20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (19 page)

She nodded as she clasped the books to her.
Was he handing her busywork or the keys to the kingdom? She was a
Brightman Girl pretending to be a geologist on a ship sailing the
sky to Mars. Right now, anything was possible.

"Good. At least Petunia taught you
something
useful. You may keep them here until after the
moon crossing party. No need to lug those beasts about." He took
out his pocket watch and studied the time for a moment, lingering
to gaze at its interior. "In fact, let's knock off early today.
It's just about time for the moon-crossing party, anyway. It will
go all afternoon through the duty shift changes so everyone can go
at some point," he remarked. "It seems that my initial assessment
of this mission was inaccurate. This particular war seems to be an
endless set of tea parties, after all."

~~~~

Christophe

"Welcome back to the
Fury
, gentlemen,"
Christophe said to the dozen midshipmen gathered around his
conference table. "And welcome back to officer training. Mr.
Cervantes and I look forward to continuing your education. We can't
let your fellows back at the Academy pass you up." He tapped the
tattered copy of
The Influence of Sea Power Upon History
resting in front of him. "It's been a busy few weeks since we last
met, but you should have found time to read the first section of
Admiral Mahan here. Yes, Mr. Dreyfus."

The third junior officer to his left spoke in
a Parisian accent. "
Oui
, I mean, yes, sir, I have read it.
But I must wonder, what use will it be? How can nautical maneuvers
be relevant out here?"

"Captain, I must agree," added the fellow
across from Dreyfus, Mr. Adebayo, who stroked the spine of his own
book with elegant brown fingers. "He was required reading at the
Nigerian naval academy as well. His analysis of the battle of
Trafalgar is useful for warfare in the Mediterranean, but not in
space."

Christophe perched on the edge of the table
behind him and beamed his smile across the group. He winked at
Cervantes as he remembered their own debates on this very issue
over cold bottles of ale on the
Kiwi
. "Excellent question.
Does anyone have an answer for Mr. Adebayo and Mr. Dreyfus?"

Silence reflected the same question in the
eyes of the middies, from Desai and Holomek all the way back to
Alatas and Owen at the far end of the table.

"Mahan himself tells us in the first
section." Christophe closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing
his faculties to retrieve the proper memory. "'
The theatre of
war may be larger or smaller, its difficulties more or less
pronounced, the contending armies more or less great, the necessary
movements more or less easy, but these are simply differences of
scale, of degree, not of kind.
'"

Christophe shared a knowing look with his
first mate. He brandished the book before the group. "We certainly
have changed our theatre, gentlemen, but good strategy is good
strategy. That is what Mahan is trying to tell us. Our tactics may
have to change as our vessels and weapons change, but the wisdom of
cutting off your opponent's communications before they can cut off
yours still holds water, even out here. Yes, Mr. Holomek?"

"But how can we do that? We don't entirely
understand how they communicate, aside from the telepathic theory.
We cannot interfere with their wireless, because they do not use
it. I mean, how do you stop someone from speaking with their
mind?"

"Again, that falls under tactics," Christophe
said. "Tactics that we will have to work out ourselves. We have to
start somewhere, though, and Mahan is the best source we have. As
for the rest, well, we're working on it. And perhaps one of us in
this very room will write
The Influence of Space Power Upon
History
."

Cervantes added, "We are off the map,
gentlemen, and we must chart our own way from here. Therein lies
the danger."

"And the glory!" Christophe added. "It is the
price we pay for our place in history. We are the first to study
matters astronautical, to explore the celestime, as it were, rather
than the maritime."

Cervantes joined in, as if on cue. "We intend
to build upon, rather than replace, the existing principles of war.
They may be all that will save us."

"Can they save us if the Martians meet us en
route?" asked Dreyfus. "Even though we have only one ship?"

"There are advantages in any situation, if
you look for them," Cervantes replied. "We may be more difficult to
detect than a fleet would be. And they may not consider a single
ship a threat. Their cylinders were mostly ballistic in nature and
