud.

And so, here she was again, deep in the embrace of a cloud, seeking out the unknown. She just wished Uncle Cyrus’ mind was what it once had been. She liked to think that the man of her youth would be proud of her. But there was nothing for that at this moment.

In the space of a heartbeat, they broke out of the clouds. Blinking her eyes in light sparkling across the surrounding walls of clouds, she could see at least three thick shafts of rain crisscrossing their way across the cloud canyon ahead. Soft edged beams of sunlight turned the rain golden before throwing circular rainbows against the dark bellied clouds below them.

She wasn’t getting rained on at the moment, but she wasn’t precisely dry, either. The Venusian air was thick and damp enough to ensure that all by itself. She’d had the wit to wear the dress she’d had treated with gumme waterproofing, but at the moment, all that meant was that moisture pooled down to the base of her spine where she couldn’t reach to pat herself dry. But it was a minor discomfit compared to the awe she was feeling. No other planet did clouds quite like Venus. La spécialité de la maison, as Arnaud might put it.

A mile away, nestled among the rain and the light, floated the Montgolfier flare. It drifted along slowly, held aloft by the heat from its red-orange flame. Periodically, it would be obscured by a sheet of mist, but even then it was bright enough that they could see a diffuse glow where it was.

“Let’s get to it, then circle down!” Nathanial shouted. Although his glider was thirty feet away at best, his voice sounded thin and distant over the rush of the wind and the distant booming of thunder. It was as if he wasn’t entirely real, as if humans weren’t really supposed to be here in this world more suited for Nordic gods than mortal creatures such as themselves. Go back to your world of comfortable hearths and quiet cups of tea, the clouds seemed to say to her.

“The devil with that!” Annabelle cried, earning her a startled glance from the gentlemen. She pulled the control bar hard against her chest. The glider pitched its nose down and the wind obligingly built up speed, making the fabric of the wings flap alarmingly. She wasn’t entirely certain about how fast the craft could go, and a little voice in the back of her head was telling her that she was being needlessly reckless. But for the moment, exhilaration was exceeding discretion.

She felt alive.

Speeding along over a transparent cloud strand towards the flare, she glanced back to see that Arnaud and Nathanial were a good distance above and behind her. Feeling a bit foolish, she tried to throw herself to the left to start the turn. Bound by near immobile control linkages, her swing seat barely moved. The glider didn’t alter its course at all.

“Are we safe, Uncle?” the eight year old girl asked with no real fear as she leaned over the rail to touch a cloud.

“Certainly. I try to make it a rule to fly within established parameters when carrying precious cargo such as you.” Uncle Cyrus smiled with a rare dash of warmness that made Annabelle’s heart feel close to bursting.

Then she considered his words, mouthing them silently to herself. There was something serious there, she knew.

“Uncle? How does one discover what ‘acceptable perimeters’ are?”

“Parameters, my dear.” He pursed his lips, staring at the horizon. It seemed even further away up here. “I’m afraid that their discovery requires the occasional death.” He turned to meet her eyes. “Never forget that.”

Swallowing, Annabelle nodded.

“Good girl,” he said. “How about a Blackjack chew?”

An uncomfortable sensation of alarm settled itself in her stomach. The seat was stubbornly rigid, but it was slowly moving now. The same couldn’t be said of the glider itself. Her muscles burned with the effort of holding the seat forward; she relaxed her grip on the bar to recover. The glider pitched violently upwards into the base of a cloud bank. She felt the whole craft shudder as she snatched the control bar back before she lost too much airspeed. She had no desire to explore what the minimum airspeed necessary for flight was. Let others discover the glider’s acceptable parameters.

There was far too much she had yet to do to allow the luxury of dying in a crash. Or the luxury of sporting about in excitement. She shook her head angrily. Lord, in her own way, she could be as foolish as any silly debutante, couldn’t she? Save in place of squealing over the latest crop of young men, she fell head over heels for adventure.

Or, perhaps denial of limitations. But enough of those thoughts. There’d be plenty of time for introspection on the ground. In the meantime, she’d best steer this glider back to Nathanial and Arnaud before the two of them did something foolish and chivalric. Something such as trying to follow her.

Now that she was back at best glide, the controls reverted to normal. Even so, the glider was hardly as responsive as an aerial flyer. It was less like being a bird than being strapped to a slightly drunken kite. But at least she had it enough under control to rejoin the others.

Spotting the flare through the mists, Annabelle banked in its direction. She promptly flew into a rain shaft hidden by the cloud. The glider bucked downwards, but she had become accustomed enough to its ways that she was able to quickly bring it back to straight and level. Water streamed over her as a sudden gust plastered her hair over her eyes. Brushing it aside, she saw that the glider was glowing a soft violet.

St Elmo’s fire. She’d heard of it, but dismissed most of the odder stories as the exaggeration of sailors. This was no subtle glowing effect, however. Great streams of violet light worked their way across the surface of the glider before reaching the wingtips, where they spun off in spirals like Mayday ribbons off an invisible pole.

Annabelle realised she was holding her breath. She could feel crackling energy run through her, making her feel jittery, as if she’d had a full pot of coffee. No longer stuck to her face, her hair whipped freely in the airstream. She noticed that her locks were trailing their own violet streamers. Perhaps she might set a fashion trend, should she discover a way to replicate the effect for home use. Stranger things had made fortunes in these modern times.

But as fascinating as the phenomenon was, she needed to get back on course. Peering through the glow, she was able to make out the amber light of the flare. She turned towards it, then saw five more flares blink in and out of existence nearby.

Was Thymon setting off multiple flares? But why did they go out? Rain?

A large winged shape plunged at her out of the mists. Orange fire shot ahead of it, billowing around her. Blinded, she pushed the glider into a dive, feeling heat steaming the water off her. Four heartbeats later, she pulled back as hard as she could and punched herself left, a tight spiral.

Something screamed near her, sounding like nothing so much as a crow the size of an elephant. She remembered Forbes-Hamilton telling her about the great creatures of the sky, like the one that had nearly eaten Thymon.

Multiple roars joined the first. She felt heat, but no steam this time, just an acrid smell of smoke. Unable to see anything through the St Elmo’s and the rain, she took a deep breath and steepened her dive, pushing the control bar out to the edge of shudder, then a little beyond.

And just like that, she found herself a few hundred feet above a wide clearing with a bonfire in the middle. At the edges of the clearing were the largely intact shapes of the other two gliders. She could just make out the sound of Nathanial and Arnaud yelling.

Annabelle kept her eyes on the clouds above as she eased out of the steep spiral. She could see nothing up there. The St Elmo’s fire was gone, and the rain had momentarily stopped. As she circled down over the clearing, she thought that it looked like one of the most peaceful places that she’d ever seen.

But she knew better.

Chapter Seven

1.

Nathanial watched Annabelle bank gracefully over the treetops towards the clearing. He almost shouted at her to line up into the wind, but she did that of her own accord. He nearly forgot that the girl had logged her share of hours at the helms of airships and liftwood fliers. A glider was different, of course, but some principles remained the same. Annabelle was a natural aviatrix.

Far too natural for her own good, Nathanial thought as Annabelle slid across the compressed peat of the clearing. He felt himself growing angry with her again, just as he had when he saw her scoot off to frolic in the clouds. What the devil was the girl thinking? This wasn’t a boat trip on the Serpentine; they were in the middle of a dangerous jungle on a dangerous planet flying doubtless dangerous aircraft into enemy territory. Which was dangerous.

He unwrapped a packet of digestive biscuits he’d brought on the trip. One never knew when a biscuit might be called for. He bit with a savagery that alarmed him. Nervous energy, he supposed.

Annabelle, for all the trauma she’d been through and all the deviltry she’d seen, never really seemed to worry as much as any normal person would. Nathanial couldn’t decide if that was a virtue or a vice.

Eh. It was Annabelle. Really, nothing more could be said on the subject. He loped over to her glider, now stopped at the other end of the clearing. She’d managed to bring it down intact, he saw without too much surprise. On the other hand, he and Arnaud hadn’t been quite so fortunate, or to be more honest, skilled. After what could only very generously be called a landing, he and Arnaud had decided that the gliders had been designed to absorb the impact by flying apart in a crash. The more energy spent ripping a wing off, the less spent crushing a would-be aviator’s skull. Besides, clearly the gliders were only intended for one use.

In hindsight, Nathanial was dismayed to realise that conclusion was nothing more than a product of their mutual masculine sense of pride. He liked to imagine that he was above such things, but quite obviously not. At least Arnaud was equally guilty in that regard. The Frenchman seemed far too nonchalant for his own good at times; knowing he had a prickable ego beneath that veneer of Gallic insouciance was oddly heartening.

And it seemed he was also capable of anger.

“Annabelle!” Arnaud snapped as he helped her out of the glider. “Do you have a notion of the fear we had when you went, ah, what is the word, gallivanting off into the void?”

Nathanial was about to add his thoughts when he caught Annabelle’s eye. The girl looked uncharacteristically shaken. “I’m sorry, Arnaud,” she said. “I don’t know what got into me.”

“No?” Arnaud gave her a concerned look. “Are you well? I’ve unpacked a bit of wine, if you feel faint.”

“No, no, that’s—” Annabelle paused. “That would be lovely. A small glass, yes.”

“More like a tin cup, but I suppose it will have to do,” Nathanial said as he took her other arm. He and Arnaud walked her over to the improvised campsite by the bonfire.

Thymon was there, unwrapping provisions from their oilskins. The lizard-man uncoiled to his full height, towering a good head or so above the humans. And that wasn’t including the extra inches provided by his deerstalker.

Thymon swept his hat off his head and bowed at Annabelle, giving her a light tap on the hand with a long, clawed finger. “Miss Somerset, is very good to see you again,” he said in the whistling accents of the lizard-men. “I see you have tamed small rekota.”

“And very good to see you, Thymon,” Annabelle said with a nod of her head. “But I don’t know that I’ve tamed the…rekota? That’s a flying creature, is it not? Are they plentiful around here?” There was a distinct concern in her voice.

“Worried about the fauna?” Nathanial asked her. “Not a frivolous fear at all, truth be told.”

“No,” hissed Thymon softly, touching a scar on his arm. “If not for Master Forbes…” He shook his head with a shudder. “Like not to think about that. Here, just the machine rekota you bring.”

Annabelle allowed Arnaud to help her sit down. “I wish I believed that, dear Thymon,” she said. “But I saw something on the way down. There were lights in the clouds. Flames.”

“Ignis fatuus,” Arnaud said. “It is not an unheard of phenomenon in swamps. There was a curious monograph I read just the other month that suggested a connection between decaying organic matter and the feaux follets.”

“I was a good distance above the swamp,” Annabelle said. “And these were no ethereal lights. Truth, I thought them the flare at first.”

“Leading you astray?” Arnaud said. “Well, this would be consistent with the fables, no?”

“No,” said Annabelle. “I am certain they were flames as real and as hot as this fire beside us.”

“Perhaps you saw the St Elmo’s fire?” Arnaud suggested. He shrugged. “There is no doubting the presence of the electrical fluid in the weather.”

“I’ve seen St Elmo’s more than a few times. I’ve my share of hours airborne, remember?” Annabelle said with a clear touch of irritation. “In fact I encountered it on the way down. No doubt that’s what gave me away.”

“Pardon?” Nathanial said. “Gave you away? You think these lights you were chasing were in fact chasing you? Oh, come now.”

“They almost burnt me alive! I’m not making things up. And I think there were some of those flying creatures nearby as well. What did you call those again, Thymon? Rekotas?”

“Yes,” said Thymon, glancing at the sky. He cocked his head to stare at Annabelle with a saucer sized eye. His nictitating membrane blinked rapidly. “Flames, yes?”

“Yes!” said Annabelle. “If I wasn’t so wet, I’d have been singed. And I could have sworn I saw some huge creature up there.”

“But not one so hungry as to attack?” Nathanial asked.

“It was hard to see, to be honest.” Annabelle sighed. “Perhaps I just imagined that. Or perhaps it was one of you, for all I know. Fine, I’m some scattered brained girl who wouldn’t know an omnibus from an elephant.”

“Not true, and you know full well that’s not what I think,” said Nathanial.

“Oh?” she said. “Then stop patronising me.”

“No one is a perfect observer. It’s a sad reality.” Nathanial considered offering her a biscuit to calm her down, then thought better of it. Besides, he might want one later. For all her other virtues, Annabelle rarely shared. “Look at it from our perspective, dear. Either you saw some admittedly mysterious by-product of the rugged weather hereabouts, perhaps had a near miss with a stray bolt of lightning, or you chased and got chased by a fire-breathing flying creature of unknown provenance.”

“A Venusian dragon?” Arnaud asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

Annabelle shot him an angry look, then her shoulders sagged. “You’re right, of course. I just panicked up there.” She shook her head angrily. “I am such an idiot! You should have left me on the station.”

“No, no,” said Nathanial quickly. “Look, we even brought a bow along for you.”

Annabelle smiled. “Thank you, Nathanial. I suppose the two of you do need some protection.”

“That’s the spirit. But you can more easily protect us if in the future you refrain from diving off into clouds unknown.”

“Your point is well taken.” Annabelle patted his hand. Then she looked puzzled. “Whatever is Thymon doing?”

Nathanial turned to look. The lizard-man was frenziedly attacking the gliders with an axe. Wood and fabric flew as he tore into them, occasionally dropping the axe and ripping away at the wings with his hands.

“What did the devices ever do to our reptilian friend?” Arnaud asked.

“I don’t know,” said Nathanial. “He’s typically quite tranquil, even by human standards.” He paused. “I have to admit, I’m not eager to go over there and intervene.”

“I am agreeing with you,” said Arnaud. “De tout facon, we were not to use those gliders again, is that not so?”

“Vraiment. Well, we’ve a fire and supplies. Anyone for tea?” Nathanial started to rummage through the supplies for the brick of tea he’d packed. Sadly, he’d left the sugar behind. The oilskins had protected everything well enough, but any semblance of dryness would no doubt be temporary once they got going. Already the heavy mist in the clearing was solidifying into a soft drizzle. “Here we go,” he said, triumphantly producing the travel pot with fire trivet attachment. “This little thing has taken me around the Solar System, couldn’t bear to leave it behind, you know?”

“Love some,” said Arnaud, suddenly launching into a coughing fit. Nathanial rushed over to him, only to be waved off. Feeling chagrined beyond belief, Nathanial went back to boiling the water for tea. He’d almost forgotten about his friend’s ailment. Wasn’t that the reason they were here in the first place? Well, Folkard no doubt would have pushed them to come for his reasons, whatever they were. But Nathanial’s would, or at least should, lie with looking after those he cared about.

Like Annabelle, come to think of it. He looked up to see her being helped back to the bonfire by a decidedly calmer Thymon. Nothing remained of the gliders.

“Had to fetch my leg before it got chopped up by our guide,” she said.

“Sorry,” Thymon said. “Small rekota must be destroyed. Can be seen. Now must leave.” He waved at the fire. “No flames. Put out, please.”

“What?” Nathanial asked, surprised. “Would you care to explain? We’re no more visible now than an hour ago, and there’s hardly a German in sight. Let us take the time to prepare for this expedition, eh?”

“No flames!” said Thymon emphatically. He grabbed a shovel and started tossing mud onto the bonfire.

Annabelle grabbed Nathanial’s sleeve. “He’s afraid that the fire will attract the flying creatures that attacked me.”

Nathanial looked mournfully at the barely warm pot of water. “I’ve never heard of a wild beast that was attracted to fire. Quite the opposite, even on Venus.”

“Not beasts,” said Thymon, stamping on the last of the embers. “Fire from the skies. Did not think would be here. If so, I tell Mister Forbes I not come here. Very bad.”

Nathanial’s irritation was passing. Perhaps once he would have dismissed Thymon’s fears as the superstitions of savages, but he’d seen far too many oddities to maintain the scepticism he once held regarding such things, and besides, he could feel a prickling of apprehension curling its way along his spine.

That feeling, on the other hand, he’d learned to trust.

“This fire from the skies, is it an animal?” he asked while staring upwards into the drizzle. He only got rain in his eyes for his efforts.

“Big rekotas, but not their fire. They bring. Will hunt us. Must go!” The lizard-man’s command of English appeared to be slipping as he grew more agitated.

“Well, did we not want to search for our Collins?” asked Arnaud. “And truth, let us trust our friend. Fire breathing or not, I do not wish to be le plat principal for the animal. I’ll make you a nice hot cup when we get there.” He winked.

Nathanial nodded. Arnaud had the right spirit of things. Once at the safehouse, they’d have plenty of time for questions and planning.

“Let’s go,” he said. “You do know the way, don’t you, Thymon?”

The lizard-man clicked his tongue rapidly. “Mister Forbes, he like to say when making things ‘no, buts I has a notion’.” He opened his mouth in what might have been an attempt at a smile.

“Tres bien, a lizard-man with a sense of humour,” said Arnaud, clapping Thymon on the back.

“Let us hope he’s a sense of direction as well,” murmured Nathanial as they set out.

Chapter Eight

1.

As they trudged along, the sound of their bog-shoes slapping the peat provided a counterpoint to the constant sound of collected rain streaming down through the jungle canopy. The ground, if one could call a peat bog such, was actually quite clear of brush, the canopy being thick enough to block out the sunlight groundcover would need to thrive. There were ferns and moss aplenty growing along the bases of the towering cycad trees, but for the most part the only obstacles were the thick gloomy mists that roiled slowly across the bog. Between that and the perpetual twilight created by the canopy, their visibility was one hundred feet at best.

It seemed that nothing could have made Thymon happier. Eschewing the bog-shoes for nothing more than a pair of large leaves he’d tied onto his feet, the lizard-man skated over the soft peat with a grace that seemed entirely at odds with his bulky appearance.

“Soon, I think,” he said after a quick reconnoitre ahead. “The signs are what Mister Forbes tells. Clearing, four large trees like the back of kala lampora across lake. Very soon.” He tried a smile once more, with the usual unfortunate results.

Annabelle took the lizard-man’s massive arm for support, patting it affectionately. “You do realise that to the rest of us, this tree or lake looks fair much like that tree or lake?”

“Perhaps the Skreelan get lost in the skies like humans are lost on ground?”

“You have a point,” Annabelle said. She cocked her head. “Did you say ‘Skreelan’? Is that the name of your people? I have to admit, I’ve never heard the word before.”

