The Venusian Gambit (47 page)

Weatherby looked over to Anne. “How is this possible?”

She looked around, seeming to search the room itself for an answer. “I…I do not know.”

“Not sure it matters,” Shaila said. “I think we need to get moving, regardless. Admiral, can we get a lift?”

Weatherby smiled. “By all means.”

January 31, 2135
May 30, 1809

Weatherby stood upon the quarterdeck of HMS
Victory
and conducted the service that defined much of his career at sea and Void. He had lost count of the number of times, and despite his best efforts, the number and names of those memorialized. He worked hard to ensure that, within himself, the words in the book before him never became rote, that the task he discharged would never become drudgery.

This time, there was no worry of any of that. He felt every moment acutely.

“James Whitlock, post-captain, HMS
Enterprise
. John Roberts, first lieutenant, HMS
Victory
. Margaret Huntington, marine captain, Project DAEDALUS. Dr. Evan Greene, science specialist, Project DAEDALUS,” he intoned, at the end of a list that took a full twenty minutes to read. “And…”

He paused, tears welling in his eyes. He stood stock still, trying to rein in emotion, but a single sob betrayed him. Composing himself, he finished: “Andrew Finch, fleet alchemist, HMS
Victory
.”

Weatherby felt Anne’s hand upon his shoulder, and Elizabeth’s hand in his, and drew strength from them both.

“We commit their bodies to the depths, to the ground, to the Void and to the great beyond, indefinable except unto God Himself,” Weatherby continued. “The Lord bless them and keep them. The Lord make His face to shine upon them and be gracious unto them. The Lord lift up His countenance upon them, and give them peace. Amen.”

“Amen,” said the hundreds assembled upon the main deck.

“Dismissed,” Capt. Searle ordered, and the crew dispersed.

Weatherby turned and handed the book to Gar’uk, who had survived the invasion of the pyramid along with Elizabeth and Philip. He then extended a hand to Diaz, who had joined him on the quarterdeck, along with Shaila and Stephane. “Thank you for attending, General.”

She took his hand warmly. “Thank you, Admiral, for including my people in your prayers. Means a lot to us.” The general and her people were wearing their pressure suits, with large backpacks attached, though their helmets were at their side. While the overlap continued to reduce itself at a steady rate, the general did not wish to take chances. “And I am truly sorry about Dr. Finch,” she added. “I know he meant a lot to you.”

Weatherby nodded and grasped Elizabeth’s hand for support. “He was as a brother to me, and I have much I regret with my recent treatment of him,” the admiral said. “In the end, he was strong enough to overcome possession, strong enough to sacrifice his life for ours. He was, I believe, the very best of men, and….” Weatherby stopped, feeling as though he was being somewhat maudlin. “…well, I shall miss him greatly.”

Diaz nodded and placed a hand on Weatherby’s shoulder. “I have no doubt. Thank you, sir. It’s been a privilege.” They saluted one another, and Diaz picked her way down the stairs to the main deck to await her colleagues.

It was Shaila’s turn. “Shame about Berthollet,” she said. “That guy was a prick.”

Weatherby laughed, despite himself. “I suppose he was, but we remained too evenly matched for us to try to capture him. At least Cagliostro is in our brig. This time, I doubt we shall allow anyone else to have him.”

“Good idea,” she said. She then embraced him in a hug. “Thank you. You and Finch, you saved us.”

Slightly startled, he returned the hug. “Not without your help. My very best to you and Dr. Durand.” He gently disengaged her. “I do hope you make an honest man of him at some point,” he chided.

She and Stephane both laughed, and Weatherby shook hands with the Frenchman as well. “I think we need a vacation first,” Stephane said. “Thank you, Admiral Weatherby.”

After exchanging hugs with Anne and Elizabeth, and a few manly handshakes from young Philip, Shaila and Stephane joined Diaz on the main deck. About 200 meters off
Victory
’s larboard side, the Stanford research station floated in space…or the Void. Whichever. When
Victory
first brought them up, the remnants of Project DAEDALUS had used small alchemical lodestones for life support—and rigged a rope bridge, of all things—to get them to the Stanford airlock. After that, the suits felt like a much better choice.