had only basic thrusters. We can out-maneuver them quite easily.
Also, our weapons' payload is self-propagating, so we don't need as
many bombs to have the same impact."

"Can these strategies save us if there is
someone else out here besides the Martians?" Holomek asked. "Or if
they have ships other than the cylinders? Built from the other
plans we found with them?"

"Or if we collide with a growler? Or run out
of fuel?" asked Alatas.

"Could they have worked on the moon?" Owen
had a catch in his voice. "Could they have saved Karl?"

Christophe willed his face into a neutral
expression before he locked eyes with the younger man, who had been
Karl's closest friend on the maiden voyage. He could see the late
midshipman's face clearly in Owen's eyes, as clearly as he saw the
silhouette on the cameo that Frau Knopf wore around her throat
every day.

"No. We weren't at war with the sun,"
Christophe replied in a cool and even voice, "any more than
foundering tall ships were at war with the icebergs that sank them.
The strategies for dealing with Nature are entirely different. In
fact, sometimes the best you can do is get out of Her way. We have
found that in space, without the protection of Earth's atmosphere
and magnetic field, doing so is far more difficult."

Cervantes added, "It was our collective
ignorance of what lies out here that took our friends from us. We
could not save Karl or the rest of them then, but that experience
can save us now. And so can the experiences of others. In that
light, let us continue with Mahan. What can we learn from Nelson
and the Battle of the Nile?"

After an hour of Christophe rattling off
pages of prose and Cervantes interpreting him, the middies filed
out of the room and headed for their various duty stations.
Christophe collapsed into the chair at the head of the table and
rubbed the bridge of his nose. As he fought the urge to take a nap
before his next watch, he felt Cervantes' gaze upon him.

"Are you all right?" the first mate
asked.

"Well, it is the one question on everybody's
mind, isn't it? They had to ask it, sooner or later. They have a
right to ask it. Whether they believe my answer or not is another
story."

"I know that,
amigo
. But do you
believe your answer?" He stepped over to the plaque mounted on the
wall behind Adebayo's chair. The memorial plaque, the one that was
too large and contained too many names, thumped against the
bulkhead as Cervantes ran his index finger across the name
Karl
Knopf, Midshipman
.

"What do you want me to do? Order them to
forget what happened? I can't command their feelings."

"They should never forget what happened. And
neither should you. It will keep them alive, every time those blue
lights come on," Cervantes said as he ambled around the conference
table. He stopped in front of the opposite wall and rested his hand
on the mural of ships carved into it. "Yes, they do doubt. What we
are doing dances on the line between courage and idiocy. But they
are all volunteers, and they are still here. And so am I."

Christophe chuckled and swung his long legs
onto the top of the table. "Of course you are. You're the next
Mahan!" Crossing his ankles, he continued, "I wouldn't dream of
venturing without you, Miguel. You keep me grounded. Though out
here that is in a purely metaphorical sense, of course."

"Of course! Well, someone has to steer the
ship while you give the ladies the Cook's Tour," Cervantes replied
with the barest hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.
"Besides, I wouldn't let you tilt at windmills without me."

"Is that what we're doing? Tilting at
windmills?"

"From a certain point a view. We're voyagers
in a universe that is trying its damnedest to kill us. That's why
they are celebrating the moon crossing today. Why it's a crew party
and not one of Wallace's. Because we have learned from this." He
tapped the image of the
Fury
. "And because we have made it
this far, this time."

"Blast! The party! I nearly forgot!"
Christophe leapt out of the chair and pulled out his watch. "Do you
think the Cohort will be there?"

"I'm certain Elias will have some of them in
tow." Cervantes squinted at him with questioning eyes. "Wait,
you're not planning to--"

"When does it start?"

"Ten minutes ago."

The urge to nap dissipated, and Christophe
burst out of the room, barely hearing Cervantes' shouted reminder
that the party was not in the parlour this time.

~~~~

Gemma

As they made their way through the ship,
Gemma and Dr. Pugh passed clusters of sailors hovering in the
corridors. A current of unease flowed through their chatter.