Thymon’s face was as indecipherable as ever. “Skreelan,” he said, pronouncing it with far more clicks and whistles than Annabelle could manage. “That is name for all. Not just my peoples. Peoples here, with Germans humans, across seas. Everywhere. Is make sense?”

“The lizard-men, then? Sorry, that’s what we call you. You look to us like a type of animal back home.”

“And humans looks likes the egg eaters to us. Is no problem. Just no eat eggs of Skreelan, oh kay?”

Annabelle laughed. “I do believe you just made a joke. Well, ‘okay’! Been around Americans before, have you?”

“Last year works Scotts tribe, work with Americans, yes. Learn some American talk. Was—” Thymon mimed writing and telegraphing. Annabelle decided to hold back her laughter. “Humans do so many things, yes? You make things like far speaker, like big rekota, like….” With a clap of his jaws, Thymon stopped mid-soliloquy.

“Like what?” Annabelle asked. “Something that bothers you?”

Shyly, Thymon tapped her mechanical leg. “Professor said not to speak of it. But Thymon likes. Very smart, humans.”

Annabelle smiled ruefully. “Well, I can’t say I’m happy about needing it. But yes, I’m fortunate to have such clever friends.” She looked up at Thymon. “Both human and Skreelan. Thank you for the supporting arm. Not to mention bringing me a bow. I can’t believe you remembered that! Hard to find a human male who’d be so attentive to a girl’s needs.”

Thymon looked away quickly. Was the lizard-man embarrassed? It was hard to say, but he had a distinctively sheepish look to him.

“Is nothing, Miss Somerset. Few humans use same things Skreelan do in hunt. So Thymon remember this.”

“I’m an oddity, I know. Not that I don’t use and like modern technology. As you say, walking would be difficult without it.”

“Yes. This is humans. Always with machines. Skreelan is different. Different peoples. Different ways to do same things.”

“So what do your people use to fly?” Annabelle asked.

Thymon looked up and clacked his jaw a few times. “Is not. No. We does not fly. Not Skreelan.” He shook his head emphatically.

“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong? I’m not upset about the glider, if that’s what you think. I honestly didn’t care for it all that much. It was akin to driving a cart more than riding a horse, if that makes any sense.” She sighed. “A flying horse, now that would be something. You know, there’s Martians who fly a local creature they call the skrill. Never got a chance to ride one, of course.”

Thymon shook his head. “Humans use the machines. Is what you know. Skreelan use only what they is made for. Humans should do same.”

“Well, now you’ve lost me,” Annabelle said. “But I’m sorry to upset you.” Thymon nodded slowly, seemingly calmer. “Speaking of lost, how much longer until we get there, do you think?”

“Thymon scout now, oh kay? Will know answer when get back.”

“Oh kay!” said Annabelle as the lizard-man darted away into the mists.

2.

“What the devil got into him?” Nathanial asked as he helped Annabelle put out an oilskin tarp for a picnic lunch.

“My fault, I think,” she said. “Too much philosophy.”

“Ah,” said Arnaud, sitting down on the tarp. “A fault of my people as well. The excesses of la Révolution can be traced to too much talking and not enough eating.” He produced a small tin from his knapsack. “Pâté, anyone? Not to worry, I’ve a flask of something passable as well.”

They were perhaps halfway through an appreciated, if damp, repast when Thymon came bursting back into the clearing. The lizard-man whistled a few anxious chromatic scales punctuated by jaw clicks before turning and pointing in the direction he came.

“Mister Collins house broken!” he managed.

3.

The safehouse would have been nigh on undetectable, save for the three standing stones propped over it, looking for all the world like a stray part of a giant’s jack and ball game. But even with such an obvious landmark, the house itself was built like an earthen bunker, with nothing but slits for windows and a rounded fern-covered dirt mound for a roof. If one didn’t know what to look for, it would have been easily overlooked as yet another clump of vegetation-choked peat.

What couldn’t be overlooked was the ripped open front door and the dense graffiti of peculiar symbols painted on in a myriad of colours. Reminiscent of Celtic triskelions, they seemed to be created by digging into the dirt with a trowel, then filling in the resulting scar with a brightly dyed mixture of sand and mud.

“Who would do this, Thymon?” Annabelle asked the Skreelan, who was hanging back at the edge of the clearing while the men scouted ahead. She’d objected to that, of course, but Nathanial seemed to be in the throes of a chivalry attack. Well, worse come to worse, she had her bow and arrow and a clear line of sight to the building.

The Skreelan shook his head. “Not know, sorry.”

“Well, I don’t know either, so that’s two of us. But honestly, aren’t those symbols the sort of thing you people paint on your belly? Could it be a clan?”

“No. Not thing Skreelan does. No.” Thymon clicked his jaw firmly.

4.

“It’s safe, come on in,” called Nathanial. “Not that there’s much to see,” he added as Annabelle ducked through the low doorway. “I’m thinking he might have run afoul of some rogue tribe or another.” He grimaced. “Occupational hazard for those in the jungles. Hope he didn’t end up in a stewpot.”

“I don’t think he did,” said Annabelle, looking around. “After all, he seems to have cleaned house before leaving.”

The safehouse was Spartan, to say the least. Aside from a mouldering pile of bedding perched atop a rusting cot, the only other items of note in the bunker were a small Franklin stove and a long galvanised cabinet with at least a hundred drawers. Arnaud was methodically going through them, but judging by his occasional dismissive sniffs, finding little of note.

“Perhaps he did leave abruptly. But why then all this destruction?” Nathanial waved at the room. The door to the stove had been ripped off its hinges, spreading coal ash across the woven reed flooring. Water was streaming in through several holes in the ceiling, and a pile of leaves that had blown in through the open door formed the bedding for an excessively healthy colony of Venusian mushrooms.

Annabelle had to admit, it was decidedly untidy. “Perhaps it was done afterwards.” She pursed her lips. “Doesn’t this remind you of something?”

Nathanial glanced around the room. “Maybe?” He pulled at his whiskers. “On second consideration, I’ll go with no.”

“I’m sorry, being a touch cryptic. Must come from hanging about with you two.” Annabelle gave him what she hoped was an amiable wink. “Last time we were here, remember the oberst’s plan?”

“Right, how could I forget? Make the British look like mass murderers, when in fact it was our Prussian friend.” Nathanial nodded. “Thought our old friend had been pulled out by his higher ups. I mean to say, even by German standards that was a bit much.”

“It doesn’t have to be him,” said Annabelle, walking slowly around the room. “But really, why would the locals take such things as books and notes? A researcher would at least have a few maps. But there’s nothing here but mud.” She walked slowly around the room, poking the piles of leaves with her cane. “It’s as if it was first cleared out, then mussed up. Not the behaviour of an angered mob of Skreelan, I think.”

“Skreelan?”

“Their name for themselves,” Annabelle said with glance towards Thymon. The lizard-man was kneeling down next to the cot, apparently looking for clues. What with that deerstalker of his, at any second she half expected him to produce a magnifying glass.

“I think you’re right,” Nathanial said. “If one wished to kidnap a harmless scientist without a diplomatic incident, why not pin it on the natives? But the next question is where is—”

He was interrupted by a piercing whistle from Thymon. The Skreelan leapt to his feet, knocking over the cot in his haste. The cot had been hiding a now open box filled with dry straw.

Resting on the straw like an egg in a nest was a mummified hand. Slightly larger than a human hand but more graceful and delicate than the claw-like hand of Skreelan, it had four long fingers opposed to each other.

“Here now, Thymon,” Nathanial said. “It’s dead. Can’t hurt us now, whatever it is.” He picked up the box. “Annabelle, you seem to have some control over him, could you settle him down?”

“I think he can hear you perfectly well,” Annabelle said. “He’s not a beast.” She put her hand on Thymon’s arm. “Can you tell us what the trouble is?”

“Four fingers, come from skies,” said Thymon. “If hatchlings are noisy in the nights, comes to take and eats them.” He tried a smile with the usual unsatisfactory results. “Story. Perhaps scared Thymon when Thymon small. Sorry humans.”

“Right, a superstition. I thought as—” Nathanial was cut off by a sharp look from Annabelle. He resumed examining the hand.

“Almost like the foot of bird, no?” Arnaud said. “No claw. Difficult to believe that would be a survival trait.”

“Always the Darwinian, my dear Arnaud?”

Arnaud shrugged. “Even the Lamarckian would acknowledge fauna sans defence would not last long on Venus.”

“We haven’t claws.”

“Exactement. We have the reasoning ability, yes? We make our own claws. In likewise, whatever this is, it must have been able to defend itself. If not with ability given by nature, then with its intellect. Quod erat demonstratum.”

“I wonder how old this is?” Nathanial asked no one. “Mummified, but how long would that last on this planet? This isn’t the Egyptian desert. Things rot with distressing ease.”

“Preserved for now,” Arnaud said. “But temporarily. I think our friend Collins made a discovery and this is a sample.”

“Stopped by our German friends before he could tell anyone,” Nathanial said.

“But yes.” Arnaud looked concerned. “My friend, I am thinking what you are thinking.”

Nathanial raised an eyebrow. “You know my thoughts so easily?”

Arnaud smiled quickly. “Perhaps. But this is not the time for such conversation. For now, I will be happy to leave here with skin intact. The one thing the world has learned over the last few decades is that Prussians are an efficient people, if not always the best of neighbours. And an efficient kidnapping would include the plan for any rescuer who might arrive after, non?”

“Yes.”

“Allons-y, then.”

“But where?” Nathanial asked. “Are we supposed to just squat outside in the mud, wandering aimlessly about looking for minerals? We still have no idea where to start. I’m for caution, but I’m also for doing what we came here for. Else we might as well have Thymon take us to the extraction zone.”

“Your cot is not uncomfortable, as I recollect,” Arnaud said with a subtle wink.

Nathanial looked around, but Annabelle did not appear to notice. Nonetheless… “And how are your lungs?” he asked pointedly.

As if in answer, Arnaud unsuccessfully attempted to suppress a cough. “I understand. But it is better in the damp.”

“Well then, it’s settled,” Nathanial said. “Until we get the Ceren minerals back to Earth, your lungs are best off with us down here.”

“You seem to have an excess of motivation. With all due respect for your concern, I can worry about my own lungs. I do not relish the thought of being captured by the Germans.”

“Oh, we’ve survived the experience before. Admittedly, not with anything approaching ease, but there it is,” Nathanial said with a cheerfulness he didn’t feel. “I don’t want to abandon this area, not until we discover whatever it is that Collins found out. It’s what we were sent down here to do. And besides, we’re just civilians. We’ve plausible deniability here. We were completely manipulated into that particular advantage, but sitting here, I have to admit that perhaps Folkard was right. We’re no threat at all.”

“You say that as if it were a good thing,” Arnaud said. “Myself, I wish for the occasional ability to threaten.”

Nathanial looked over at Annabelle, who was sifting through the cabinet drawers with Thymon. “Find anything?”

Annabelle frowned. “Nothing. Thymon suggested that Collins might have written something on the drawers themselves, or perhaps hidden inside. But we came up bust, I’m afraid.” With Thymon’s assistance, she limped over to the cot and lay down. “I’m sorry, Nathanial.” She sounded beyond tired.

Nathanial felt deflated. It had been a lovely little speech of his, right then. But while it was all well and good to talk about perseverance and duty, there was the niggling difficulty of figuring out what exactly they were supposed to do.

“Thymon?” he asked. The Skreelan was standing over Annabelle, staring at her intently. “Are you any good at tracking things? You know, following the footprints left by Collins?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Thymon said without looking up. “But outside is no tracks. Not that Thymon saw. Not the best hunter, Thymon. Good speaker, yes. Others is better with the bow and arrow.” He nodded at Annabelle. “Perhaps Miss Somerset can finds the tracks.”

Annabelle patted Thymon’s leathery hand. “You flatter me. I can shoot things, but finding them is another matter. I knew Apaches who could track a man’s week old trail through the desert, and even tell you how old the fellow was. But I suspect even they would be hard pressed to track anything in a bog with all this rain. It fills in far too quickly.”

“Then I say we head off to the nearest German settlement and scout things out.” Nathanial held a hand up. “I know, it sounds foolish. But it’s the most logical place that Collins would be held. Travel in this swamp is troublesome, and we just have to hope that he’s still there.”

“You are not planning on capturing and interrogating a poor peat farmer, are you?” Annabelle said.

Nathanial sighed. “I honestly don’t know. Maybe. Maybe we can do this with some semblance of diplomacy. But clearly the Germans are hiding something, and not just Collins. I don’t want to crawl back empty handed.”

“Arnaud’s right,” Annabelle said. “You’re truly driven. Are these rocks worth so much to you?”

“Something is going on here,” Nathanial said. “But we’ve no idea what. And that hand raises even more questions. What was Collins on to?”

Annabelle sat up. “Fine, then. As Arnaud says, allons-y. We can take that ghastly hand along for further study, don’t you worry.”

“Should pack it in oilskin, though,” Nathanial said. “Can’t risk it getting destroyed by the damp. Then wrap some more around the box proper. One simply can’t be too safe.”

“I don’t think that an excess of safety is an issue at the moment,” Arnaud said.

“That’s precisely the issue,” Nathanial said. He gingerly lifted the hand out of its box, along with enough bedding to cushion it. Then he paused. “Here’s our purloined letter.” He pulled out the last of the bedding and pointed at a scrawled message on the inside of the box. “Embarrassingly obvious, eh?”

Annabelle looked inside. “The gods brought themselves down,” she read. “Not exactly a latitude and longitude of where he’s being held, is it?”

“Not exactly much of anything except disturbing,” Nathanial said. “Did he go mad?”

“The base commander didn’t seem to think he was playing with a full bag of marbles,” Annabelle said. “Who knows, perhaps he did all these artistic embellishments on his own. In which case, we are on our own.”

Nathanial smiled wanly. “What else is new?”

Chapter Nine

1.

Leave it to the Germans to discover a way to drain the swamps of Venus, Nathanial thought. That said, nothing remained dry on this planet for long. The mining pits on either side of the dike they were walking on were already filling up with rainwater. A hundred yards below them, the steam diggers lay abandoned, half-covered by dark brown water.

There was no sign of anyone, human or Skreelan. All they could hear was the soft patter of rain.

“It is apparent that our friends were looking for something,” said Arnaud. “Although I see no signs of Asterium ore down in those pits.”

“Underneath the water?” Nathanial suggested.

“Perhaps,” Arnaud said. “Shall we have a look? I don’t see any persons at all. This spying business is easier than I expected.”

“I have to admit, that worries me,” said Annabelle. “You two go off exploring, Thymon and I will stand guard up here.”

Nathanial thought that a good idea, what with her leg. Annabelle had done well enough on the hike over, admittedly with the occasional need to lean on Thymon’s arm. But the embankment leading to the bottom of the pit was fairly steep and the leg’s stabilisers far too rudimentary.

He watched Annabelle string her bow, then go through her quiver of arrows, sighting down each to check them for straightness with a practiced efficiency. He decided against voicing his concerns to Annabelle. She might not be able to climb mountains, but she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. As he was sure he’d be told should he raise the subject.

“German humans must be in the big house of hard water,” Thymon said, peering into the distance. “Too much rains to see.”

“Hard water?” said Nathanial. “Oh, right, the eishaus. Thought they only could afford ice cooling up on the plateau.” There really must be something here for the Germans to invest resources and money into a state of the art climate control device.

“Human peoples no like heat,” Thymon said.

“It’s cooler on our world, mostly.”

“Thymon knows.” Thymon clicked what might have been a laugh. “Not strange not to see German humans hide in house. But no other peoples here. Thiss is strange.”

“You mean no Skreelan?” Nathanial asked.

“Yessss. Most work done by Skreelan if no machines is used.” Those clicks of his were almost certainly laughter, Nathanial decided. “German humans prefer the naps during day.”

“Perhaps we can catch them napping, then,” said Annabelle. “I’m thinking that they had a revolt or some such. Why else would they be on their own without help?”

“Could be,” said Nathanial. “Just so long as any rebel Skreelan can tell the difference between us and their former masters.”

“Thymon will explain difference to Skreelan,” said Thymon.

“Let’s hope they listen to reason if that’s the case,” said Nathanial. “But we won’t get any answers just sitting here.”

“Indeed,” said Arnaud. “Mademoiselle Annabelle has arranged her quiver, and I mine,” he said, patting the satchel that contained his survey equipment. “After you, mon ami.”

The hike down the earthen embankment was easily enough done, although at times it resembled more of a slide than anything else. Testing the peat-stained water with a walking stick, it appeared to be only a few feet deep.

“Can you get a sample from the mud?” Nathanial asked Arnaud.

“Yes. But first I am thinking I want to see this machine. It would seem most likely to be near the ore, eh? I do not think they will be digging where they think there will be no result.”

“True.” Nathanial had wanted to look over the digger anyway. It reminded him somewhat of the bore drill he had driven during his first visit to Luna. A squat thing the size of a locomotive engine, it was stained with the inevitable rust of anything iron on Venus. Its front end sprouted a long drill half again its length. The backside was adorned with large drainpipes that discharged onto a long conveyor belt that led to a mound of displaced mud and rock in the middle of the water. There was certainly no danger of its winning an award for design aesthetics.

But Nathanial was never one to judge a piece of equipment by anything other than its functionality. He’d always had a boyish love for machinery. Later in life, that passion had become the impetus for his interest in aether propeller design. He absolutely loved seeing thousands of parts working together towards one goal. There might have been a metaphor for human achievement there, but more prosaically, he felt that tools were what defined intelligent life. An ape might pick up a stick to catch tasty termites, but it was an object of convenience, not purposeful design.

It was a belief that had always bothered him about the intelligence named Hermes that they’d discovered on Mercury. Hermes just was, and didn’t seem to create or grow, much less make tools. It was perplexing, and Nathanial had to wonder if Hermes really was an intelligent being with a divinely granted soul. Could it be just some form of incomprehensibly advanced machinery? Perhaps it merely mimicked intellect, in the same way that a phonograph cylinder mimicked speech.

But if that were the case, then who—or what—created Hermes?

Nathanial shook his head. They had enough problems without him letting his mind wander. Hermes, if it still existed, was several million miles away at the moment, and very much the least of his worries.

Arnaud was already scampering up the ladder that led to the top of the digger, where its control cab was.

“Perhaps they have ore samples onboard,” Arnaud called down. “Would be much more easy than to swim to the refuse pile over there, non?” He disappeared out of sight.

