The Venusian Gambit (28 page)

“Lieutenant St. Germain,” Weatherby said, turning to Philip. “Bring Dr. Finch to the quarterdeck at once. And tell him to bring the equipment we used off Edinburgh. Now. Go.”

As Philip dashed off, fairly plowing into a couple of midshipmen in the process. Searle turned his back toward the other officers and faced Weatherby, lowering his voice to a bare whisper. “I cannot think this a good idea, my Lord, and my apologies for saying so.”

“And what other options might we have, Captain?” the admiral replied, quietly but with steel. “I see none other than retreat and regroup, and I assure you that time is not with us to make that a possibility.”

Searle frowned. “I…I shall be here in case you need me, my Lord.”

Weatherby put his hand on the man’s shoulder and favored him with a grim half-smile. “Should this not work, you shall take command of the fleet and, with whatever you have left, make for Venus with all due haste. Vellusk and the Lady Weatherby will advise you on your course afterward.”

“I pray it will not come to that, my Lord.”

Weatherby spied Finch making his way out of the fo’c’sle, looking to the quarterdeck with an eager look upon his face and several alchemists’ mates in his wake. “So do I, Captain.”

Mere minutes later, Weatherby watched as dispassionately as possible as Finch set up his table and mirror on
Victory
’s quarterdeck, with both Philip and Anne supervising him. Searle had far less dispassion upon his face, looking between Finch and his creation with both immense concern and barely concealed anger, for the captain had been told of Finch’s betrayal and had suggested to his admiral that the yardarm was fair recompense for the alchemist’s crimes.

Instead, however, Weatherby would seek to take advantage of Finch’s forbidden researches in order to defeat the French. The old admiral wondered just how complicit he would become in his friend’s crimes.

“Tell me how this truly works, Doctor,” Weatherby said, no small measure of malice in his voice. “And tell it true, with Philip and Anne here listening. Leave no detail out.”

Finch kept his eyes upon his work, lining up his table and mirror just so, in alignment with the stars of the Void above and in consultation with a thick leather-bound book. “Yes, well, as you may have now surmised, this working does indeed make use of the world of
Maat
, the Egyptian Underworld—though I do believe it needs a better name, wouldn’t you say?—to provide a kind of clairvoyance to the wearer of this device.”

With that, Finch offered Weatherby the leather-and-glass rig, which the latter accepted gingerly. “So I shall be entering the Underworld, shall I?”

“Oh, no! Of course not!” Finch said quickly, snatching the device from Weatherby’s hands in order to adjust it. Finch’s hands were all aflutter, and his mien was one of nervous energy and deference. “Through the working upon these lenses and the mirror, you are merely peering into
Maat
, rather than bodily entering it. Because the energies of the Underworld touch upon every part of our world, and both space and time are constricted and, I believe, quite meaningless there, you can use those energies as a conduit to peer upon whatever you wish—such as the Void around your captains’ ships.”

Anne was nodding slowly. “And he needn’t be in contact with them to do this, for he can simply view the area around them, using them as an anchor in our reality, yes?”

“Exactly!” Finch said. “Of course, you’ll need to contact them mentally. That’s simply done by saying their name and focusing on their face, then speaking the message. Then say their name again to break contact, lest they all hear each other and it becomes a perfect jumble.”

Finch slipped the device over Weatherby’s head, ignoring the deathly, angry look his superior officer and friend showed him. “If the French have a similar device, Finch, can they not see and hear my plans as I communicate them?”

“No, it doesn’t work like that, Tom….my Lord Admiral,” Finch said quickly. “Though if they had thought of this innovation, I would likely commend them highly as it took me several months of research with the
Book
to figure…” Finch allowed his voice to drift away upon seeing the faces of those he loved and cared for favoring him with naught but disdain. “I shall be right here if you have need of me, my Lord,” he added quietly.