A Royal Navy lieutenant and an honor guard stood at attention as they prepared to disembark. “I could get used to this,” Diaz said. “Weatherby’s got a valet.”

Shaila turned and waved at Weatherby, who returned the gesture. “I think I just want to go home,” she said. “All this…I’ve had enough.”

With that, the three JSC astronauts pushed off the side of HMS
Victory
and into space, then jetted toward the Stanford station—and their own time.

CHAPTER 30

March 29, 2136

M
aria Diaz shut down the holophone on her desk and leaned back in her chair, exhausted. She had spent this day—and many of the days since her return from Venus—engaged in issuing reports, answering to higher-ups, holding confidential briefings and “doing politics,” as she often put it. This latest conference call was with President Weathers’ chief of staff, who wanted some political cover when the conglom execs came calling. Chrys VanDerKamp and Harry Yu were going to be charged with a rainbow assortment of crimes, and while the Corporate Court could never be briefed on the exact happenings surrounding the
Tienlong
and Venus, the Weathers administration seemed willing to butt heads with the congloms in order to see justice done.

It was a nice change of pace in Washington. While preparing her reports, Diaz discovered Harry Yu was a top party donor, and she was certain that would buy him at least a partial reprieve. It seemed that the right things were happening.

Earlier in the day, she had to schlep up to Capitol Hill, where she was forced to brief a select group of four senators and six congressmen about Project DAEDALUS and all the recent activity. Thankfully, she had worked with JSC to come up with a pretty airtight cover story, and was able to convince the committee that corporate malfeasance was to blame for everything. Martians? What Martians?

There was a knock on her door. “Come,” she said.

Shaila Jain entered in her shipboard khakis. “You asked to see me, ma’am?”

Diaz waved her to a seat. “Yep. How’s Steve doing?”

“Frustrated,” Shaila said with a brief smile and she took a chair on the other side of Diaz’ desk. “How long can one man be debriefed?”

“Getting infected by an alien intelligence, stealing a spaceship and then helping to defeat a Martian? You’re lucky
you
only got away with two months.”

Shaila frowned. “We just want a break, ma’am.”

“And you deserve it,” Diaz replied. “So I pulled some strings and got five minutes with the President himself a little while ago. Basically, it comes down to this: Stephane Durand will need to be monitored pretty much for the rest of his life. Nothing we can do about that.

“
However
,” Diaz added, speaking over Shaila’s budding objection. “So long as he agrees to wear a monitor 24/7, tied into a Project DAEDALUS computer, he can be released to his supervising officer.”

“And who’s that?” Shaila groused.

“You, of course,” Diaz grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Shaila sat stunned for several moments. “So, that’s it then?” Shaila said finally. “He’s done? We’re done?”

“Well, I hope you two will consider staying on with me,” Diaz said. “DAEDALUS is still up and running. Coogan’s had enough, and I can’t say I blame him, so I need a number two. You’re already up for full commander, probably make captain in three or four more. And I figure Steve’s learned a lot over the past few years—he’d be one hell of an asset.”

Shaila looked pained, so Diaz put her hand up. “You don’t need to decide now. My partner’s brother has a cabin up in Hyde Park, Vermont. She bullied him into staying clear of it until after Memorial Day. So you and Steve go play house for a couple months, then figure out what you want the rest of your lives to look like.”

That got Diaz the smile she hoped for. “Thank you, ma’am,” Shaila said. “That really means a lot.”

“Get out of here. Send me selfies from the woods or something,” Diaz said, rising from her chair to give her friend and subordinate a hug. “Give him my best.”

Shaila departed, and Diaz sat back down, looking over yet another report regarding the Venus incident. They still couldn’t figure out why the overlap—or convergence, whatever—hadn’t snapped back like a rubber band like it did on Mars. Hell, she wasn’t going to question it at the time, because Venus’ heat and pressure would’ve turned her into charcoal in a split second. But the latest theory was that
someone
had to have regulated the energy flows between the satellites and the waning energies from the other dimension so that there could be a slower and more orderly collapse of the overlap. The problem was that when the investigators combed through the programming on board the satellites, the Virgin ship, all the datapads—there were no subroutines or coding of any kind to cover that particular situation.