The control cab was perched at the end of the digger’s body that overlooked the drill bit, looking for all the world like a slightly undersized bowler worn by a locomotive. Getting to it required climbing along the length of the digger, passing various gearings that led to the lower power train shaft, lines of pipes with adjustment valves and a forest of exhaust stacks that gave the digger a faint resemblance to a hedgehog.

Nathanial watched the drizzle stream down the stacks. The water wasn’t even sizzling, much less boiling away. He cautiously placed the back of his hand against the metal.

It was as cool as anything ever got on Venus.

Nathanial picked up his pace, making better time now that he was willing to use the nearby pipes as handholds. It was perplexing. He wasn’t sure about the protocol for diggers, but ships rarely let their boilers get cold, not if they needed to be ready to sail or soar at a moment’s notice. A large engine could literally take days before it was hot enough to get up to full steam. Even now, Jack was tending the solar boiler on Esmeralda 2. Had the Germans abandoned this site? If they had, why did they leave something as valuable as a digger behind?

Nathanial had the feeling that the answers to those questions might be less than pleasant. He caught up with Arnaud outside the control cab. A glance at his friend’s face told him that he wasn’t alone in the thoughts. Arnaud looked grim.

“I am unable to open this door,” he said, wiping his brow with a soiled kerchief. “But I think it is not locked so much as blocked by something.”

“I wonder what. I mean, there’s no one inside, is there?” Nathanial suppressed the urge to knock.

“No one home, I think. But perhaps we will find a clue, should we get this door open. Shall we?”

Nathanial nodded quickly. Without saying another word, they forced the door open and entered.

2.

The cab was a mess. The view ports were shuttered, but the gumme rubber canopy that served as a roof was in tatters, allowing the rain and vegetation to do their work on the control panels and steering console. But it wasn’t the muck that had held the door closed.

That difficulty was courtesy of the last efforts of the digger operator, whose mummified corpse still clung tightly to an iron bar he had braced against the door jam. It was hard to say if the terrified rictus on the corpse’s face was due to the effects of mummification, or if mummification had preserved the man’s last few moments of horror.

Nathanial decided he didn’t want to know.

Kneeling down next to the body, Arnaud tapped its skin with one finger.

“Taut as a drum, is that the saying? If you’ll pardon the imagery, this poor man has been turned into a large piece of dried beefsteak. Preserved well enough to prevent the rot, even in this natural Turkish bath.”

“Just like that hand we found.”

“It is possible. I might even venture to say almost certainly related. It is too much of an oddity to be coincidence, I think.”

“Who would do something like this?” Nathanial said, pacing around the cab. “Killing someone, then going to all the trouble of mummifying them? Then just leaving them in place?”

“It makes no sense, I agree. But look, what do you see? Or rather, what do you not see?”

Calming himself, Nathanial joined Arnaud in his examination of the corpse.

“How did he die?” Nathanial said. “Other than being completely dehydrated, he’s in perfect condition.

“Perfect for a dead man, yes.”

Nathanial looked at the ripped awning over their heads, half expecting to see someone—or something—drop through it at any moment. “So. As Edwin’s favourite detective might say, we’re left with the impossible.”

“Mais oui.” Arnaud jerked a thumb at the ceiling. “Our friend here was caught unawares as he was attempting to hold the door closed. His nemesis must have torn through the roof, perhaps with a knife.”

“It’s a big hole.”

“A big knife, then.”

“Then death by desiccation.”

Arnaud unbuttoned the driver’s tunic. “Here. It is hard to see with the wrinkling of the flesh, but there seem to be several small holes in his skin.”

Nathanial shuddered. “As if pierced by a hundred syringes.”

“Precisely. A mummifying machine, I am thinking. It would not be that hard to design, although I cannot think of a need for it.”

“Nor can I,” Nathanial said, standing up and opening the shutters. “If someone wanted this fellow dead, there are simpler ways to kill a man.”

“Thousands. But how many would be so frightening as to scare off the rest of the colony?”

“That sounds as plausible as anything else, I suppose.” Nathanial peered out of the window. The mists were parting, allowing him to just make out the shadowy outline of the eishaus. Littered along the road leading to it were a few score of corpses, their arms and legs contorted and pointing straight up into the sky, reminiscent of a dead colony of insects.

Insects.

“What if those syringes were attached to a beast?” Nathanial said. “If Luna had oversized ants, why not oversized mosquitoes or ticks on Venus? A creature that drains all fluid from the victim. What do you think of that hypothesis?”

“If true, we need to leave soon. I am thinking now would be good.” Arnaud gave up trying to close the shrunken eyes of the driver and stood up. “Rest in peace, mon ami.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in an afterlife.”

“I don’t. But I believe in rest. Heaven is a myth perpetrated by the bourgeoisie, but eternity is all too real.”

It was a rare glimpse into Arnaud’s philosophical side, but this was hardly a coffee house were they could discuss such things at leisure. Nathanial decided that, assuming they got out of this without perforated hides, he’d definitely enjoy joining Arnaud in conversation over a few bumpers of port, preferably at an establishment unlikely to toss an atheistic Frenchman out the door.

But for now, he just wanted to get out of here.

3.

“Annabelle!” Nathanial yelled as they clambered up the mud slope.

“The same,” the girl replied, casually nocking an arrow. She squinted into the distance. “You look frantic. Is something chasing you?”

“No. At least, not yet,” Nathanial said as he struggled to catch his breath. “But something strange is going on.” He quickly outlined what they had seen.

“Murderous mad scientist or carnivorous insects?” Annabelle shuddered. “Why don’t we ever discover something pleasant? Perhaps a panda or an alien puppy, for an example.”

“I suspect even the puppies around here would be reptilian monstrosities. No offense, Thymon,” Nathanial added with an apologetic glance at their guide.

“Had pets when hatchling,” Thymon said with an oddly human like shrug. “Humans call it snakes, but hads legs. Was not pretty, is true. But would play with Thymon, and Thymon love back. Thymon very sad when had to eat it.”

“Wait,” said Nathanial. “You ate your pet snake?”

“Was hard year, not enough food. Was snake or Thymon’s brother. And brother owed Thymon money.”

“He makes jokes now,” Annabelle interjected.

“That is rather a matter of opinion, I’d say.” Nathanial studied Thymon’s impassive features. Was the Skreelan holding back a smile?

“Prawns,” whispered Arnaud.

“Pardon?” said Nathanial. Then he looked down the embankment where Arnaud was pointing. The stagnant water was swarming with what indeed looked like prawns, suitable for boiling up and serving with cocktail sauce. Then he realised that their size was being obscured by distance.

“Look at them next to that shovel,” Arnaud said. “I will say a meter, at the very least.”

“I’m rather glad we decided against wading out to that rock mound.”

Arnaud drew his breath in. “I as well. But it seems our prawns are not averse to wading onto land. Regard!”

Prawns surged onto the land, crawling their way up the mud embankment.

“Do you think they’re our culprit?” Nathanial asked.

“I think I do not wish to conduct the observations necessary to discover that answer.”

Thymon made a clacking roar and swept Annabelle off her feet. “Eishaus!” he yelled.

Nathanial looked back to see a carpet of meter long prawns covering the embankments on either side.

He decided not to look back again. Running was a far more suitable item for the agenda.

Chapter Ten

1.

They hurried along past the dehydrated corpses of German workers sprawled along the top of the embankment. Their dead eyes stared up into the rain, making them look as if they were still begging for a mercy that never came.

Thymon was carrying Annabelle over his shoulder despite her protests.

“I can walk on my own!” she shouted.

“No walk now,” Thymon said. “See no dead Skreelan here? Humans not always run when they must.”

“I think I agree with our friend,” Nathanial said.

Clearly unhappy, Annabelle nonetheless settled down and held onto Thymon tightly. Nathanial was reminded of a penny dreadful he’d seen at a newsstand once. It had some horrid title along the lines of Bug Eyed Monsters of Mercury or some such, with a cover illustration that seemed to imply that alien monsters had no greater desire in life than to carry a young human female across the threshold.

To call such affection unlikely was an understatement, of course. Presumably monsters would prefer to court other eligible young monsters, perhaps restricting themselves to those with established incomes or dowries. But Nathanial reflected that interspecies love in the form of friendship was clearly possible. Thymon would probably have been best off leaving them all to the ministrations of the prawns instead of slowing himself down carrying Annabelle. And yet here he was, risking himself to help his human friends.

As Arnaud might point out, self-sacrifice wasn’t precisely a survival trait. But at this moment, it was more than welcome.

Certainly, the two men couldn’t compete with Thymon’s strength and stamina. Despite his burden, the Skreelan was easily able to maintain a pace that was pushing Nathanial to the edge of exhaustion and Arnaud into fits of coughing.

“Are you all right?” Nathanial asked Arnaud.

“Decidedly more so than if we slow down,” Arnaud managed to wheeze out. “Please. Keep moving.”

Nathanial bit his lip. There was no arguing with that. But so far, they were keeping pace ahead of the sea of prawns crawling after them. Which raised the question of how the Germans had managed to get caught. The poor digger operators had no doubt been caught off guard, but what of the rest? For all their size, the prawns seemed no faster than their Earth counterparts.

They must have surrounded their victims, Nathanial realised. There were undoubtedly prawns all over this colony. Assuming that was the case, there could be no question of slowing. As if in answer to that thought, the sun broke through the clouds just enough to part the mists ahead and revealed the eishaus a mere hundred yards away on a small central plateau with a web of embankments leading to it. In fact, it looked very much like a spider, what with it being perched atop ten foot high stilts.

“It must have needed those stilts once,” said Nathanial.

“Before they drained the bog to look for the minerals, yes,” said Arnaud. “Can prawns climb the stilts, I wonder?”

“I just hope we can.”

Ahead, on the far embankments, Nathanial saw a golden-brown glint of light reflecting off a mass of swarming carapaces. Well, if they died here, perhaps future xenobiologists might grant them the honour of naming the prawns after them. It would only be fair.

For some reason the thought didn’t comfort him. Neither did the pile of dehydrated corpses at the base of the ladder leading to the eishaus entrance. But unlike the unfortunate Germans, they had made it to safety. They’d just have to find out how real that safety was.

2.

Those who’d visited the great Eispalast of Venusstadt spoke of its neo-Classical architecture braced with a splash of Teutonic bombast. While its rooms proper were lushly furnished affairs suitable for entertaining dignitaries in style, the halls connecting the rooms were long and airy, lined with marble statues of chisel-jawed heroes for whom the hazy memory of history allowed a certain level of cosmetic embellishment. One wondered what the advent of the photograph would do for such nonsense, of course. Would future generations of German schoolboys be treated to images of Bismarck with an Olympian physique? No doubt, if the Chancellor had any say in it, they would.

But no statues, exaggerated or otherwise, were to be found in this eishaus. It had stuck to pure military functionality, with excavation tools lined up around the walls like weapons and rows of purely functional bunks. The one nod to comfort was the central ice storage unit and the heat exchanger piping that crisscrossed the ceiling, but even that managed to convey a certain stoicism, as if it wanted to inform the occupants that it was only there to promote greater efficiency in their work output.

The architectural details seemed rather secondary to the far too familiar stench of death pervading the room, courtesy of a corpse laying on a bunk. Unlike his fellows, he had escaped desiccation. But not death.

“L’odeur!” Arnaud said, waving a hand in front of his nose. “So much for any provisions, eh? That is to say, if anyone has appetite left. Shall we drop him out the door to join his fellows?”

Annabelle glared at him. “Grant the man some dignity.”

“Don’t look so askance at me,” Arnaud said, meeting her eyes. “I sorrow for the man and shudder for the horrors he saw. But this is not the man. This is a body. The only reason to keep it is to examine cause of death, and since that is unrelated to our mystery, my nose would prefer a bit more distance between us. We haven’t time to be other than practical.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and smiled gently. “Come now, I know you have seen dead men before today.”

“There is a difference between being accustomed to something and being uncaring, sir.” She nodded. “But you’re right, it’s unhealthy to keep him inside.”

“No maggots,” Arnaud noted as he and Thymon dragged the body away. “Don’t really have an analogue to the fly on the planet, do they? Tell me, Thymon, what happens to animals when they die?”

“Things dies, things eat things.” Thymon said. “Sorry to make Miss Somerset angry.”

“No, no, we all have tension, considering the imminent death threat, et alias. It makes for a temperament quick to anger. And you are not the subject of that temper.”

Nathanial found a few pages in German. He was glad that he’d spent much of the last month of aether travel improving his German; after working alongside Chauncy Wendt on Ceres he realised it was an increasing necessity. They did seem to encounter Germans often on their travels.

The deceased man hadn’t been terribly literate, but he’d kept something of a journal in his final days. It had the terseness of someone uncomfortable with the written word. But perhaps there hadn’t been much to say.

“No revelations from beyond the grave, I’m afraid,” Nathanial said as he read. “Poor souls holed up here until they starved to death.” He made a face. “Apparently they spoke of cannibalism, but couldn’t bring themselves to do the necessary.”

“I see no stove inside,” Arnaud said. “I imagine human tartare is less than a delicacy. Of course, if one discovered the proper marinade—”

“Arnaud, please,” Nathanial interrupted. Without looking, he could sense Annabelle wasn’t particularly amused. “At least this confirms that it was our prawns which killed the digger crews. The native workers fled when the first body was found, it seems. The humans began an investigation. By the time they realised it was the prawns, they were surrounded.”

“What is the saying?” Arnaud said. “Something about a curious cat being killed? Or in this event, turned into a mummy? Very Egyptian, I think.”

“Didn’t they know about these creatures ahead of time?” Annabelle said, pointedly ignoring Arnaud. “I mean to say, there’s an awful lot of prawns out there, if you haven’t noticed. The Germans must have run into them when constructing this site. All those pits weren’t dug in a day, after all. So the question is, what caused the prawns to swarm like that? Perhaps we can reverse whatever those conditions are.”

“I don’t think so,” Nathanial said. He paged through the journal. “Apparently it happened during the draining, when they started digging for minerals.”

“Aha!” said Arnaud. “We are vindicated. They were after the asterium deposits, just as our friend Collins was and just as we are.”

“Speaking of Collins,” said Nathanial, “I can’t say I hold out any great hope for him, unless he was taken elsewhere by the Germans. No mention of him in this journal. If he escaped, well, I find it hard to imagine he’d survive with all these creatures around.”

Annabelle wiped the mildew off a nearby window and looked out. “Thousands of them out there,” she said with a shudder. “But they can’t climb the pilings, praise the Lord. Why don’t they give up?”

“They’re not sentient,” Nathanial said. “Why doesn’t a beetle give up?”

“No, I understand Annabelle,” Arnaud said. “We are not that much food. And they are being oddly persistent, no? To pursue us is a waste of the energy. The analogy that comes to mind is a disturbed hive. Perhaps the digging woke them out of hibernation, and this is a reflex of defence.”

“Perhaps,” said Nathanial. “Any ideas about what might return them to that blessed state of hibernation?”

“Leaving, I think would be a good start.”

Annabelle turned to Thymon. “Do you still have those flares for signalling Mister Forbes-Hamilton?”

“But yes,” said Thymon, patting his satchel. “Did not wish to walk all the way home. But Thymon does not wish to leave by the door.”

“We can try out the window, eh?” Nathanial said.

Thymon unpacked the Montgolfier. In an apparent fit of whimsy, Forbes-Hamilton had painted the flare like its namesake balloon from eighteenth century France, complete with baroque ribbons and painted gold trim. Nathanial sighed to himself. One really couldn’t expect anything less from a fellow who seemed to think that a dragon figurehead was a suitable design feature for the prow of a modern airship.

In all fairness, it was of otherwise elegant and straightforward design. It used the heat of the flare to fill the balloon envelope and lift it to altitude. Still, he could have done without the flags.

“Flags have uses,” Thymon insisted when Nathanial asked for a saw to cut the offending decorations off. “This burns when flare is above clouds. Makes sparks. Easy to see.”

“I see. It’s a timed magnesium ignition thingee,” Nathanial said. “Right. Well, perhaps a bit theatrical, but right now, I won’t argue with anything that gets us rescued. The brighter the flames, the better.”

“Perhaps,” said Thymon, pausing in the middle of assembly. “Perhaps we get rescue and not need flares? Oh kay?”

“Not okay!” Annabelle said. “Mister Forbes-Hamilton thinks we’re busy quantity surveying, not surrounded by carnivorous nasty things intent on a snack.” She stood up and put her hand on Thymon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, you know this. So what is bothering you?”

Thymon took his deerstalker cap off and scratched his head. “Is true, what Miss Somerset says. Oh kay, Thymon not worry about silly stories for hatchlings.”

“You mean that fire in the sky thing that Annabelle saw?” Nathanial said. “In all fairness, I’m not sure you’re starting at shadows. I mean, she did see something.”

“Thank you,” Annabelle said. “But right now it’s the devil we know against the devil we don’t. And if it’s some sort of firebreathing rekota like Thymon’s stories, well then, so be it. Given a choice between a dragon and shrimp, I’ll take the dragon. I don’t have enough arrows for all those shrimp.”

3.

Annabelle watched the flare float gently up into the clouds where it turned into a soft fuzzy patch of amber light, then slowly faded away into darkness. Night-time on Venus was unsettling at times, as the clouds kept any starlight from reaching the ground and the absence of civilization meant that there was not so much as a campfire. Only the occasional distant lightning flash cast any light at all, and when it did, she’d rather it didn’t. It just illuminated the writhing mass of prawns below them.

No sense looking out the window if all she saw was going to give her nightmares. Or would, if she could sleep. Curling up on a bunk, she could hear the distant gnawing sound of the prawns. Were they chewing on the wooden stilts? She had a vision of the eishaus collapsing onto the ground, prawns bursting through the walls, their long spiky mouths ready to pierce—

Annabelle sat up, panting.

“You cannot sleep, as well?”

“No,” she said, turning to face Arnaud’s voice. The man could be exasperating at times, but he was still a friend. And she needed someone to talk to. “I have difficulty with waiting.”

“You are much more one who acts than one who waits, I think.”

“I’m told it’s a bit of a character flaw. Unladylike and all that.”

Arnaud somehow managed to convey a shrug in the darkness. “I find caring about the thoughts of others to be less than profitable. Tell me, do our little friends outside care about your imperfect manners?”

“My imperfect manners?” Annabelle laughed quietly. “Well, you just did say you didn’t care, didn’t you? And yes, the shrimp don’t care, either. They are little multi-legged vampires, waiting to suck every bit of nutrition out of us. To them, we’re nothing more than this biscuit here,” she said, producing a biscuit from her reticule. She looked at it glumly, before tucking into it with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“You have found our chère Nathanial’s secret cache, eh?”

