20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (28 page)

The more she searched, the more she was
convinced that Orion had nothing to do with the ship itself. The
research that Brightman had collected over the past few years
indicated that the Terran governments were interested in weapons
they could use on Earth. Caroline had been in earnest when she had
asked Gemma about the Black Smoke research. Philippa had been
involved in the propagation calculations for that very study at the
ACS. Her results, furtively whispered in the darkness of their
room, had made Gemma's skin crawl.

Perhaps Orion had something to do with the
heat ray? Though goodness knew there were plenty of ways to capture
that data on Earth, if one knew where to look. Anna, another
Brightman Girl whose skills lay in directions other than
mathematics, had been embedded as a French minister's mistress for
several years. She had provided enough intelligence on that
nation's heat ray designs that Brightman could build one of her
own, if she so desired. By the same token, the Cohort's
pestilential G-bombs were hardly a secret. Their mechanisms were
fairly conventional, and the diseases they carried were not exactly
exotic.

Gemma reported back any breadcrumb that she
could find, from details of the Oberths to the workings of the A.E.
to the idiosyncrasies of the Cohort members (Bidarhalli would only
use blue grease pencils, the linguist loathed strawberry jam), in
case any of it led Brightman to clarify her orders. In return, she
merely received instructions to spend more time with the
captain.

Moreau made that part frustratingly easy. The
captain's antics were the only thing distracting her from the
tedium of reading and the anxiety of searching for the ill-defined
Orion. He was like a very tall, very determined cat that demanded
attention whenever she started working.

After her talk with Caroline, Gemma decided
to visit Alfieri and his telescope (and his telescope's camera). He
greeted her warmly and spent the afternoon showing her the massive
device and the points of light in its viewing field.

"How is it that you are such an expert on
solar flares?" she asked.

"Oh, I had the good fortune of attending some
of the lectures of the British Astronomical Association. Met one of
the founders there, one Elizabeth Brown. Quite the solar
observer!"

"I thought women weren't in the societies."
It had been a particular sore point with Mrs. Brightman.

"Well, there aren't any in the actual Royal
Society, unfortunately. Quite a loss! I picked up most of my solar
lore from her. She made sure ladies were part of the BAA from the
beginning." He pointed the telescope to another area of the sky and
motioned for her to look into the eyepiece. "There are other routes
to science besides the Royal Society, if one knows where to look.
And, I hope, as we progress, even that will change. Wisdom is where
you find it."

She could almost hear the stars whispering to
her as she peered into the eyepiece, reminding her of what had
brought her to the observatory.

"Can you photograph what you see?" she
asked.

"Certainly. We have a camera that mounts upon
the eyepiece. I expect we'll be taking quite a few as we get closer
to Mars."

"Is it easy to use?"

"Oh, anyone could use it after a few minutes'
worth of instruction. I could show you how, if you like."

A few minutes later, after very little
effort, said camera was mounted on the telescope. The mechanism was
simple to use, and the camera was lighter than she had
expected.

"Is it very portable?"

"It's designed to be. We can use it to record
a variety of scientific phenomena, not just with the telescope.
It's available to anyone who wishes to use it. I think your friend
Yeoman McLure has even put in a request for it."

"So not just the Cohort?"

"Various departments have used it since we
left. Herr Knopf borrows it from time to time to record plant
growth in the Gardens. Wallace likes photos of the crew in action.
That sort of thing. We have plenty of film, and the development lab
is just over there." He pointed to a door on the far side of the
observatory. "Just don't open the door when the
Occupied
sign is up."

"Of course," she replied, keeping her buzzing
thoughts to herself. Should she remind Dr. Pugh of this, for his
investigation? "Don't want to let the light in."

"Funny thing, light. Remember as you observe,
we see the light of the past," Alfieri said.

"The past?"

"Yes. It takes light time to get to us. Even
at the incredible speed it travels, it takes time to move across
space. For example, if you look at Mars from Earth, you see the
Mars of several minutes ago, not the Mars of that very instant. We
see Mars in the past, even if just the very recent past."