"Why are they so nervous?" Gemma whispered to
Pugh. "It is just a party, isn't it? No hazing or anything?"

"They are almost to the moon, and they
haven't had a glitch yet."

"A glitch?"

He chuckled. "Nautical folk have always been
a superstitious lot. Those who sail the solar winds, doubly so. On
the maiden voyage, everything went swimmingly until the return
trip, and they are afraid if they don't have a small glitch now, at
the beginning, then something much worse will happen later. It
doesn't help that there are women aboard."

Gemma stopped in her tracks and looked up at
him. She very nearly stomped her foot. "What on Earth -- pardon me,
that sounds silly now -- why would that be a problem?"

"Oh, long-standing tradition, you know. Women
were thought to be bad luck back in the days of the old wooden
ships. We had to jump through several hoops to convince the crew at
large to let Caroline and Frau Knopf on the lunar voyage without
complaint. Perhaps they were afraid that the ladies would spend too
much time mooning over the captain to get their work done."

"What rubbish," she replied with a crisp
snort. She took off down the corridor again at a quick march.

Pugh's cackling laughter echoed down the
corridor. "That's what I like about you, Llewellyn. You are
completely unencumbered by notions of romance." His long legs soon
caught him up with her, even with his usual languorous strides. "In
fact, it's your one redeeming quality."

"I'll take that as a compliment, Dr. Pugh."
Notions of romance were the last thing she needed.

As they crossed the orrery's threshold,
Caroline greeted them at the door with a handful of red and white
bunting. Nigel was polishing the brass pole that held up Venus, and
he was in high spirits.

"So, it seems we shall get past the moon at
last," Nigel said as he walked past her, his voice heavy with
relief. He twirled his polishing rag in the air like a noisemaker.
"So far, so good. The Oberths are purring along, no fights amongst
the crew, and the goats have escaped their pen only once so far!
It's going swimmingly. Just wish we'd have one small hitch before
we cross the line. I'd be more at ease."

There were only a handful of crewmen in the
chamber so far, but more could be heard coming down the hallway.
They were joking and singing songs bawdy enough to indicate that
Mr. Wallace was not yet in sight, and they were dressed in a mix of
duty uniforms and civilian ensembles. Mr. Rathbone pulled a fiddle
out of its case and tuned it, and Frau Knopf put the finishing
touches on a table brimming with pastries.

The diminutive
Thunder Child's Fury
had indeed moved since her last visit. The pale ball of a moon was
almost between the Earth and the sun, nearly on the other side of
the planet from them. The miniscule ship, which was crawling away
from Earth at a snail's pace, was just about to pass the imaginary
circle traced by the slender pole holding the lunar sphere. The
atmosphere held all the crackle and energy of a New Year's Eve
party where everyone prayed that midnight actually arrived.

Gemma had attended many parties in her day,
but they were usually working parties for her: a bit of sleeping
potion in champagne here, a bit of seduction there with a
strategically placed fan or teasing glimpse of ankle, or simply the
proper choice of words in the proper ear. And now twice in a week
she was attending a party at which she was merely a guest. She
wasn't sure what to do, so she dropped into her observational mode
and scanned the room, in case there was some clue about Orion
there, other than the one on the ceiling.

Mr. Humboldt ambled along the brass pathway
of Earth's orbit, on the other side of the sun from the rest of the
group. He wore a cobbled-together ensemble consisting of a wrinkled
wool waistcoat that had last seen daylight before the Martians had
landed and a pair of ghastly jacquard-woven purple and green
paisley pants. They had been meant as a rebellion against the
Ministry of Culture's fashion guidelines, but they were so cruel to
the eyes that even the Rational Dress Society would not defend
them.

Humboldt stumbled a bit as he came around the
track, further soiling his poorly tied ascot with his spilt drink.
Gemma suspected that there was more than just tea in his cup. He
staggered up to Caroline, who had finished with the bunting and
returned to the circle of planets. With the hairs on the back of
her neck rippling across her skin, Gemma slipped over to join their
conversation.