“We may very well die. Horribly, I might add. I thought it justified stealing a treat. Or three.”

“Biscuits need no justification, especially if an alleged friend is caught hording. But I don’t think they are after us for nutrition.”

“They’re not dropping in for the latest gossip from Earth,” Annabelle said. “That’s right, you made the analogy to a disturbed beehive. But even bees give up after a while.”

“Mais oui. Not that Venusian and Terrestrial fauna need be precisely alike, of course. But there are basic principles of behaviour. Any behaviour, no matter how maladaptive must have a predicate in some other behaviour that was beneficial.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“As I mentioned, they must have been hibernating, or they would have denuded the area. Very well, I think, they are like unto locusts that save their energy before going on a wild holiday of eating and reproduction. One may insert the necessary joke about university students here.”

Annabelle decided to bite her tongue. Everyone reacted to danger in different ways. It seemed Arnaud’s method of coping was to be outrageous. It was better than curling into a sobbing heap, she decided.

“But not these prawns,” Arnaud continued. “They misuse their no doubt fleeting existence to kill and chase what can profit them little. Ce n’est pas possible.”

“But it is possible. Look outside, if you don’t believe it.”

Annabelle heard Arnaud stand up and walk to the window.

“Still dark,” he said. “But one thing is clear. This is not a natural species. They can neither nourish themselves, nor take the time to reproduce. There will be no dandling of little prawns upon the paternal knee for them. If they have knees. My understanding of anthropod anatomy is limited.”

“I’m really not following. You think these are unnatural? Undead vampire shrimp?”

“Your tastes in reading are corrupting you. No, that would be silly. I mean that something happened to these prawns to make them behave so. I can only guess at something related to the mineral deposits.”

“I don’t think we’re going to have the chance to find out, I’m afraid.”

Arnaud sighed. “I agree. The asterium ore is directly under us. Were it not for our friends, I could start experiments right now. But instead, we must flee for our lives.”

“Hopefully we’ll get the chance to—” Annabelle froze. She could see Arnaud’s face now, dimly illuminated by a reddish light. “Look outside. Do you see anything?”

“Mon dieu!” Arnaud cried. “Indeed, I see a red glow in the clouds. Let us hope that it is the Aeronaut, and not your Venusian dragon.”

Annabelle stepped up to the window. The light looked just like the ones she’d seen on her way down. As it grew brighter, it split into ten or so separate lights that moved around in a loose formation, reminding her of nothing so much as a formation of migratory geese.

As if in response to that thought, there was a great screaming caw like a thousand eagles in unison overlaid with the rumbling hiss of an angry locomotive. Flames erupted from the bottom of the cloud where the lights had been, backlighting the silhouettes of a dozen great winged shapes swooping down over the trees. Each was easily the size of a fully grown cycad tree, with a wingspan of ten or more meters. They levelled off just above the treeline, their great wings slowly flapping in unison until they reached the edge of the plantation.

Fire shot out ahead of the beasts, torching the ground in front of them. Steam billowed from the peat, corkscrewing off their wingtips.

“I’m afraid that I’ll have to vote for dragons,” Annabelle whispered in the silence that followed the roar.

Arnaud nodded, raptly staring out the window. “I am thinking that these are not the rekota that Thymon spoke of.”

“Opeme u Mola,” Thymon said from behind them. “The screams of heaven. Have mouth size can swallow rekota,” he said, touching his scar left by a rekota some years back. “Is story.”

“This is the story about the fires in the sky? The one you were afraid was true?”

“Yes,” Thymon said. “Thymon is sad to be right.”

“Don’t be so certain in your regret,” Nathanial said as he joined them at the window. “Look, the prawns are being frightened off.”

Silent now, the beasts flew low over the dikes through sheets of intermittent rain, flames wreathing them and making the mists explode into great clouds of fog. By the ruddy light of the fire, they could see masses of prawns roiling in all directions. Some scuttled away down the embankments, but most were caught in the flames, leaving steaming piles of carapaces littering the causeway.

Another great cry broke through the sound of rain and wind, and the opeme stopped flaming. Some of the peat had ignited, littering the black landscape with scattered fires that illuminated the black bodies of the opeme as they banked up and around without flapping, their wingtips nearly touching. There was no sign of the prawns anymore, at least not living ones.

“We can be eaten by dragons, instead of drained by prawns,” Arnaud said. “Oddly, I find this preferable.”

“There’s only twelve of them,” Annabelle said. “I’ve taken down larger creatures. And we’ve cover here.”

“Unless this hut catches on fire,” Nathanial said. “Not to be a wet blanket, sorry.”

Annabelle swallowed. She’d seen the remains of pioneers burned to death in their wagons. At least for her parents, it had been a quick death by axe blow.

“Is oh kay, Miss Somerset?” Thymon tentatively touched her shoulder with his great clawed hand.

Annabelle patted his hand. “More or less. Don’t mind me. So, what do your stories say about the opeme?”

“Old creatures. Some think all gone many years ago. But when were still many, screams at night mean fire in the skies will be seen. Fires comes, burn huts, burn crops, make Skreelan run.”

“And shall I guess? Skreelan become dinner.”

Thymon shook his head. “No. Opeme kill with fire sometimes, yes. But not eat. Just take hatchlings.”

“They take your children?”

“Yes. They take hatchlings to Nahe Gadewalu. In English, means Old Ones. Never see hatchlings again.”

“Old Ones, eh?” said Nathanial. “Well, I’d call it a typical myth, rather like a Baba Yaga equipped her own flying reptiles to do the necessary child snatching. Except for the fact that we’re looking right at those reptiles.”

Outside, the opeme slowed to a landing in front of the Eishaus. They looked less like dragons and more akin to birds, albeit without feathers. They had long, narrow heads with crocodilian jaws and a crest like a rooster’s, but long and streamlined. Their two legs were short and stocky with four claws that splayed out on the ground. As they started to claw their way towards the eishaus, they used their folded wings for balance, assisted by what looked to be vestigial claws on the wingtips.

As the creatures approached, Annabelle could see by the firelight that while they might not have plumage, their shiny skin was strikingly patterned with bands of colour like a coral snake. Only creatures at the top of the food chain could afford to be so flamboyant. If one was dangerous enough, there was no need for camouflage. That was something, at least. She didn’t want to imagine anything large enough to give these creatures trouble.

But their skin wasn’t what caught everyone’s attention. Sitting on each opeme was a slender humanoid with a long lance held straight up, looking like nothing so much as knights on their way to the local joust.

“Do Skreelan ride the opeme?” Annabelle asked.

“Not Skreelan, no,” Thymon said. “Is others.” He chuckled, making a sound like gravel in a tin can. “So many stories Thymon not believe. Now do.”

“What story is this? Are those Old Ones?”

“Name is hard to say for humans, I think,” Thymon said, then whistled an odd series of pitches. “It is how they say it. But not Old Ones. It means those that flies.” He shook his head. “Story is Nahe Gadewalu make them to mind the opeme. They fly near the cities of the dead, protects with fire and rain from the Skreelan. Skreelan ran away from them into the world, but the opeme fliers stay with the Nahe, you see?”

“The Skreelan used to be with those fellows?” Nathanial interjected. Outside, the riders had dismounted and were approaching with their lances. A small flame burned on the end of each lance, like a quiescent Bunsen burner. “Can you talk to them?”

“Thymon not know. Just stories, yes? But if stories true, they hates Skreelan.”

“Why?” Annabelle asked.

“We kill their masters. Because Nahe our masters, too.”

“These Nahe came and enslaved you?”

Thymon turned to the window and watched the opeme riders walking towards them. “Oceans fall, land rises, Nahe Gadewalu make the world. Makes the trees with fruits, makes the beasts that carry, makes the opeme to fly. Makes the riders and seats them at the good table with the good foods. But needs someone to get foods.

“Nahe Gadewalu makes Skreelan from beasts. Is what word means, Skreelan. Worker. Worker to work for them like Skreelan work for humans. Not nice likes humans,” he said, staring down into Annabelle’s eyes. “Treat like beasts. We work, but never feeds at the good tables where food Skreelan bring goes. Sometimes they kill Skreelan for foods. Eats our eggs. But one day is smartest Skreelan, learns to not obey. So smartest Skreelan kills their gods with magic spear.” Thymon smiled with all his teeth. “Thymon still thinks that part not true.”

“Sounds like the Belgians in the Congo and Coprates,” Arnaud said. “Nasty bunch once you get them away from home. Make fair decent chocolate and beer, though. Must give the credit where the credit is due.”

Annabelle joined Thymon at the window. “It occurs to me that if you have stories about them, they might have stories about Skreelan.”

“Perhaps their stories has different heroes.”

“I think they would. I can’t imagine that they would treat the villains of those stories particularly well. What happens when Skreelan encounter these fliers, do you know?”

“Thymon not know. No Skreelan knows. No Skreelan comes back.”

“Listen to me,” Annabelle said. “I think it would be best if you fled. We’ll go out to meet these fliers. I doubt they’ve seen humans before, and their curiosity will no doubt spare us. While they’re busy with us, you slip away into the forest and blend in with the local Skreelan. I know you can do that. Isn’t that how you made your way here?”

“Is true. Thymon can. But Thymon won’t.” He turned to face the humans. “Thymon won’t leave his human friends. Miss Somerset hunts very good. But you needs help.”

“We’ll be fine, truly,” Annabelle said, biting her lip.

“This is not true,” the lizard man said, hissing with agitation. “Thymon knows this.”

Annabelle gave the Skreelan a sudden hug, her arms only reaching partly around his barrel sized chest. “Thymon, listen to me. People keep dying for me. I’m sick to death of it. I make friends, not just human friends. Friends on Mars. Friends on the Moon. And then they die. And you know why they died?” She felt tears streaming down her face. She wiped them away angrily. “They were protecting me, that’s why. Well, you know what? I’ve got a say in that. I’m the one responsible for me. And I refuse to let that happen today. So go, damn you, d’ya hear me?”

Nathanial stepped up behind her and put a hand on Annabelle’s shoulder. Ignoring him, she pounded a fist on Thymon’s chest with no noticeable effect. Instead, the Skreelan gently closed his hand around hers. “Thymon is sorry.”

Annabelle clenched her jaw to keep from sobbing. She was done with that sort of foolishness. “You won’t listen, will you? Nobody listens to me.”

“You can’t get rid of me so easily, either,” Nathanial said. “But we’d best get outside. Looks as if they’re firing up those gas torches of theirs.”

Thymon peeked out the door. “The little creatures are gone, yes.”

Annabelle looked at him. “Will you at least linger inside while we meet them? We’ll wave when it’s all clear.”

If Thymon could have pursed his lips in disapproval, he no doubt would have. “Thymon said, is not coward. You wants him to hide like small turtle in its burrow?”

Annabelle grinned. “No, I want you to hide like a hunter waiting for a kill. Okay?”

Thymon stared into Annabelle’s eyes, his nictitating membranes blinking slowly. Then he gave her a feral smile.

“Oh kay.”

Annabelle sighed in relief as she clambered out the door. She smiled one last time at Thymon, then headed down to join the others. Who knows, perhaps these fliers were peaceful. They could have just burnt the eishaus down, after all. It might work out.

But if it didn’t, at least she’d have one less death to account for on Judgment Day.

Chapter Eleven

1.

The small group walked together towards the hazy silhouettes of the riders, making their way through piles of burnt prawns. Up close, they looked even more unsettling, if thankfully very dead. They had the legs and tail of a terrestrial prawn, but two long appendages in front that terminated in knifelike points. Their mouthparts resembled densely packed pincushions, if the pins were reversed and dripping with mucus. Their only normal parts were the two eyes, but even those were multifaceted and alien.

Dragons seemed positively tame by comparison. Certainly, less disquieting.

The dank smoke from the peat fires curled around them as they walked, stinging their eyes and nostrils. It was oddly silent. Arnaud began coughing once again, but even that sound was cushioned into stillness by the mists and the bog.

But less than a hundred paces away, twelve latter-day dragons were waiting for them.

Five more paces and the smoke unveiled the opeme. As tall as giraffes, their long necks bobbed about, almost appearing nervous. Not that Annabelle believed they were, considering each of the humans would be barely a mouthful. Still, she’d once had a horse that was deathly afraid of butterflies despite weighing in at half a ton. It made her feel a little better to consider that the opeme might have similar instincts.

The humanoid riders displayed no such fear, however. They stood at military attention in a half circle in front of their mounts, long lances held upright. Up close, the riders resembled the Skreelan to the same extent that the opeme resembled birds. They had the long muzzle and lizard like tail, but with small arms and disproportionality thick legs, which lent them the appearance of a slender kangaroo with a reptilian head. Their skin was smooth and grey, more like a snake’s than the rough lizard hides of the Skreelan. As if in protest at this bland uniformity, they sported a number of differently coloured symbols and squiggles, very much in appearance like the graffiti that they had found on Collins’ safehouse.

At first glance their strangest feature was their glassy eyes, which appeared to bulge outwards like a fish. Then Annabelle realised that they were all wearing oversized aviation goggles. They must have made those themselves—anything acquired from human crews could not possibly have fit them correctly.

The lances had a constant flame on the end and a bulb on the bottom, making them look for all the world like a gigantic scallion someone had lit on fire. As they three approached, one of the riders squeezed the bulb on his lance, making the flame shoot up into the air a good twenty feet. His neighbour seemed displeased, whistling angrily and showing rows of small but quite evidently sharp teeth.

Other than that, they only thing that resembled clothing was their rather dapper leather vests which had numerous bulging pockets and a long curved gaff dangling off a lanyard. The rider in the middle whistled abruptly, then pointed at Nathanial with his gaff.

“Human. Come,” he chirped in moderately understandable English. It was almost like listening to an intelligent parrot, an impression heightened by the birdlike way the rider cocked his head as he spoke.

Behind them, the riders closed their half circle. A few fired their lances into the air, meeting no disapproval—from each other at least.

Nathanial bowed slowly. “Greetings, sir. You have met our kind before, then?”

The lead rider turned his head to regard Nathanial with the one eye. “Yes. Serve human. Other human sent us. Rescue.”

Nathanial shot his friends a quick look. “You mean you’re here to take us someplace?”

“Cannot stay. Keepers of the past come back. All die. Must come. Understand?”

“A bit,” Nathanial said. “So, you’ve come in peace and all that, got it. Very appreciated, especially the bit where you seem to have saved our lives. But where do you want to take us?”

The lead rider cocked his head to one side to the other without replying. Nathanial wondered if any of that had gotten through. The rider’s command of English seemed rudimentary at best. Which raised a question.

“Tell me, this human you’re working for, is his name Collins, by chance?” Nathanial asked. “We’re supposed to be looking for him, as it happens.”

“Collins!” whistled the rider. The other riders shifted around in apparent nervousness. “You Collins friend?”

“Erm…” said Nathanial, wondering if saying yes would be a complete lie. He really wasn’t good at dissembling, even to aliens with limited language skills.

“Best of friends,” said Arnaud. “Very good friend, yes?” He poked Nathanial in the ribs. “Lead to Collins, if you please.”

“How far is Collins?” Annabelle asked. “Where?”

The lead rider turned to face the woods and pointed with his gaff. “Fly to the city. Not far.”

“But we’ll have to walk.” Nathanial said. “Which gives us the added difficulty of trying to avoid our little friends out there. Perhaps you could take him a message for us while we stay here and catch up on our reading?”

The lead rider shook his head.

“Surely,” said Nathanial, “you can’t mean for us to hop up on your mounts there.” He stared into the implacable eyes of the lead rider. The rider blinked his nictitating membranes a few times, but was otherwise completely unreadable. Nathanial knew what a non-answer meant.

“You don’t mean for us to ride with you, do you?” Nathanial said. “That’s mad. We’ll fall off!”

“Not fall,” the rider said. “Is made for ride.” Again he gesticulated with the gaff. “Quick quick. Please to get on.” He clicked his jaw a few times. “Sir.”

“A bit of politesse,” Arnaud said. “Perhaps not ready to be the courtier yet, this one, but I think it is good enough for the middle of a prawn infested bog.” He sniffed the air. “One that seems to be on fire, I might add. I am voting for going with these gentlemen. What is the worst outcome?”

“We could fall off and die,” Nathanial said. “Those damnable Lilienthals were enough for me.”

Annabelle was gazing at the opeme with rapt eyes. “They’re beautiful. Please, let’s accompany them.”

“Volcanoes are beautiful, yet somehow I’ve never felt the urge to swim in one,” Nathanial pointed out.

“Tcha, they’re perfectly under control. Besides, we are here to meet Collins, aren’t we? He’s obviously safe.”

“Or in a stewpot.”

“I do not think that our friends here would bother to make his acquaintance if they were planning on making him dinner,” Arnaud said with a cough. “The habits of our late friends on Ceres notwithstanding.”

“You two are really all for hopping on the back of a flying saurian?” Nathanial said, a sick feeling of anticipatory vertigo creeping its way into his belly. “So, I’m a coward?”

“Not a coward,” Annabelle said, slipping her arm through his. “Simply trying to be the gallant protector. But honestly, I suspect that it can’t be that dangerous or Collins wouldn’t have sent them. And I can hardly walk all that way without…” she trailed off, looking at the eishaus.

“Ah,” said Nathanial, his apprehension being replaced by guilt. Of course she couldn’t walk that far without help.

Wasn’t the health of his friends a major part of why they were here? Asterium could certainly cure Arnaud, or at least abate his cough. No wonder Arnaud was willing to risk a flight. Who was he to stop him? True, they might be chasing nothing. Arnaud’s experiments aside, the curative properties of asterium were still a huge unknown. But it showed promise.

And then there was the matter of tissue regeneration on a grander scale. He turned to look into Annabelle’s earnest eyes. The girl had no idea about that, of course. He’d be the last to bring up false hopes. He preferred to keep his unrealised dreams to himself. But that didn’t mean he didn’t try to steer his way towards them.

Yet, for all these grand schemes of his, he was prepared to dash them on the rocks of his cowardice.

To the devil with that.

“Nathanial, you’re thinking, aren’t you?” Annabelle said.

“Guilty as charged.” He squared his shoulders, discovering to his surprise that the action in fact made him feel almost brave. “And you’re right, I’m sure we’ll be safe with these fellows.” He tried a subtle nod towards the eishaus. “Tell me, do you think we should bring—”

“No,” Annabelle said. She gnawed her lip for a while. “It should just be the three of us on this expedition. I think it’s safe, but if the world always met my expectations, well, I fancy it would be a duller place to inhabit.”