So someone
else
had to be taking that action. There was an intelligence behind the controlled overlap—and Diaz didn’t know whose it was.

And that’s why Project DAEDALUS would keep going, until someone found the answers.

July 15, 1815

The small boat bobbed in the bay off Rochefort, and the young man commanding it, a Lt. Mott, seemed almost shell-shocked by the man he’d been ordered to ferry. The passenger would’ve been amused at the young man’s reaction had it been nearly any other occasion.

But this was, he was sure, the very end. Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France, was being rowed toward his final captivity.

Napoleon turned and waved at the men of the ship
L’Epervier
and received a cheer in return, though it seemed more a wail, with many men aboard in tears. The gambit had failed. One of many, it seemed, destined to fall to pieces around him.

As the English crew rowed toward HMS
Bellerophon
, Napoleon could not help but reflect. He had been, at one point, the ruler of all Europe. He’d been on his way to crushing the last redoubt of England, had taken most of the continent east of Russia, and had been massing a fresh
Corps Éternel
to march on Moscow itself.

But then…something happened. The
Corps Éternel
fell. Jean-Claude Berthollet had abandoned Napoleon in the wake of the catastrophe and was still unaccounted for, and without their revenant troops, the French were quickly and decisively expelled from England.

Napoleon had held on longer than even he had thought possible, and even mounted the planned invasion of Russia. But the winter was cold, and his soldiers were no longer impervious to conditions. Slowly, inexorably, the various Coalitions and forces arrayed against him chipped away at his shining empire. Finally, a year ago, he found himself the exiled emperor of a spit of land in the middle of the Mediterranean, with little hope of a return to glory.

But there was always hope, and the fleet patrolling Elba was simply not up to the task. Smuggled from exile, Napoleon had tried one last gambit. He quickly deposed the Bourbon king, raised an army, and met the forces commanded by Wellesley—now the Duke of Wellington—in the field near Waterloo.

It was a catastrophe.

As he was rowed toward his fate, Napoleon considered whether he should have asked to be taken to one of the offworld colonies—Ganymede, perhaps, or Venus. He could’ve taken time, rebuilt his forces. But no…France was in his heart, and he was in France’s heart as well. How else to explain his welcome during those brief, glorious hundred days? He was emperor of France, first and foremost.

He turned to regard the coast once more. He would never see his nation again.

The little boat came up alongside
Bellerophon
, and a rope ladder was lowered. Napoleon clambered aboard, where he was met with a rather small and sorry looking honor guard. Even in this, it seemed, England wished to rob him of dignity.

He was greeted by an officer, who extended a hand. “I am Captain Frederick Maitland,” the man said in passable French. “I am sorry for the lack of honors at such an early hour.”

Napoleon looked about and then took the man’s hand. “It is of no concern,” he said.

“Please, this way, Your Majesty.”

Maitland led Napoleon to the captain’s cabin. “This is a handsome chamber,” Napoleon said, though he found the cramped quarters anything but. The Emperor had always hated sea travel, and found berths aboard any ship woefully lacking.

Nonetheless, Maitland bowed. “Such as it is, sir, it is at your service while you remain on board the ship I command.”

Nodding, Napoleon caught sight of a portrait of a woman upon the wall. “Who is that young lady?”

“My wife,” the captain responded.

“Ah! She is both young and pretty,” Napoleon said with a small smile, still in command of the charm that had won him a continent. “From whence does she come? Have you any children, Captain?”

Maitland held up his hand. “My apologies, but I am not the man of whom you should ask anything, Your Majesty. There are others here who wish to meet you, and I shall have tea brought shortly.”

The captain departed, and Napoleon waited patiently as a couple of seaman—scruffy and filthy and altogether unsuited for proper tea service—deposited a silver tray and cups upon the captain’s table.

A moment later, two other people entered the room. One was tall, gray-haired, and dressed in the manner of an English gentleman of standing, and he wore the star of the Order of the Garter upon his coat—a man of singular importance, then. The other was a woman, seeming much younger than the man, pretty and with a look that spoke of great intelligence.