"If we went far enough away from Earth -- and
had a powerful enough telescope -- could we watch the Invasion
happen? Or see the world before the Invasion?" she asked. But her
real question, a question she never would have dared ask in earshot
of Mrs. Brightman, a question she would not have dared think of
before this voyage, was "
Could I see my parents
?"

"Yes," he replied with a sage nod, seeming to
hear even the unspoken question. "We couldn't affect that past, but
we could witness it. And it might affect us."

"Affect us? How?"

"Only in a reactionary sense. What if we
witnessed events that heretofore we had only heard about? What if
we saw a completely different version than the tale we had been
told? The way we react to the past often influences our present.
And our future."

"As we get closer to Mars," Gemma said, "I
suppose we have less and less time between the present we bring
with us and the past that we see. What happens when the two
collide?"

"I suppose we'll find out together, my
child."

Days blurred together. Breakfast presented
her with the trading of CDVs and updates on Nigel's impending
fatherhood. Then it was reading and still more reading, with no Dr.
Pugh and no news of his investigation, even after she had left him
a note about the camera beneath his door.

Humboldt managed to find her every day as she
walked from the mess hall to the laboratory to report that he had
still not found the original version of her message. He searched at
every spare moment, even though his "extra duties" had ended two
days after Gemma had had a word with Nigel.

In the meantime, she cringed every time
Rathbone handed her a new message. She was amazed at how many ways
one could say "
get on with it
". It no longer amazed her that
Brightman had not sent any gear along. Of course she hadn't. It was
an excuse for Pugh to find her something else to do.

She dreaded ship's night. The squid refused
to leave her dreams alone. One night it curled up on the other bed
in her stateroom with Christophe, who was reading the Aronnax
journal to it. Yet another night, it waltzed with the Man from
Shanghai.

One night her mind simply refused to rest.
She slipped into the carpeted corridor outside her cabin and paced
along the wall sconces; the ever-present scratching sounds in the
wall seemed especially loud in the hush of ship's night. When she
approached a turn, she heard a soft whisper.

Years of training pressed her against the
wall. As silently as she could, she slid down into a crouch and
peered around the corner. Expecting to find some male intruder, she
instead saw Caroline, who was whispering into an air vent and
scribbling in her notebook. Gemma retreated to her stateroom and
allowed the Yeoman to do her ghostly research in peace.

She was not the only one under strain. Hui
looked tousled and weary as he slaved over the cannon he was
building. Nigel's nerves were stretched to the limit as the time of
his wife's delivery approached, and he distracted himself with long
nights in the orrery. When she saw Christophe, the shine in his
eyes was still there, albeit accompanied by ever-deepening lines
around his eyelids. She suspected that he was spending more nights
in sick bay than he was in his own cabin.

Everyone was on edge since the heat ray
incident. No one had mentioned "sabotage" officially, but it was
still widely whispered in the mess hall. The theories ran the usual
gamut, from the ridiculous to the sublime, of what would happen
next. They grew wilder as the number on the "Days Til Braking Day"
banner grew ever smaller.

Cervantes seemed to be the only one on the
ship getting any real sleep.

The following Friday, thirteen days until
Braking Day, she was re-reading parts of the Aronnax journal,
wondering what in the world Pugh could be thinking in assigning her
such a task, when she could have been assisting in his
investigation.

Agitated, she flipped to the back of the
journal and read the last page. She found some handwritten notes on
the inside of its back flap. It contained a list of names in
various scripts, a "COMPUTER ROSTER" for the Aronnax Laboratory, E.
Pugh assisting, dated two years prior to the Invasion. Out of
curiosity, Gemma skimmed the names on the list and stopped at a
very familiar name: "PEARL ADDISON".

She brushed the tip of a finger across the
name. She knew that script almost better than her own; "Pearl
Addison" was one of Mrs. Brightman's favourite aliases, from her
days before the Invasion. Her pulse raced. Dr. Pugh had all but
admitted that he had a connection with Mrs. Brightman, and here it
was, inscribed in fading ink. Mrs. Brightman rarely talked of her
days before the School. Was this the "discrepancy" that Dr. Pugh
had asked her to find?