“A safer one, to be sure.”

Annabelle smiled. “Same thing, really.” She looked thoughtful. “I learned that lesson when I was young, you know. The Apaches never committed all their men at once. There was always a scout or two who hung back.”

“Right, that makes sense,” said Nathanial. “The old notion of a reserve, ready to leap in and provide support if needed.”

“Or to bring word of their deaths.”

Annabelle had gone from near playful to distant, as if her mind were a literal million miles away and a good number of years. Nathanial had never really sat down with her and asked about her time among the American aborigines. Then again, he had the definite impression that it hadn’t all been one big Rousseauian lark. He did know that they’d murdered her parents. But still, she had lived among them for years. Had they become her people after a while? Loyalty could be a strange thing.

“Clever people, those Apaches of yours,” he said.

“Clever by half, yes. But they taught me early on that people from across the world were still people in their own way, no matter how different their customs.”

“I suppose you miss them at times.”

Annabelle pursed her lips. “In the end, it was horrible what the Army did to them. It was borderline mass murder. Most of them didn’t deserve it.” She paused, a dark look sweeping her face. “But a few of them did,” she said in a quieter tone. At the enquiring look from Nathanial, Annabelle visibly shook herself and continued. “It’s hard to see the larger picture when some things were so personal.”

Annabelle stared into the distant smoke for a long moment, then turned to face Nathanial. “In answer to your question, no, I don’t miss them. There’s far too many of them I wanted dead.” She grinned without mirth. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Nathanial didn’t have anything to say to that. “Let’s go, then.”

“Yes,” Annabelle said. She laughed abruptly.

“What’s funny?” Nathanial asked.

“I just thought about my lifelong wish to have a flying pony. And here we are!”

Nathanial stared at the opeme with their long, crocodilian mouths. “I see what you mean about the danger of wishes.”

2.

Despite their earlier impatience, the riders took their time getting the opeme ready. No doubt for good reasons, they seemed unwilling to move quickly around the monstrous creatures, giving them the appearance of performing in an underwater ballet as they checked harnesses and halters. Four of them stood facing the burnt perimeter, occasionally firing off long bursts of flame from their lances.

Arnaud seemed fascinated by this. “It is a confirmation of my thoughts,” he explained. “Look at the lances carefully, and what does one see? Nothing, that is. No seams, no drill marks, nothing that would tell of how it was constructed.”

“So, you think it some sort of advanced technology?” Nathanial asked. He did enjoy seeing Arnaud so earnestly intrigued by a conundrum. It was a fresh change from the fellow’s affected indifference. To be fair, an illness like his would take the stuffing out of any man.

“In a sense, perhaps, if Mother Nature can be said to have her own form of technology. See the traces of a root structure? And that bulb, it is part of the original plant.”

“You think there is a flame throwing tree out there somewhere?”

“Why not? The Australian eucalyptus tree explodes periodically. Brush fire, fooomph! No, do not cast that look at me, it is a truth. So is it not a small step from bombs to guns?”

“You do have a point. If there are reeds that are natural flutes, why not trees that are adaptable to flames? Some sort of explosive sap, like your eucalyptus.”

“Indeed,” said Arnaud. “But here is the thing that is bothering me. There is no conceivable advantage to the tree itself, oui? I am thinking it might have been cultivated into this current form.”

“Or perhaps we’ll encounter a grove of flame throwing trees, able to shoot flame and bring down any wayward flying beast that should be so foolish as to visit.”

“Ah good,” said Arnaud, “I was afraid that I was the only cynic here.” He clapped Nathanial on the back. “Shall we go join the resident bold young lady before she flies off without us?”

3.

For her part, Annabelle wasn’t feeling especially bold as she stood next to the opeme. There was just something about that mouth that unsettled her. That something mostly had to do with its size, of course, although one could make a good case for the protruding sharp teeth adding a certain frisson to the whole ensemble.

The creature sprawled out on the ground as its rider fussed about with its hackamore, which allowed access to the saddle, or rather what functioned as a saddle. Looking closer, she realised the deep carriage seat was actually a horn growth at the base of the opeme’s neck that looked as if it had been pruned into shape. It seemed surprisingly functional, complete with a wide cantle back that hopefully would keep rider and passenger from tumbling out in turbulence.

Looking up, she discovered that the creature’s head was all of an arm’s length above her, sniffing the air as it eyed her steadily.

Annabelle inhaled deeply for courage, and slowly reached into her reticule for the packet of biscuits. She offered them to the opeme, taking care to avoid getting her hand, arm, or for that matter, any other part of her body in the way.

The opeme gobbled them down with a vigor completely at odds with any actual culinary merit the biscuits might have had. But to be fair, Annabelle had never tried eating the wrapper as well. Perhaps it lent the necessary spice.

The opeme cooed like a two ton dove.

“Like that, did you?” Annabelle said as the creature nosed her. She held her skirt down as it sniffed the ground underneath her. She was reminded of a dog she’d had when little that was convinced that women concealed a private larder beneath their crinolines. The pup had always been a source of amusement for her when the ladies’ auxiliary came to pay their occasional calls upon Uncle Cyrus. But this creature was a bit more problematic. She didn’t feel like being upended.

Annabelle leaned against the opeme’s head to shove it away. It seemed to take this in good humour, bobbing its head up and down like a bird, but ceasing its search for any additional treats that might be on her person. She stroked its neck and received what she hoped was a pleased cooing in return.

Perhaps she’d been right when she’d told Nathanial that the opeme was nothing more than a flying horse. After all, the horses of her youth had out massed her considerably. If a safe were to fall upon one’s head, it would make little difference to the victim whether it weighed in at a half ton or two tons. The key was more in the temperament of the beast. She’d certainly prefer to give a horse a cuddle than a badger, after all.

“Weren’t those my biscuits?” Nathanial asked from behind her.

“You’ll have to take it up with him,” Annabelle said. The opeme was using one of its wing claws to clear out a remnant of the package stuck between its rear teeth. “Possession is nine points of the law, you do realize.”

“‘Property is theft’ is more the aphorism that comes to mind,” Nathanial said. “I’d be careful. Simpler creatures don’t always make the distinction between what gives them the food and the food itself.”

“I don’t think it simple,” Annabelle said, going back to stroking the opeme’s neck. Its skin was as warm as any mammal’s. “This is no dumb and lethargic lizard, I think. For one, its tack is quite rudimentary, meaning that they control it more through signals than brute force. Not that controlling through force is really an option with something this size. In any event, anything that trainable is clearly intelligent.”

“You do have a way with the native fauna. But speaking of the Venusian ecosystem, we truly need to leave. Sooner or later those flame throwers of theirs will run dry and the prawns will doubtless return.”

“I’m ready.” She leaned over to whisper. “Have you seen Thymon?”

“I’m afraid not. But I’m certain he’s had time to escape. Yet another local creature who finds your charms irresistible, eh?”

Annabelle glared. “He’s not just some creature, he’s a person. Perhaps my ‘charms’, as you call them, are simply my ability to see him as such.”

Nathanial looked taken aback. “I’m sorry, but you have to admit it can be hard to see a seven foot tall monster in the same light as one’s favourite spinster auntie.”

“And what of K’chuk? Did you not consider him a person?”

“Absolutely not. He was an ant. An intelligent ant, but an ant nonetheless.”

Annabelle shook her head. “He gave his life for us, Nathanial.”

“I have not forgotten, and will always be grateful to him. But I still cannot think of him as a person. If you can see this opeme here as a horse, you’re better than I am.”

“Perhaps in a way,” Annabelle said. “But a horse can’t fly, unlike this beastie here. That’s bound to give it a different outlook on life.”

“That and it’s the size of a giraffe. Carnivorous, too, judging by those teeth.”

“Omnivorous. He likes biscuits, remember? Speaking of which, have you any more?”

Nathanial rolled his eyes and produced a packet. “Try to ration them.”

Annabelle tossed one into the opeme’s waiting mouth. “There. I want him to remember that we hand out treats periodically. Inspires the little fellow to keep us around, rather than trying to buck us off in midair or some nonsense like that.”

“Or eat us outright. Don’t forget that possibility.”

“Don’t roll about in butter and sugar, and I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“I shall take that under advisement.”

Chapter Twelve

1.

Apparently satisfied that Annabelle was secure, her opeme’s rider sat down next to her like a coachman sharing his seat. It was a tight squeeze, and Annabelle found herself pressing up against him in a manner that would give cause for comment were he an eligible young man. She could feel the warmth of his body, even smell a slight spiciness. Despite the gaff and fire thrower, the rider seemed less imposing than she’d at first thought. She would even go so far as to call him delicate.

Picking up the reins, she could see that his hands were exactly like the mummified example they’d found back in the safehouse. Was that hand from an opeme rider who had fallen victim to the prawns? It seemed likely. Doubtless, this fellow was more than ready to leave.

As if in answer to that, the rider picked up the reins and gave them a light flick. The opeme rose up on its wings, assuming the four-legged stance that she’d seen the creatures walking in after they landed. She looked down. They were a good ten feet up off the ground now, with the neck of the opeme curving swanlike another eight feet above them.

The rider took his gaff and prodded the opeme at the base of the neck. It raised its head and screeched along with the others. Annabelle glanced over at Nathanial and Arnaud on their mounts. So far, everyone seemed secure, physically if not emotionally.

Annabelle had assumed that the opeme would need a long take off run, much like the albatross back on Earth did. It wasn’t some hummingbird that could just leap up into the air, after all.

She was wrong.

In one smooth motion, their steed crouched low with its wings spread, head back and body bent, air whistling through its nose as it took a massive breath that made its chest swell. Annabelle was slammed against the cantle as the opeme flung itself forward and up, snapping its wings out. The wind was tremendous. They were now going so fast as to make her eyes water as she squinted ahead.

They were falling into formation at treetop level with a handful of stragglers flapping to catch up behind them. Annabelle’s mount had still yet to flap. She watched the opeme’s wings curl at the trailing edge as it slowed. As the last of the opeme fell into position, she could see Nathan’s opeme in the lead straighten its neck, no longer looking like a pelican in flight but instead a winged arrow. As ungainly as the creatures were on the ground, they were sleek in flight with the speed to match.

The wind picked up, then her rider gave its opeme the reins while slapping either side of the neck with the gaff. Its shoulders surged beneath them as the wings snapped downward. It felt like nothing so much as a horse leaping into a canter, if each stride of a canter took one a hundred yards forward while fanning the rider with carriage-sized wings. The wind around them swirled like a hurricane. Annabelle wasn’t sure if she was thrilled or terrified.

A bit of both, she decided.

After a minute of bouncing around uncomfortably as the opeme beat his wings, Annabelle discovered the rhythm and settled into a more secure seat, moving her hips with the motion of the beast. This was true flying, she decided. Even Forbes-Hamilton would be forced to agree, although he’d no doubt sniffily call riding an animal a primitive form of locomotion. For all her time at the helms of aether flyers, though, Annabelle preferred something alive. It was one less barrier to true flight. There were no artificial controls here, just two living creatures soaring through the skies together. It was that feeling of being one with the mount, rather than struggling with it or worse yet, being carried like a sack of potatoes on a cart.

Well, she was being carried, in fact. She might have found her seat, but the rider was the one directing the action. It didn’t eliminate the thrill of flying, but it did remind her that she wasn’t in control. It wasn’t a feeling she relished.

If she couldn’t steer the beast herself, the least she could do was watch the rider in action. And he was clearly skilled. The opeme might not be a horse, but she could still sense when someone knew what he was doing. The gaff wasn’t being used as punishment so much as a gentle signal. After a few turns, Annabelle moved in the seat along with the rider to help with the weight shifts, earning her a look that was either impressed or annoyed. She wasn’t sure: she’d learned Thymon’s expressions, but the riders were clearly of another species, as distant from the Skreelan as humans were from Martians.

They flew just below the bases of scudding clouds, paralleling the course of a broad, mostly straight river. Venus being Venus, it was impossible to remain completely in the clear, of course. Over the next hour, they passed through various rain squalls and fog banks. When they did, the riders turned on their flamethrowers, which provided both light to see each other by and also seemed to thin the clouds and rain in the immediate vicinity. Thinned rain squalls or not, Annabelle soon found herself drenched to the skin, her discomfort magnified by her wet hair and clothes snapping about in the airstream. She could see why the natives hardly wore any clothing at all. Not that she was prepared to affect the local style. She didn’t fancy she’d look anything other than embarrassed and uncomfortable.

Breaking out of one particularly thick cloud bank, she could see what appeared to be a large city up ahead. It was situated on an island in the middle of a lake, crisscrossed with a labyrinthine network of canals. The buildings themselves were shaped like oversized rounded beehives carved out of stone. They were nothing at all like the huts of the Skreelan, so individual in their haphazard arrangement. Instead, they were regularly spaced like pieces on a circular chess board. It gave the impression that some god or another had just set them up, ready to begin a game.

The structure in the middle commanded the attention of the observer. It was a hundred meter high truncated pyramid, with a number of pillars spaced around the top. The clouds parted enough for sunlight to stream down, making the pillars sparkle with a metallic sheen. Annabelle wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but she felt an electrical tingling as she stared at the pyramid.

The opeme riders swooped down to the water, so close to the surface that their wingtips sprayed water when they flapped. There were other members of the riders’ species out here, most manning large dugout canoes, but a few on opeme of their own, skimming the surface just as they were. Some were in pairs, dragging something between them through the water. One of these teams landed on a dugout, and Annabelle could see that they’d been dragging a large net, now filled with fish or the Venusian equivalent. They dumped the catch on the dugout’s main deck, then flew off to resume their work.

They were fairly self-sufficient, it seemed. It would explain why no one had discovered the city before. If there was no reason for the city dwellers to explore elsewhere, they wouldn’t have come across human settlements. And judging by Thymon’s reaction, the local Skreelan would have been unlikely to bother making a fleet of their bark canoes in order to bother the city. The lake was wide enough that even without the persistent rain, the shore would have been just over the horizon. Annabelle imagined that after years of no contact, all that remained would be tales of mutual distrust.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have sent Thymon off, after all. It had seemed the right thing to do, but she was already missing him with his perspective that only a local could have. No matter, she was sure he was fine. He’d made it out to the German colonies easily enough, he’d make it back. If she kept telling herself that, perhaps she’d believe it after a while.

Reaching the shore, they flew over a marshy grove choked with short, thin trees that could have been mistaken for oversized reeds were it not for their leafy tops. The trees surrounded the city perimeter, which was a large dam of some stony material. Passing over the dam, they spiraled down towards a field of compressed peat.

A few dozen riders were there, with a small flock of opeme circled next to a watering pond. They wandered over as the arriving opeme touched down.

Landing was thankfully uneventful. Annabelle allowed Nathanial and Arnaud to assist her down from the saddle.

“Do you think we’re captives?” Annabelle asked a somewhat wan looking Nathanial.

“Well, perhaps,” he said. “I mean, we didn’t get awfully much choice in coming out here, did we? That said, this place is fascinating!”

“Indeed,” said Arnaud. “I am not sure from where we stand, but that substance the dike is made of, it does not appear to be simple dirt or peat. It looks as if it is stone.”

“On Venus? The natives don’t even have flint weapons,” Nathanial said.

“No, they have flamethrowers,” Arnaud said. “Ones that look very much as if they might have been made from those reed trees we passed by, no? So, this raises the question of how they make this dam out of stone. No tools to carve with, no need for developing them when they can fish and make fire with ease. All development needs impetus, and I see none here.”

The two quickly fell into intense discussion, the rest of the world apparently forgotten. Including me, Annabelle thought with some amusement. It was as she had said; Nathanial needed someone with whom to discuss such things, and the captain and she were poor substitutes for another scientific mind. Heading back to her opeme, she gave it a pat on the flank. Still damp from the flight, its veins bulged prominently in its neck. She could see that it was still breathing rapidly.

“Aren’t you going cool the poor thing down?” she asked her rider. The rider turned to her, blinking with a complete lack of comprehension. She turned to the leader whom Nathan had been flying with.

“The opeme,” she said, pointing at her mount. “Tired, yes?”

The leader whistled. “Opeme? Yes, tired. All things work. All things get used. If die, get other.”

Annabelle knew humans with that attitude towards horses. She didn’t care for it, and monstrous dragon beast or not, she was growing fond of her mount. Call it cupboard love on its part, and an infatuation with flying on hers, but she just couldn’t countenance the thing getting colic. Or whatever dinosaurs got.

“So, you don’t care at all, do you?” she said.

“No, they don’t, my dear,” called an Englishman’s voice from behind her. “Can’t expect a skink to care about anything, really. They ain’t us.”

Annabelle turned to see a middle aged man with muttonchops, a pith helmet and precious little else aside from a leather kilt and a wide metal necklace, which gave him the appearance of a dissolute pharaoh. Stripped to the waist, his sagging features were covered with swirls of inexpertly applied paint in a myriad of colors. As he approached, the riders ran over and formed a line as if getting ready for pass and review. The man walked by the formation of riders without so much as glancing at them.

He wiped a hand on his kilt then extended it to Annabelle.

“Ned Collins at your service,” he said, eyeing her from toe to top. “But you figured that, I’m sure.”

Annabelle glanced at the proffered hand. Collins exuded the odour of a man for whom the rains had long ago replaced bathing. Mixed with that was a strange, almost feral muskiness, as if he had just come back from a sleepover hosted by several unaltered tomcats.

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Collins,” she said with a slight bow. She tried not to inhale.

“Are you, then?” he said with a sidewise grin as he dropped his hand.

“Oh, quite,” she said with forced sincerity. There was something about the fellow which irritated her. She’d met her share of eccentric prospectors and explorers over the years, so it wasn’t the man’s lack of hygiene. It was probably the way he was clearly undressing her with his eyes. She idly thought about waving her engagement ring in his face.

Finally meeting her eyes, Collins grunted thoughtfully. “You got friends with you?”

“Two, in fact,” said Annabelle.

“Bloody hell. Damnable skinks were supposed to keep them here. Hey, Freddie!” Collins yelled at the lead rider, who literally jumped a foot into the air. “Find humans. Quick, quick, got it?” The rider ran off towards the dike. He shook his head. “Just can’t get good help anymore.”

“Sorry, had no idea those two had wandered off,” Annabelle said. She peered into the distance where the rider went. “They seemed fascinated by the material of the dam.”

Collins grunted again. “Good. They’ve got some sense if they spotted that right off. Glad to hear it, sounds as if I can use them.”

“Well, I’m sure they’d be thrilled to have you show them about, but we’re on a bit of a mission.”

“Ha!” Collins waggled a finger. “After the ore, ain’t you? Don’t think I don’t know it. Germans were, too.” He massaged his chin. “You’re American, right? Just guessing.”

“You guess correctly,” said Annabelle, trying to put some frost in her voice. Where had Nathanial and Arnaud run off to? There was only so much more of this she could take. “I suppose I should have invested in those elocution lessons.”

“Nah, nothing stirs the loins like the thought of woman who can bring down a buffalo by herself.”

Funny you should say that, she thought, but instead she said “Excuse me?” Annabelle was seriously contemplating shooting the man in the foot. If it weren’t for the fact that he seemed to have some control over the natives, she might very well have done so. She was done with giving uncouth men the benefit of a doubt.

“Buffalo. Big hairy beastie, wanders around on the—oh, here they are.” Surrounded by natives, Nathanial and Arnaud approached.

“My brother, sir,” Annabelle said. “Professor William Brooker.”

“You’ve got yourself an escort, then? Fair enough,” Collins said with a shrug. “Hey lads, over here!” He stepped forward and snatched Nathanial’s hand, shaking hands rapidly without giving him a chance to decline.

“Mister Collins, I presume,” Nathanial said, his face reflecting a certain amount of discomfit.

“The same. Ah, good, at least one Englishman, then. Unless you’ve taken speech lessons.”

“Not recently, no,” said Nathanial, adjusting a cufflink with great care.

“Alas, I am from France, monsieur,” said Arnaud. “I am hoping that you will not consider it a character defect.”

Collins barked a short laugh. “Not your fault. I suppose we can blame your mother. Glad to see you gents are regular, unlike gimpy over there. But let’s walk and talk, shall we?”

“Gimpy?” whispered Nathanial as he took Annabelle’s arm. To refer to her look as “displeased” would have been akin to calling a shark swimming through blood-infused water “peckish.”

“I was considering shooting him,” said Annabelle. “In the foot, of course.”

“Of course. But you’ve given up the notion?”

“Yes. It would have violated a basic principle of mine.”

“Glad to hear it,” Nathanial said. “But now you have my curiosity piqued. What is this inviolable principle of yours?”

“One should only fire a gun with intention to kill.” She smiled thinly. “That still leaves my options open, of course.”

Nathanial couldn’t think of anything to say in response to that. Perhaps there was nothing to say.

Chapter Thirteen

1.

“I know I look one hell of a fright,” Collins said to Nathanial as they walked along a wide street towards the city, “but the skinks seem to love it when I smear art all over me. They just love to paint themselves.”

“Skinks?”

“When I’m feeling all formal like, I think of them as Therians. Short for Therapod, which is the closest Earth animal I could think of. Fossils always was a hobby of mine. They got their own name for themselves, but I can’t speak their whistling nonsense to save my life. That, I know from direct experience.”

“They evolved from the bipedal saurian, then?” Nathanial asked.

“Evolution doesn’t really make sense around here. Long story, tell you about it later.”

Nathanial resolved to stay off the subject. “So, they’re not related to the Skreelan…ah, the lizard-men?”

“Count their fingers. Short answer, no.”

“Good point,” said Nathanial, trying to appear conciliatory. He didn’t want to get on Collins’ bad side. It was less from any sense of etiquette than the fact that the fellow had a squadron of flying saurians with flamethrowers at his beck and call. “In fact, that’s what aroused our curiosity. We found a mummified hand at the safehouse, I presume from some unfortunate Therian. Quite obviously, we wanted to investigate.”

Collins chuckled. “Didn’t have a thought for old Jungle Ned, no doubt dragged off by lizard-men?”

“Actually, we’d come to the conclusion you’d been captured by Germans who’d tried to make it look like the locals were the culprits.”

Collins smirked. “Now, you gents are pretty smart, after all. You almost figured it out, except it was me doing the fooling, not them. I wanted the Krauts to think I was gone, you see.”

“I’m afraid the Germans won’t be discovering you any time soon. They all met with an untimely demise. They apparently disturbed a colony of moisture sucking prawns.”

“Oh, I know all about it.” Collins waved an indifferent hand. “Wasn’t planning on going back there, anyhow. No need, and figured that infestation was still active.”

“It is,” said Nathanial with a shudder.

“Damned good thing for you that my flying skinks spotted you dropping in. Figured you’d be coming in to support me. Was really hoping for some good Earth food. ’Saur steaks get old after a while. That and I could use some weaponry.” He turned to face Nathanial. “Don’t suppose you brought any guns with you?”

Nathanial decided not to mention Annabelle’s revolver. “Not as such, no. We’re a purely civilian expedition.”

“Damn.” Collins spat, managing a good five foot trajectory. “Well, nothing for it. Mostly just needed something with a longer range than the flamethrowers. But let me guess, you two are just a couple of geologists.”

“Aren’t you?”

“At first here for the rocks, yeah. But then I discovered there was more to it than just some aetheric effects.”

“Like what?”

Collins turned around and squinted at Nathanial. “Don’t know if I should explain things, not until I know you better. You strike me as a bit of a milksop, you know? Likely to fold when faced with the big truths.”

Nathanial took a deep breath to collect himself. “Sir. I don’t believe we’re destined to be the best of friends, but I do think our goals coincide. I understand Her Majesty’s Navy is taking an increasingly greater interest in your find. And speaking personally, I am fascinated by the effects of this ore you’ve found. We’ve already noted the way it responds to aetheric disturbances. Think of the potential for space travel alone, not to mention medicine.”

“Medicine, eh? So you figured that much out. Not bad for a geologist.”

“You could become a very rich man.” Perhaps appealing to the man’s baser side would help, Nathanial thought. Not that he is displaying anything but.

Collins started walking again. “That would have mattered to me once. Came back from New Guinea with some coin, sure. Old Neddie git himself some posh flat in the right part of town, all the fancy women I wanted. The usual, you know? Beats the hell out of trying to get the Royal Academy boys to pay attention to you. I’d take pounds over publishing any day. But it wasn’t enough. You’ve got that chaos we call humanity all over, all screaming at you all the live long day, yeah? At least I could get away from that out in the wild. So I snapped up the offer from the Navy to come out here. Figured I’d finally find what I’d been looking for.”

“Well then, why don’t we have a sit and we can talk about excavation?”

“Aren’t you paying attention? Had a revelation, you see. I liked it out in the jungle. No rules, nobody playing a fiddle you have to dance to, just you and what you could make for yourself.”

“So, you headed to the biggest jungle of all, then.”

“Right. But the problem with the jungle is that you still can’t escape things, not anymore. See, I’m okay in my book. But the rest of you lot?” Collins snorted. “No, you need guidance. Just look at the mess of things all those governments are making. Used to be just on Earth, but now they’ve sprawled out across the Solar System like a fat cat shedding and defecating all over the house. Soon, there’s no room that’s worth spit, see?”

“Guidance?” Nathanial stopped. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Collins laughed. “I doubt it. You probably think I’m going to try to take over this planet with a force of Therians and their lizard birds, eh? Don’t you worry.”

“Furthest thing from my mind, truly,” Nathanial lied.

“No, it’s about how I ended up in charge here.”

“I imagined you just decided to fit in. All this business with the tribal markings, right?”

“That? Well, they like it, but that’s just fitting in. Being one of the crowd, yeah? Like I said, they have these evening get togethers where they break out the paint pots and have at it. I think it’s their equivalent of going to the ball. Just less fornication afterwards.”

“Sir, please,” said Nathanial, glancing over his shoulder at a glowering Annabelle. “My sister is not a delicate flower by any means, but I do believe she’s beginning to take offense at your tongue.”

“Eh? Sorry, been out in the jungle far too long to care about that. Not interested in her anyway, what with her deformity.”

Nathanial was astonished to find himself standing over a prostrate Collins. He didn’t remember throwing the blow, but his hand hurt and Collins was on the ground, groaning and clutching a profusely bleeding nose. As a man of science, he had to admit that the data seemed to indicate fisticuffs had occurred.

Well, if he was going to find himself brawling, the least he could do was win.

Annabelle patted him on the back. “My hero.”

“Our Professor Stone has unplumbed depths,” said Arnaud. “Useful to know.”

“Lost my head there, sorry.”

“Ne t’inquiète pas,” Arnaud said. “Never forget that instinct has its place.”

Nathanial met his gaze. The Frenchman’s eyes were intense and earnest, without a trace of his usual flippancy. It was a side of Arnaud rarely seen, but one he’d revealed to Nathanial after leaving Ceres. Living in the ice-jungle of the Ceres underground had impacted Arnaud greatly. Nathanial wanted to say something in return, to let Arnaud know how he appreciated it, but found himself at a loss for words.

“Mon ami? Our friend stirs.” Arnaud nodded at Collins.

“Was wondering when you’d do that,” Collins said, clenching a kerchief to his nose. “Always good to know how far you can push a man.” He looked at the Therians who surrounded them. “And you bastards, you didn’t do a bloody thing!”

The Therian Collins had referred to as “Freddie” stepped forward. “Sorry, master. You say not hurt humans.”

Collins rose to his feet and pushed Freddie to the ground. “Test!” he yelled as he kicked Freddie. “Test! Test! Test, you worthless lizard!” Freddie curled into a ball, whistling in pain. His fellow Therians didn’t move.

Collins smiled. “Test noted as successful.”

Annabelle lunged at Collins, only to be restrained by Arnaud.

“I think I prefer to leave here alive,” Arnaud whispered. “Who knows how this one will react if we should aggravate the current contretemps, oui?”

Annabelle shook his arm off, but stepped back. “Yes,” she said with clear reluctance. “But so help me, if I get a chance…”

Collins dusted off his kilt. “There, I feel much better now.” He turned to Freddie. “Tell all no hurt humans. But. Humans hurt me, they no humans. Kill like kill Skreelan, savvy?”

“Yes, Master,” moaned Freddie, slowly getting to his feet with the aid of the other Therians.

“Repeat it, God damn you!” said Collins, shoving Freddie backwards.

Freddie drew himself up, pushing the goggles up onto his head so he could look directly into Collins’ eyes. “Savvy, Master. Kill no humans. If hurt Master, no human. If no human, kill. Freddie tell all.”

Collins grunted with apparent satisfaction. “Okay, you go now.” He turned to the humans. “Sorry about that, have to reassert myself from time to time. Freddie’s just a little too smart for his own good. Means he can speak English, but I got to watch that one like a hawk. Any road, I imagine you savvy, too, eh? Touch me, and my lizard friends will eat you alive.” He winked. “Actually, they’d probably just burn you to death.”

“Monsieur,” said Arnaud, “I think your point is made. These lizard-men, they worship you as their god. But I would be careful if I were you. Men have abandoned many a god in the past with far less cause than abuse. The idols they make of you today may well be smashed with the hammers of tomorrow.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Collins said. “And here I was developing some respect for you two. Listen up. I was once like you lot, yeah. Got warned off this area by Kraut and skink alike, figured there was something worth hiding. And samples brought out more than a bit of that oh so precious ore we’re all here for.

“But these Therians were here first. Damn near had me for lunch, but I ran up onto that pyramid. Dunno why. Fear makes a man smarter than he knows, I suppose. Things wouldn’t follow. All taboo like, see? Anyway, that’s where we’re headed.”

“So, what will you do when they revere us as gods as well?” Nathanial asked, instantly regretting it.

“Nah, only one god at a time. They’ll even go to taboo land if I tell them to. Do anything I say. They don’t have a choice.”

“I suppose you have something clever to threaten them with.”

“It’s not that. It’s that they’re as incapable of disobeying me as your little girl is of walking on two legs. Constitutionally incapable.”

Nathanial didn’t bother trying to conceal his disgust. “Congratulations on becoming a petty despot. Once, I understand you were quite the geologist. But now you’d rather squat in the jungle in order to abuse the natives.”

“Ain’t my long term plan, though. I will bring great things to the universe, just you wait and see.”

“I’ll bite. What do you have to offer anyone?”

“Order. Courtesy of old Jungle Ned. Ain’t that a corker?”

Nathanial snorted. “Nonsense, more like.”

Collins smiled. “Yeah? You know, I like you. I know the feeling ain’t mutual, but here you are, completely at my mercy. And you’ve still a mouth on you. Tell you what, I’ll show you around and explain things to you. Then we can leave on your ship and make a few things happen, eh?”

Oh, of course, Nathanial thought. The fellow wanted off planet, after all. Well, that gave them a bargaining chip. But did he pose a danger to anyone? He was a walking advert for a sanatorium, of course. That didn’t necessarily make him dangerous, however. Loathsome Collins might have been, but it would probably be best to play along.

2.

“Look around you,” Collins said, gesturing at the surrounding city as they sat down at an improvised dinner table on the top of the pyramid. Collins had set up a camp of sorts there, with wooden supply crates serving as furniture and a canvas lean-to strung between pillars as a drawing room. “How far the mighty have fallen, eh? They had thousands of these cities across Venus, and were growing more each day. Trade and communication via Therians, brute labor from the skinks, them living in the lap of luxury.”

“You said growing,” noted Arnaud. He tapped the surface. “Is like coral, no?”

“Precisely so,” Collins said. He’d become less argumentative as they’d ascended the steps to the top, almost genial. “They call them the Old Ones. They weren’t like us. We make machines to do our bidding. We’re tool users, like the Martians. Not as decadent, of course, but that’s the gist. These Old buggers, though, they lived on a planet where metal rotted into rust in weeks. Couldn’t really make steam engines, right? But they had something else.”

“The life force,” said Arnaud. “We are atop the rock that causes growth.”

Collins clapped his hands slowly. “You discovered that about the ore, did you? Well done, sir, well done. Ah, look, tea’s on.” In an apparent fit of conciliatory hospitality, he’d laid out a crude service atop a packing crate. He poured a cup and offered it to Arnaud.

“Why not?” said Arnaud as he took it. “Long rides atop carnivorous flying reptiles does parch the throat.”

“Is this real tea?” Nathanial asked. He took a tentative sip. It had the staleness of reused tea, bolstered with some smoky herbs he couldn’t identify. He’d had worse.

“Close enough,” Collins said, slurping with gusto. He wiped his mouth. “Glad you’re willing to lower yourself and drink out of a tin cup.”

“I’m a believer in function over form,” Nathanial said.

“Spoken like a true engineer,” Collins said. “But these Old Ones, you see, they weren’t engineers so much as gardeners. Want a weapon? Grow a tree that flames. Need a house? Breed coral that will grow the way you train it. Need a flyer? Alter the animals that can already fly.”

“And now, they are primitives, fearful of the very monuments they once erected,” Arnaud said. “Monsieur Rousseau might have approved, but I am not certain I do.”

“Don’t waste your tears for them, my dear Doctor Froggy,” Collins said. “The Therians were just as much a creation as the flyers were. They’re dogs pacing around their master’s grave. Same hand structure, but I think that was a modification. That hand I found, it was from an Old One. You’d be surprised how long things last in peat bogs.”

“You said the gods brought themselves down,” Nathanial said. “It was you who wrote that, wasn’t it?”

“In one of my more grandiose moments, yes,” said Collins. “It came to me in a flash when I found the body. Just had to write it down. The genius urge, don’t you know? The next day, I left for here, mucking up the house to cover my tracks. See now, if they’d simply died off over the years, we would have more of their ruins lying about. Must have been war. Only thinking creatures bother to raze cities and salt the earth of their enemies. It’s part of our charm.”

“Do you think it was the prawns that did these fellows down?” Nathanial asked. “I think it was Géroux who thought they were an artificially bred species. And it would explain why the buildings were preserved, at least here. Killed by their own creations, there was no one left to destroy it.”

“Might have a point, yeah. Takes fire to crack these coral buildings. And fire isn’t exactly a common occurrence on this soggy excuse for a planet.” Collins pursed his lips. “That reminds me, need to get the damned skinks to prune those flamethrower groves. Don’t need them getting the food storehouses burned down or some foolishness like that.”

“I admit to being perversely gratified,” Arnaud said. “On one hand, we have the death of a whole city and civilization, but on the other side of this coin, I have the pleasure of having my hypothesis confirmed.”

“Yeah, pretty sure you’re right,” Collins said. “Those shrimp ain’t natural, that’s for sure. Can hibernate for years until you wake them. I first found them in what I figure was a mausoleum deep in the bowels of the pyramid. Judging by all the dried out corpses laying around in that room, they used them for preserving their dead. We can go visit.”

“Perhaps later, “ Nathanial said. “I imagine over the years, they spread to the swamp proper.”

“Not at all,” Collins said. “Weren’t any near the colonies at all until I had the Therians seed the surrounding water from the air. Carried them aloft in baskets, dropped them from the clouds. Tough little things, think most of them survived the splash.”

“That’s bestial!” Nathanial exclaimed. “Why, those were civilians!”

“Oh?” Collins replied. He picked his teeth thoughtfully. “Well, just another day’s work for Her Majesty’s service then. Ain’t like they don’t kill their fair share of innocents on a daily basis. Really, if you don’t believe that, you need to get out more. But unlike you, I recognize the necessity. They were coming close to my discovery.”

Nathanial felt his mood change to puzzlement. “How on Earth did you manage to keep the prawns from attacking you or your Therians? They’re incredibly voracious.”

Collins grinned widely. “Ah, now we come to the fun bit. Control, my boy. That’s what this is all about. Would you make a steamboat without a tiller? The Old Ones had control over everything they made, see?”

“But how?”

Collins sat back. “Found the answer deep in the pyramid when I was on the run from my Therian friends. You go down far enough, the passageways lead into the bedrock. Funny thing about the jungle, everyone forgets it’s just skin over the meat and bone of the planet. But I didn’t find the bones.

“I struck a nerve. There’s a huge cavern down there where the rocks can speak to you.” Collins frowned. “Gets in your head. I know that sounds mad, but there it is.”

“No,” Nathanial said, “it doesn’t sound mad at all. You wouldn’t believe how sane it sounds, in fact.” He found that he was growing dizzy. Not enough sleep and too many revelations, he supposed.

Collins grunted. “Don’t patronise me. So there’s this mummy there, see, just lying in an open sarcophagus. Dunno what got into me, but I put his stuff on.” Collins patted the necklace. “Next I know, I’m all having a chat with the cavern. Not like a how are you and how’s the garden chat, so much as I suddenly knew what was what.” His eyes grew distant. “And I knew I could put my hand on the helm. I mean, when I came back up, I was calling the shots. Even the damned prawns had to listen to me. Ruler of goddamned Venus, not that you believe a word of what I’m telling you.”