She looked up, halfway anticipating that the
captain would stride through the door at any moment. He had been
curiously absent that day. She glanced around the lab at the other
scientists. Hui measured and calibrated away in his own little
world. Bidarhalli muttered to himself in his own language. She
could hear the faint bickering of the Germ Sciences team in the
next room.

She checked the clock above the door. It was
far past the time for his usual check-in with the Cohort. She
tapped the tip of her pencil against the lab desk, lost in thought,
until she saw Berndsen glowering at her. She held the pencil still,
and he returned to his microscope.

She flicked her eyes to the door. No captain.
The change in pattern -- as Humboldt would have remarked -- was
disturbing. Before she knew it, she was walking towards the
corridor. She had half a mind to search for him and half a mind to
call herself an idiot for doing so.

At the door, she met none other than Dr.
Pugh, who looked considerably more rumpled than usual.

"Ah, Gemma, just the person I was looking
for." His voice was heavy with weariness. "Come with me, please. I
need you."

"Dr. Pugh, I--"

He loped away toward the lift and gestured at
her over his shoulder to follow.

"No time, no time," he said. "We have to go
now. We're needed. The captain needs us."

Father Alfieri met them as they entered sick
bay. The place smelt as strongly of antiseptic as Gun Control had
smelt of blood and smoke. It was not as large as she had
anticipated. There were only ten beds, two of which were occupied
by victims of more pedestrian accidents. A group of men spilled out
from behind a privacy screen. She recognized the ship's surgeon,
now dressed in a white version of the ship's uniform, and a few
other officers. The top of Christophe's head stuck out just above
the top of the screen, and she caught a few glimpses of him as he
chopped at the air with his fists. His hair was tousled, and his
normally starched uniform dripped wrinkles. He lobbed harsh words
at the other men as her group approached.

"Dr. Hansard, I cannot possibly allow you to
do this!" The desperation in his voice was even louder than his
words.

The surgeon, clutching an unlabeled bottle,
replied, "I don't want to do this either, Captain, but my orders
for this kind of situation are quite clear. With these injuries, we
cannot hope that Cervantes will see Earth again, even if we make it
back. Neither will he die right away. He will linger for weeks,
Captain. Weeks. And he will be in agony the entire time."

Mr. Wallace took up the thread when the
doctor had finished. "The TIA has given you special dispensation in
these cases, Captain. I've reviewed the protocols, and they
certainly apply here. His burns are deep, so deep that his body
cannot repair the damage, and neither can we. Please, in the name
of mercy, Captain." He turned to see the approaching priest. "Ah,
Father Alfieri." He noticed Gemma standing next to Pugh. The
Cultural Officer stepped in front of the bed, shielding Cervantes
from her view. "Why did you bring this young lady? She does not
need to see this!"

"I requested her," interjected Dr. Pugh.
"Miss Llewellyn is now my assistant, and I need her."

Behind Wallace was Frau Knopf, by the head of
the bed, glowering at the rest of them. Gemma could feel
Christophe's gaze on her as Dr. Pugh leaned down to speak, but the
captain did not stop his passionate discourse.

"I am afraid he's quite wild now," Dr. Pugh
whispered. "He has the power to end Cervantes' ordeal, but he
refuses to use it. He can't see that we can't fix this. Leaving
Cervantes like this will only prolong the lad's suffering."

"So soon?" Gemma hissed back. "This just
happened."

"Look, we've seen injuries like this before,
on the previous voyage. We kept the victims alive because we were
so close to Earth that we could get them home within a few days.
Frau Knopf's son was among them. We couldn't help them. They took a
long time to die, child. A long time. It was horrid, horrid! We can
send people into space, but we cannot heal these kinds of
injuries!" The beseeching in the elderly scientist's voice was as
earnest as that in Christophe's, which carried over the entire
chamber. "The Admiralty created some new regulations for this very
situation. We'll be out here for quite some time, remember. It's
the only thing we can do for him. The only thing. I cannot bear to
see him like this. I know you of all people can understand."