“I do,” said Nathanial.

Collins narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be a buggered cabin boy. You ain’t lying, are you? I’m thinking you’ve seen something like this. You’d have had to. The story’s too mad to believe otherwise.”

Arnaud gave Nathanial a look. “Perhaps you could show us this marvellous find of yours,” he said. “We will happily verify your findings when you are telling tout le monde. You will become very famous, I think.” He shrugged. “Of course, you will always be free to return to your little kingdom here, should you miss the damp.”

“And here I was, thinking I’d have a bit of a laugh by telling you the truth to your face,” Collins said. “That’ll teach me.” He pulled something out of his sporran and popped it into his mouth. “Just having a gumme chew, don’t mind me,” he said. “Helps me think.” He chomped away for a minute or so, then spat the gum wad into his hand. He regarded it with the expression of a Roman priest scrutinising the latest edition of goat entrails.

“Well,” Collins said, “what I’m thinking is we all need a good night’s rest. Then I’ll take you down to the cavern after lunch, eh? Always like to explore on a full stomach.”

Collins had a particular sort of moodiness with his madness, Nathanial decided. It would probably be best just to ride out the waves of emotion. And if sleep and a meal made Collins more likely to share the location of this ore stratum, Nathanial was all for indulging him. Besides, he wasn’t adverse to a bit of rest himself.

“Naptime it is,” Nathanial said.

Chapter Fourteen

1.

Annabelle chewed on a plug of gum she’d filched from Collins. Considering his behaviour, she had neither the desire to ask for it nor any guilt about helping herself. It had an odd spicy flavour, reminiscent of whatever herbs Collins had used in the tea. Blackjack it was not. But she found that it helped keep calm. Lord knows, Collins was testing her patience.

She followed the gentlemen and Collins down a hallway into the pyramid. She was fascinated with the architecture, with its curiously organic twists and curves, all lit by multi-coloured swirls of glowing moss covering the walls. But she could have done without Collins spewing drivel as he waddled ahead, the sound of his gum chewing echoing against the frescoed walls.

Disgusting habit, if she had to be honest with herself. One step away from tobacco chewing. Sheepishly, she stowed her gum behind her ear. She could always chew it later in private. Annabelle did try to have the occasional go at being ladylike.

“I got malaria back in New Guinea, yeah,” Collins was saying up ahead. “But I didn’t sit around expecting others to carry me about. That’s why I lived and others just curled up and died. I blame steam engines.”

“Oh?” said Annabelle. “And just how did you get to Venus, Mister Ubermensch? Did you flap your arms really, really hard?”

“Not the same thing at all,” Collins said. “Nothing wrong with taking advantage of what’s already there. Although it would better be done naturally, I think. I’ve got a notion that the Old Ones might have created some sort of creature that could soar between the worlds. For one, I’m fairly certain they made it to Australia. The animals there are clearly the descendants of something bred with weaponisation in mind. Jellyfish the size of your palm that can kill you? And you lot got all frightened by a few shrimp. On the other hand, I think we can write off the platypus as a failed experiment. The bit with the poison claw is good, but it’s far too slow to make an appropriate delivery system.”

“I hate to admit this, but it does make one wonder,” Nathanial said. “Come to think of it, the wall murals have some similarities to some of the prehistoric aboriginal artwork. All these swirls and colours.”

“Eh, that’s just the way the glow moss grows, I think,” said Collins. “Or maybe they cultivated it to grow that way. See, that’s what I admire about the Old Ones. They didn’t try to constrain Nature or beat it back. That just means you’re afraid of it. They bent it to their will. Put it in order.”

“You’re rather obsessed with keeping things neat and tidy for a man who seems happy to live in swamps,” Nathanial said.

“You’re like a spinster aunt, you know that?” Collins said. “You confuse prissiness with orderliness. But no matter. Here’s the mausoleum I was telling you about.”

One might expect a mausoleum to flirt with the macabre, but by comparison with the room they were entering, the Parisian catacombs looked no more gloomy than the Merry Widow. The size of a small amphitheatre, its walls had the obligatory leg and thighbone panelling upon which the moss continued its glowing patterns. Humanoid skulls were arranged in spirals at regular intervals, and the floor was slick with what was hopefully just algae and water.

It was the rows of dead bodies braced straight up by stone pillars that gave the room the feeling of a charnel house. There were perhaps five hundred bodies, each standing in a small pool with a pillar in the centre. They were mummified like the Germans had been, but it was still clear that they had been a beautiful race, almost human save for the unnatural thinness of the arms and legs. Their faces were noseless with large eye sockets.

The look of horror on those faces was unmistakable. Multiplied by a few hundred mummies, it was unbearable.

Collins walked up to the nearest.

“How’ve you been?” he said. “Still dead, I see.” He reached into the pool surrounding it and grabbed something.

“Catch!” Collins yelled to Nathanial, tossing a meter long prawn at him.

Nathanial jumped back with a gasp. The prawn hit the floor in front of him. It worked its mouthparts slowly, but didn’t otherwise move.

“Aw, come on, you baby,” Collins said. “It’s hibernating.”

“I say, that was completely unnecessary!” Nathanial shouted. “I suggest we try to cooperate a bit more. We have common goals, remember?”

“Oh, right,” Collins said after he stopped laughing. “Need you to accomplish my goals. Thank you for reminding me.” He wiped his eyes. “Damn me, but it was worth it to see the expression on your face.” He started walking. “Come on.”

There were a number of doorways along the wall. Annabelle did her best to find a landmark for the one they’d come out of. Her eyes followed the orientation of the bodies, lining up on three small ones that looked like children.

That raised a question, didn’t it? Despite herself, she hurried to catch up with Collins to ask him.

“Why didn’t we see any young Therians?” Annabelle asked. “Do they hide them away from visitors? I just thought it was terribly odd.”

Collins stopped, waiting for Nathanial and Arnaud to catch up. The two had been slowing down as they crossed the mausoleum, leaning on each other as they walked. They hadn’t walked that far, had they? Well, a lot had happened. For her part, Annabelle found sleep impossible to think of with hundreds of dead eyes staring at her.

Collins nodded approvingly, then turned to Annabelle with a smile.

“Oddly enough, you just asked an intelligent question,” he said.

“Are you even capable of opening your mouth without being rude?” Annabelle asked.

“Why bother? There’s a good chance that I’ll rule the universe, don’t you know?”

“You’re mad, don’t you know?”

Collins smile grew wider. “Oh, not unaware. But in answer to your question, Therians don’t have children. They steal the little darlings of the lizard-men. Skreelan, you know.”

“I didn’t see any Skreelan in the city. Besides, that makes no sense. They’re completely different. Are you trying to tell me you can raise a Skreelan to grow up to be a Therian?”

“If a caterpillar wants to fly, it has to spin a cocoon.” Collins headed down a passageway. “Oh, come on, I know you’re curious.”

Despite herself, Annabelle followed him down a long, curving passageway like a spiral staircase without the stairs. The air was thick with the scent of moss and something unpleasant she couldn’t quite place.

“Ta-da!” Collins said, gesturing expansively at the room the passageway opened out into. It was shaped like a squashed ball, with a floor that was covered with thin silk strands lying in chaotic coiled piles. Small crab-like creatures scuttled away from their feet as they entered.

Looking up, she saw a score of what looked like man-sized chrysalises hanging from the ceiling.

“Oh, dear God,” Annabelle whispered. “You really do turn those poor Skreelan children into your slaves.”

“Easier to train them when they’re young. There’s some mental changes when they get processed, mostly in the realm of obedience, but it doesn’t teach them how to fly or speak that damnable language of theirs. Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s perfectly natural. Are you disgusted by butterflies?”

“You’re forcing them! This isn’t natural. You take children and…” Annabelle was too horrified to speak.

“So? Children need a guiding hand. Think of it as a schoolmaster’s task. One takes unruly savage children and transforms them into obedient assets to society. Quite literally transformed, here, of course. But you’re right, it isn’t natural. It’s become a stagnant situation. The Therians are really little more than automatons, waiting for instruction. But now they have me.”

“Aren’t they lucky?” Annabelle sneered. “Well, they won’t once we drag you off to the nearest madhouse.”

Collins shook his head. “Right, you outnumber me two to one, three if you care to include yourself. So your course is obvious. But give me a bit of credit, dear. You think I strap these little lizard whelps down while they’re biting and scratching? Not at all. They’re blissfully asleep before the spider crabs get to work knitting them their swaddling.

“As you will be in a few minutes, I expect.”

Annabelle heard a soft thump just outside the room. Dashing to the passageway, she saw Nathanial and Arnaud sprawled across the threshold. She grabbed Nathanial by the shoulders and shook him, but he only moaned softly.

“Good,” Collins said from behind her. “Do run about, will you? I find that exercise helps the drug work. Soon, we’ll get to find out what happens when humans are metamorphosed. I’m guessing at some mammalian equivalent of the Therians. But mostly, I’m hoping you’ll be nice and obedient just like all the other creations of the Old Ones.”

“That’s the order you’ve been going on about, isn’t it?” Annabelle snarled. “Things you can abuse with impunity, everything enslaved to your every whim.”

“Got it in one,” Collins said. “Then it’s off to conquer the rest of the planet. More aerial seeding, this time the spider crabs.” He stroked his chin. “Distributing the narcotic might be a bit difficult. It’s not as if I can invite everyone over for teatime.” He shrugged. “But I’ll figure something out.”

Annabelle slapped Nathanial and Arnaud across the cheeks to no avail. “Wait,” she said, spinning to face Collins. “You said tea. You mean you drugged it? You drank it, too!”

“Of course I did.” Collins winked. “And I chewed the antidote.” He opened his mouth wide, exposing a glistening wad of chewing gum.

Annabelle pulled her gum out from behind her ear and flung it in Collins’ face.

“Ha!” she cried.

“To the devil with you!” Collins yelled as he jumped at her.

Annabelle spun backwards with a waltz spin. Collins flew neatly by, landing on his face.

“Don’t think I won’t knock you out,” he said, breathing heavily. “One adult male versus a little crippled girl.” He stood up, leaning against the wall. “Why don’t you make this easier on us both?”

“Let’s,” Annabelle said. “You know, I’ve been wanting an excuse for this for a good day now.” She fired the revolver through her dress, hitting Collins in the leg.

Collins fell on the floor, screaming and holding his leg. Annabelle took careful aim with the second round.

Collins kicked her artificial leg out from under her as she fired. The shot ricocheted around the room harmlessly. She pulled the trigger again.

The revolver didn’t fire. She quickly pulled the hammer back again as Collins lurched towards her, trailing blood and yelling incoherently.

Click. Nothing.

Annabelle silently begged Nathanial and Arnaud to forgive her for leaving. She rolled to her feet and leaned against the wall for support, stumbling her way up the spiral corridor. Her fake foot kept slipping on the slick flooring, but she could hear Collins right behind her, bellowing curses when he wasn’t moaning in pain. Maybe she could lure him back to the camp and stab him from behind. She might even be able to find her bow.

Unless the Therians were around for him to control. Which they probably would be.

Leaning against the wall she examined the revolver. The firing pin was cleanly sheared off. Trust Blayney to buy a cheap piece.

Could she overpower Collins? He was wounded and flabby, but fat or not, weight was an advantage in a fight. And it was all she could do to run on this leg of hers. Look at how easily Collins had knocked her down back there. Annabelle bit her lip in anger. First Koivunen on Ceres, and now Collins! If they got out of this alive, Nathanial would have to reinforce her leg somehow. It wasn’t fair, but facts were facts. She wasn’t going to let pride lead her into a direct confrontation, not unless there were no other option.

For now, getting out of here seemed the better plan.

She made it to the mausoleum and began to work her way across the room, trying to slow her breathing as she took cover behind a corpse pillar. She tried not to meet the dead creature’s eyes. Perhaps that horrified look was a side effect of the mummification. She wanted to believe that.

Had they been dead, and the prawns were used as a bizarre method of embalming? Or were they drained alive like the Germans in some unholy sacrificial rite? She was prepared to believe anything about the Old Ones now.

The important thing at the moment was that she was still alive. She barely suppressed a shudder as she stepped on a quiescent prawn in the pool. It was hibernating, she reminded herself. If Collins was telling the truth, they needed to be signalled before they’d attack.

Signalled by Collins. Hell and tarnation.

Annabelle picked up her skirts and ran, stretching her legs out as best as she could. Her false leg actually seemed to help her pick up speed, pushing her forward like a spring. It actually seemed better at running than at normal walking. She’d just never tried running all out before. God bless Nathanial and his cleverness. There might still be the off chance she’d someday be able to thank him in person.

“I hear you, girl,” Collins yelled from behind her. “Come on back and we’ll sit down for a little chat. Won’t that be nice, eh? Settle out any misunderstandings we’re having.”

Annabelle was almost at the exit now. She wished she’d shot Collins in the head as planned, but at least his leg wound was slowing him down. Her lungs were burning from the running, but she could push it a bit further. She’d have to.

Behind her, she could hear the scuttling sound of a hundred prawns crawling out of their pools.

Annabelle kept running. The corridor straightened out and headed for the top of the pyramid. She could smell the hot, damp air of the outside. It couldn’t be any farther.

She tripped over a low rise at the entrance to a chamber and went sprawling, skinning her hands against the rough coral-like flooring. Her artificial leg was laying askew, twisted from the fall. As she groped at its straps with bloody hands, she discovered that two of the straps had torn in the fall.

Annabelle looked at the broken straps for a long moment, her mind trying to deny that it was a problem. She could just tie them back together, right? Or perhaps the leg would still stay on without them. But Annabelle was as honest as the day was long, as they’d say back in Arizona. She wasn’t good at lying, not even to herself.

It was just a nickel’s worth of material at most. And it was going to get her killed. She screamed in rage at the unfairness of it all, then decided to allow herself to sob. No one could hear her cry. It was all right, she told herself. We all face death by ourselves in the end.

“Miss Somerset? Is you oh kay?”

Annabelle blinked away the tears and turned to the voice. Lovely, hallucinating in her final moments. Well, perhaps it would take her mind off being eaten alive.

“Why, hello Thymon,” she said. She could hear the hysteria in her voice. “How do you do? Have you brought a pot of tea with you? I should like a cup, perhaps with some of those nice biscuits Professor Stone hides in his valise.”

Thymon came running around the corner ahead. As hallucinations went, it was extremely believable. He looked the same as when she’d said goodbye to him last, so many years ago.

Or was it yesterday? At least a day, she decided.

“Where is others?” Thymon asked. Annabelle could smell the swamp mud on him as he helped her up.

“Collins has them. Down below with the spiders.”

Thymon shook his head. “Miss Somerset, please—” he broke off as a carpet of prawns crawled in through the far entrance to the chamber, slowly waving their forelegs in the air.

The room erupted into light and heat as Thymon fired a flamethrower down the hall.

Seconds later, there was nothing left but a carpet of ash where the prawns had been. The room filled with smoke and shadow as the moss on the walls burned.

“What the devil?” Collins yelled. Annabelle could see him through the smoke, outlined by the multi-coloured light of the moss behind him. “I don’t know what you’re up to girl, but it won’t work, you hear me? I’ve got this whole damned planet at my beck and call. Mine! You got that? This is Neddie’s…” His voice trailed off as he limped out of the smoke, covered with soot and trailing blood.

“Bloody hell,” Collins said, staring at Thymon. He clutched at his necklace. “But they made you skinks, too, didn’t they?”

“There is story,” Thymon said. “Once Skreelan slaves, yes. But day come when there is hero who does not hear voices in head.”

“Thymon,” Annabelle said. “That’s the man. That’s the fellow who’s trying to kill me!”

“Want Thymon stop him?”

“Please,” Annabelle said.

“Oh kay,” Thymon said, pointing the flame thrower.

“You have to obey me. You lot were bred for obedience,” Collins said with increasing desperation.

“No more,” Thymon said.

“I speak for the Old Ones!” Collins screamed.

“No more.”

The room filled with fire and the cloying smell of scorching flesh.

“No one hurts Thymon’s friends,” Thymon said as he helped Annabelle to her feet.

“Thank…thank you, Thymon,” Annabelle said. She tried not to look at Collins’ charred remains. He hadn’t screamed for long, thank God.

“Thymon loves this magic lance,” Thymon said. “Glad Thymon steals from the opeme riders, yes?” Thymon said, jauntily pushing his deerstalker cap back on his head. “Big forest of these where Thymon sail in.”

Annabelle found her voice. It took a while. “You’re real. You are truly real.”

Thymon nodded. “Was not far. And Thymon knew place. Knew humans would go here. Was elementary.” He regarded her with a saucer sized eye, then slowly winked.

Despite everything, Annabelle found herself giggling. “You just couldn’t stop following us, eh? After I told you not to.”

“Thymon works for Mr. Forbesss, not Miss Somerset. Sorry. Thymon think humans need help, so Thymon follow.” Thymon gave a gravelly laugh. “Thymon was right.”

Chapter Fifteen

1.

“Spiders?” Nathanial muttered as Annabelle raised a cup of water to his lips. They were under the lean-to at the top of the pyramid. His mind was finally beginning to clear. He had a memory of seeing a room full of humanoid mummies. Then everything became hazy. Perhaps that was for the best.

“Or crabs,” said Annabelle, “I wasn’t really stopping to take notes.”

“Ordinarily I would fault your lack of scientific inquisitiveness, Annabelle,” Arnaud said. “But it is hard to find argument with your need for alacrity.” He coughed. “Not to mention the desire to escape yet another surfeit of spiders. I consider their Solar System wide prevalence a convincing argument against the existence of a benevolent Creator.”

“Must leave,” Thymon said. He was watching the city. It was mostly obscured in rain at the moment. “Doctors must move. Thymon is sorry. But opeme see us when rain stops.”

“Can we get to your boat, do you think?” Nathanial asked.

“Must try,” the Skreelan replied. “But if they look for humans, is trouble. Skreelan not a worry.”

“But why would they bother?” Annabelle asked. “I mean, Collins is dead. Why don’t we just tell them that? Won’t they be happy?”

“No,” said Nathanial. “They don’t have free will. Still don’t. Remember, the last thing Collins told them was to attack if he was hurt? I doubt they can deviate from that any more than a difference engine could refuse a calculation.”

“Is true,” Thymon said. “But Thymon helps. Skreelan have choice, yes?”

“Yes!” said Annabelle, giving the Skreelan a hug.

“It makes sense,” said Arnaud. “Eventually there would be a beneficial mutation. Escaped Skreelan would be able to breed without the restrictions of their masters, and eventually they became dominant. One can only imagine the resentment. It would be akin to the Haitian rebellion, but multiplied by several thousand. The gods brought themselves down, indeed.”

“Let’s see if we can find some strapping to repair that leg of yours,” Nathanial said. “I’ll go rummage about and see what I can find.”

“Be a dear and get my bow and some bullets, would you?” Annabelle asked him.

“I would never dream of saying no.”

Arnaud walked outside and held his hand up in the rain. “I am afraid it seems to be dissipating. Which troubles me.” He turned to Thymon. “I was not able to study the lake as I would have liked. Tell me, how long to sail across?”

Thymon looked thoughtful. “One, perhaps two hour. Not know, sorry. No clock on boat.”

Arnaud sighed. “Merde. No quick dashing to the safety of the river, then. I think the best we can do is perhaps wait. We do not want to be caught in the open, and I do not think we can out-paddle an opeme.”

“No,” said Thymon.

“Wait,” said Annabelle. “I have an idea.”

2.

“This is a bad idea,” Nathanial said, as they watched the opeme from the safety of the flamethrower tree grove.

“Compared to what?” Annabelle said. “Swimming back? Hiding in the bushes until it starts raining again? Commandeering a sailboat and trying to outrun a flamer equipped thirty-foot long flying lizard?”

“No, I am in favour of putting as much distance between us and the opeme as possible,” Nathanial said. “It is a philosophy somewhat diametrically opposed to actions such as, oh, I don’t know, trying to ride one of the aforementioned beasts out of here.”

“You’ve done madder things before.”

“I’m trying to get out of the habit.” Nathanial sighed. “But you’ve a point.”

“Good. Now hand me your biscuits,” Annabelle said. “Come now, I know you’ve got one last packet.”

Nathanial sighed and handed it over. “This had best be worth it, these are chocolate.”

Annabelle opened the packet and popped a biscuit into her mouth. “They’ll do.”

Ten minutes later found her trying to summon the confidence that she hoped Nathanial believed she had. Put that way, it made her head hurt. It wasn’t a matter of fulfilling expectations so much as reminding herself that she could do this. Really, the creatures looked peaceful enough. They were tied to posts next to a shallow pond, looking for all the world like a flock of pigeons at a bird bath. Or at least they would were it not for the fact that these pigeons were five times her height with mouths filled with their fair share of fangs. But that didn’t mean they’d be vicious. Dogs were carnivores, for example, but hardly anyone would be terrified by a basset hound. The primary difference between dogs and wolves was less the equipment than the attitude.

So, she’d have to find out whether the opeme were dogs or wolves. She approached them slowly, making sure they could see her at all times. Domesticated or not, she didn’t want to find out what happened when they were startled. As she got close, one popped its head up straight in the air like a crane and cooed loudly. Then it turned towards her and dropped its head, bobbing it up and down.

“Do we know each other?” Annabelle asked it. It did feel oddly familiar. She wasn’t sure, but it could have been the one she rode in on. Well, this fellow was as good as any.

The other opeme ignored her as she approached, seemingly intent on drinking and splashing water. Annabelle still made sure she was in their line of sight. They might not be hostile, but she could still get stepped on easily enough. It was rather like sneaking into a ballroom filled with elephants who fancied themselves terpsichoreans. Due caution needed to be exercised.

“Hey boy,” she said, rubbing her opeme’s neck. It gently nibbled at her skirts, tearing a three foot length of cloth off. “Hey!” Annabelle said, slapping the creature’s neck and leaning into it. She held her breath for a long moment, but it didn’t bite her. If anything, it looked somewhat abashed.

It was a strange thing. Perhaps she was reading too much into its expression, but she could swear she felt embarrassment, or at least the feeling that a puppy might have when its ear got nipped by its mother. Not exactly regret, so much as a sheepishness at being caught. Annabelle put her hand on top of the opeme’s snout and gazed into its eyes. Was she sensing its emotions on some sort of psychic level? It was possible, she decided. She had been down in the pyramid, just like Collins had. Perhaps she’d been exposed to the same energies he had. Collins had seemed convinced that wearing the regalia of the dead Old One had enabled him to take command of the city. But she wasn’t trying to do anything so dramatic, much less against the will of the being in question.

Annabelle just wanted to befriend the opeme, was all. And it seemed willing to be friendly in kind. She wondered if it had ever been treated with kindness. She remembered how loyal her mustang had been once he’d discovered that a certain Miss Somerset could be counted on for regular currying and a steady supply of sugar cubes.

Oh, right, the biscuits. Not wanting to lose a hand, she tossed a handful on the ground. Some actually made it there before getting snapped up. She was rewarded with more cooing. And yes, she definitely was sensing the opeme’s feelings now. She felt waves of curiosity mixed with biscuit love pass over her. Laughing, she scratched its cockscomb.

“There’s more where that came from,” she said. “But first, I’ve a few things I need from you.” She untied the halter from the hitching pole. Thankfully, the riders had left the opeme tacked up. Not something she’d have done, but it meant she didn’t need to wander around trying to find whatever passed for a tack shed around here. She took a moment to cinch up the girth strap and other fittings for the saddle belts. Probably not as important as with a horse saddle, given that the majority of the saddle was actually part of the opeme itself. But she wasn’t taking any chances.

Trying to keep her thoughts friendly and encouraging, she leapt up into the saddle and strapped herself in before she could reconsider. She’d brought along an arrow to serve as an improvisatory gaff, but her opeme didn’t need encouragement. She snapped the reins, and it was springing into the air before she could so much as yell “giddy up!”

Annabelle might have screamed. She wasn’t sure. It was one thing to be taken for a ride, it was another thing to hurl along solo on top of a real life dragon. But she could feel contentment from the creature. It felt free, and she sensed that wasn’t a common reaction. It beat its wings deeply for the apparent joy of it, making her struggle to keep her balance as the opeme surged up and down with each stroke. But the seat was deep and she had the restraint belts. She wasn’t likely to get bucked off anytime soon. Or so she told herself.

She hadn’t much time for gallivanting, though. She could already see other opeme in the distance turning to fly towards her. They seemed as if they were a good mile away, and perhaps they just wanted to say howdy to a fellow rider. Be as that may, once they got close enough to spot who she was, her goose was likely to be cooked. She didn’t think she could win them over with biscuits.

It took a bit of reining, but she managed to get her opeme to return to the field and land next to the others.

“Mademoiselle Somerset, you never fail to be impressive,” Arnaud said, clapping his hands.

“I’m afraid that I’m being followed,” Annabelle said.

“Yes, spotted a few of our friends headed our way,” Nathanial said. “Not sure, but I suspect that joyrides during the middle of the day are not a common occurrence.” He swallowed visibly. “So, saddle up shall we? Do you think there’s enough room there for all four of us? I don’t think the rest of us are up for steering beasts on our own.”

“Not Thymon,” Thymon said. “Too heavy. But Thymon has boat. Not worry.”

“You’ll be caught!” Annabelle said. Glumly, she realised that Thymon was right. Even three humans was probably pushing the weight and balance envelope. Tossing a seven foot tall Skreelan on top would make things impossible.

“No caught,” Thymon said. “Thymon has been thinking. Look at trees, yes?” He patted his flamethrower. “Foolish to let grow so close. Like box of matches. Thymon escape while city burns.”

“Very good plan,” Arnaud said approvingly. “One has to wonder why none of the Therians thought about it, though. I mean to say, it’s a stone city of sorts, so there’s security there. But one typically doesn’t care for large forest fires in the back garden. One would have thought they’d grow the trees elsewhere.”

“One would think,” Nathanial said. “But that’s quite the point. The poor Therians had their free will taken from them. When another makes all your decisions for you, one falls out of the habit of creative thought.” He shook his head. “To me, that’s a worse crime than mere enslavement. A slave still has his soul.”

“Free will or not,” Arnaud said, “I see a flock approaching. I recommend departure.”

“I don’t know,” Annabelle said. “I’m not comfortable with Thymon yet again risking his life for us.”

Thymon walked over and looked up at her. “Is Thymon’s life to risk.”

“You’re right,” Annabelle said. She got down out of the saddle and threw her arms around his middle. “I will miss you so.”

“Will see again,” Thymon said, patting Annabelle gently on the back, then helping her back into her saddle. “Is promise.”

“I think it’s a good thing for Commander Bedford that Thymon isn’t human,” Nathanial said to Arnaud as they watched the two make their goodbyes. He smiled bemusedly. “I mean, tall and strong, always ready to jump in to the rescue. The sort of fellow girls sigh over, or so I’m told.”

Arnaud shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I think intelligent and unassuming but willing to throw a punch as needed has its charms as well.”

“You truly think so?” Nathanial said. He took a breath. “Well, off to our aviation adventure. Shall we?”

“With pleasure, mon ami. After you.”

Chapter Sixteen

1.

The opeme was clearly happy enough to fly away from its former home, rapidly climbing upwards to a few hundred feet before straightening its wings and picking up speed. The three hunkered down in the saddle, with Annabelle only needing to provide occasional direction with the reins. Their steed seemed to know where they were headed all on its own.

They could see a patch of fire at the edge of the city, presumably set by Thymon as he escaped in his boat. A few opeme followed them for a while, but then turned back. Annabelle let her opeme slow, spiralling up and around the clouds. It was overcast but brilliantly clear, at least by Venusian standards. She could enjoy the view, so long as they weren’t being chased.

They watched for half an hour. The fire seemed under control, if demanding the attentions of a good score of opeme, who at this distance looked like moths dancing around a candle. But then the flame began to spread rapidly along the walls, encircling the island in a matter of minutes, the flames leaping so high as to obscure the walls.

A heartbeat later, the city exploded in a fireball. Black smoke poured straight up in a column, then spread out, looking like nothing so much as a grotesque mushroom.

Annabelle cracked the reins and leaned forward on the opeme’s neck. A giant invisible hand threw them out and upwards into the clouds, tumbling the opeme like a leaf caught in a gale.

The opeme snapped its wings open, slamming its passengers against their restraint straps. It started climbing through the clouds.

“That was unexpected,” Arnaud said.

“Well, we seem to be alive,” Nathanial said. He glanced at Annabelle. “I’m certain Thymon was as far away as we were. He doesn’t strike me as the sort to dally.”

Annabelle nodded weakly. “No. But…all those people.”

“Perhaps they had someplace to shelter themselves,” Nathanial said. “One hopes.”

“It could not have been just the trees,” Arnaud said. “Something else, perhaps. I haven’t discovered all the properties of asterium. Large ore deposits might very well be volatile. Further research is needed, I think.”

“I’m sorry, Arnaud,” Nathanial said. “I’ve fair much failed you, haven’t I?”

“Not at all, mon ami. I still live.”

“With your sickness. Not to mention—” he looked at Annabelle, who had recovered the reins and was steadying the opeme with comforting clucks of her tongue.

Arnaud put a hand on his shoulder. “I thought you might have a notion of that,” he said quietly. “I saw your eyes after my foolish hypothesizing over this ‘life force’. We read the same monographs, you and I.” He coughed. “We have to see. There are other fish in the sea and other ore deposits in the Solar System. Or perhaps the explosion we have left behind has done us the simultaneous favours of excavation and evacuation. We might very well be able to collect some samples in relative peace. But that will be a future expedition, I think. For now, I have an excuse for the occasional hot tea with brandy.”

“You have a point,” Nathanial said. “In the meantime, we have the more immediate issue of locating the Aeronaut.”

“To the first things first, I suggest climbing out of the cloud,” Arnaud said, raising his voice enough for Annabelle to hear. “This damp does little for my cough.”

Annabelle nodded and reined the opeme upwards. They emerged above a great plane of golden cumulus splashed with tendrils of mist. Far above them, they could see the outline of the sun through the overcast. It was breath taking.

And they had no idea where they were.

“No sign of Forbes-Hamilton,” Nathanial said.

“Not to be expected, in hindsight,” Arnaud said. “He is no doubt doing as ordered, and staying hidden in the clouds, waiting for our flare.”

“Our flare,” Nathanial said. “You mean the ones Thymon was carrying?”

Arnaud closed his eyes. “Merde. I do believe those would be the flares in question.” He clapped his hands together. “A nice dilemma, we have here.”

“We could head north,” Annabelle said. “I am in favour of anywhere but here.”

“Agreed,” said Nathanial. He squinted at the sun. Call that the west, he decided. North was where the British colony on Victoria Plateau was, wasn’t it? “That way, if you please, my dear,” he said, pointing with as much confidence as he could muster.

“You haven’t a clue, have you?” Annabelle said.

Nathanial’s shoulders sagged. “Not a one.”

“Fair enough,” Annabelle said cheerfully. She cracked the reins and the opeme surged forward.

“Wait!” she cried. “Look over there, I saw a light.”

“Oh lovely, let’s chase lights in the sky,” said Nathanial. “That worked out so well last time.”

“Hush,” Annabelle said. “I’ve a good feeling about this one.”

“Tenth time is the charm, to quote the man at the roulette wheel,” Arnaud said.

The opeme banked to lose altitude and headed towards Annabelle’s light. It was in the top layer of a cloud and getting brighter.

They were almost over the light when its source was revealed as a balloon with a string of lanterns around its gondola. It rose out of the cloud, dragging a cable behind it. As they dropped down to its level, they could see a man standing in the basket, a sextant in his hand.

Annabelle wheeled the opeme around the basket, close enough to see the proverbial whites of the fellow’s eyes.

Forbes-Hamilton screamed.

“Here now, sir, it is simply us,” Nathanial called.

A bit of back and forthing and multiple assurances later, Forbes-Hamilton agreed to let them attempt an aerial transfer.

Nathanial felt he was getting altogether too adept at those.

Once secure in the basket, Annabelle waved a melancholy farewell to her opeme.

“I’ll get you a parrot for your wedding, promise,” said Nathanial.

“I can’t really explain it,” said Annabelle. “We had a bit of a bond. I mean, not to go all patting myself on the back, but that transfer was a bit of tricky flying.”

“It was at that,” Nathanial said. Did the girl have some sort of control over that beast, like Collins had over the Therians? If so, that raised a host of questions, most of which would sadly remain unanswered. Or perhaps it was just the chocolate biscuits.

“My apologies,” Forbes-Hamilton said. “Welcome to my auxiliary navigation platform.” He coughed gently. “I found myself in the need of a sextant shot. But we can descend back to the Aeronaut now.”

“Ah, a bit of trouble with the inertial navigation system?” Arnaud asked.

“More like with the confounded difference engine the Navy issued me. Free and worth every penny. If it hadn’t stopped working, I’d still be safely hidden in the cloud deck, not up here…” Forbes-Hamilton looked around at his fellow passengers. “I mean to say, it was a fortuitous event, was it not?”

“Indeed it was,” Nathanial said. “Now then, shall we descend back to your exquisite airship?”

Forbes-Hamilton beamed. “Why, of course! Just in time for dinner. My mum’s stew recipe. Well, with rather more dinosaur meat than Mum used, but frankly one can’t tell the difference.”

“Perhaps some other time,” Nathanial said.

END

Next:

“The Forever Journey”

I Knew a Real Victorian Adventurer

A Dedication

Once upon a time, I knew a real Victorian Girl Adventurer. Janet Parish-Whittaker was an incredibly bright, creative, funny, adventuresome, gutsy and possibly most importantly, caring and giving woman. She was also my best friend, collaborator and wife.

I lost her on May 10th, 2011 to her fourth round of cancer in her all too brief life.

But she would be the first to eschew the role of the wan girl who passes daintily away so the Heroic Lead can look all mopey afterwards. Despite having had four cancers, chronic rheumatoid arthritis, uncontrolled seizures for a year, complete heartblock requiring a pacemaker, and various other maladies like hypothyroidism, she had a successful music and teaching career. Her work with Harry Castle (who also passed far too early) was one of the honorees at the ’97 International Council on Computer Music, which found her traveling to Thessaloniki during the middle of a crippling arthritis attack.

Sure, she wasn’t well. But she didn’t just sit at home, either. Among other things, we journeyed across the USA in a fabric and wood plane, hacked our way up an ice slope on Mt. Whitney, explored Denali park, flew the Yukon, and stalked the night time streets of Paris, where she found an old homeless Greek guitarist to sing with. She took every second of life, perhaps because she knew she probably wouldn’t have a full life span.

But she would never, ever allow herself to be labeled as “that poor sick girl.” “Don’t call me a survivor!” she’d say. “I’m just muddling along!”

Annabelle Somerset would recognize a kindred spirit, I like to think.

Janet was also a complete and utter geek. Cute and cuddly geek, mind you. Her father tells me that when a little girl, she would hack his Apple IIe in order to get all the high scores on Star Trek. Her geekdom was an eclectic one that stretched from Dr. Who to Victorian romances. Like all geek newlyweds, we combined our libraries and traded our favorite books. I introduced her to Ellison and Niven, and she in kind introduced me to the Brontes and Austen.

So, when the day came that we discovered Space: 1889, we both fell in love. Years before steampunk became a “thing,” we’d sit around the gaming table spinning tales of journeys into space with the appropriate amount of Victorian panache. She played many characters, but our mutual favorite was Miss Prudence Postlethwaite, a governess given the duty of keeping her wayward charge from throwing herself at every eligible set of muttonchops in the solar system. Janet would pin her hair up in a bun and wear her very best cameo broach for her “performances.” She couldn’t escape her cuteness, though, no matter how sternly she tried to look over her glasses.

She would have loved the notion of actually working on the series. Certainly, she was often the one who drove me to write, not in some ethereal sense of her being a “muse,” but in the very real sense of coming up with story ideas, finding markets, and poking me with a knitting needle as necessary. To be honest, some years ago, I’d just about given up on the notion of ever writing professionally. Some wives would have said supportive things, sure. Janet, on the other hand, simply went onto my computer, picked a story she thought was decent enough and submitted it for me to an international contest. She didn’t tell me about what she’d done until she handed me the phone with the contest director on the other end offering congratulations.

That contest was where I had the fortune to meet Steve Savile, whose friendship and mentoring I’ve cherished over the last few years. And that led to the chance to work with the man himself in one of my favorite fictional universes. It doesn’t get better than that. I just wish Janet could be part of it, too.

But then again, in a very real sense, she is.

Good night Miss Postlethwaite, wherever you are.