“Very well,” Weatherby said tersely. “So I shall begin by focusing on HMS
Mars
, which ought to be –”

Weatherby gasped as the mirror below filled with stars and, a moment later, that fine vessel appeared as if it were off his larboard side, with full sail and guns out. “Dear God,” he breathed. “Now for
Thunderer
.” Another stream of stars went by, and Patrick O’Brian’s ship came into view. Soon, Weatherby had found every ship in his fleet. He called out a relative position upon each and had one of Searle’s lieutenants mark them accordingly on a rough map.

“Now, where are the French?” Weatherby muttered. “Finch, how do I find the bloody French?”

“You must see them from the eyes of your men, or the minds of your captains,” Finch said gently. “I think you shall have to ask.”

Weatherby frowned. He was not at all enamored of the idea of being a voice in his captains’ head. Having been a captain himself, he knew full well that his voice—imagined, of course—was already there, berating or encouraging them, depending on their wont. But…there was nothing for it.

“You and I will have a long, long talk about responsibility once again, Doctor,” Weatherby groused before closing his eyes and clearing his mind. “Patrick O’Brian. Paddy, it’s Tom. This is a genuine message. It’s Finch’s doing. Can you hear me?”

Weatherby spoke the words aloud, but the reply came as a tentative whisper in his mind. “
Lord Weatherby? Is that you? I can hear you. Do I need to speak aloud or can you hear my very thoughts?
” Immediately after hearing this, a jolt of pain lanced through Weatherby’s head; it seemed the working exacted quite a toll indeed.

“I’ve no idea, Paddy, but I can hear you,” Weatherby said, gritting his teeth through the pain and yet, oddly, somewhat amused that his officers on the quarterdeck were forced to listen to but one side of a conversation. “However you are communicating, continue it. Where are the French?”

As it happened,
Thunderer
had spotted two French ships, a third-rate and a frigate. From there, Weatherby touched the minds of his other captains—engaging in long and often-times frustrating conversations in the process, accompanied by continued aches in his head—until he had a complete picture of the field of battle before him.

“I believe we have but seven French ships, including three ships of the line. Our best stratagem will be for as many of us to set upon single ships as possible,” Weatherby said, both to his captain aboard
Victory
and, he hoped, to his other captains. By now, he felt completely fatigued—and the battle had yet to even start. He could only hope to remain standing throughout the engagement. “O’Brian, take
Thunderer
and make for the 74 nearest you.
Kent
, set your course three points to starboard and two down upon your planes, and adjust when you see both the French and
Thunderer
. I shall send
Agamemnon
and
Enterprise
to join you. Meanwhile, Captain Searle will take
Victory
and engage four points to larboard. We should find a first-rate of ninety guns there, and I shall bring
Mars
and
Surprise
to join us.”

And with that, Weatherby allowed himself a few moments of quiet to mollify his aching head and to gather his wits about him for another spate of communication, should it come to that.

Searle posted lookouts to both sides of the ship specifically to look for
Mars
and the 28-gun frigate
Surprise
, and was not disappointed. HMS
Mars
appeared within a point of where Weatherby had predicted, while the frigate
Surprise
was even more precise. Meanwhile, a single point of light ahead grew in size and soon revealed itself to be a substantial three-decked vessel flying the French tricolor.

“Traditional signals should work now, I believe,” Weatherby said, using his kerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Signal our compatriots.
Mars
shall take the larboard side, we shall fire upon the starboard. And have
Surprise
come up upon her keel and fire upward.”

It was, in the end, no contest at all.

The French ship attempted to maneuver but was taken by surprise, and Weatherby’s captains were able to adjust well enough.
Victory
and
Mars
raked the French ships with massive broadsides, while the French—split between two enemies—could only manage a small barrage on either side.
Victory
shuddered with the impact of several shots, but Weatherby could see that Searle’s gunners aimed true, for there were several holes rent in the side of the French as it flew past. Weatherby could only imagine the damage
Surprise
had done to the French’s underbelly.

All upon the quarterdeck wheeled around and pulled their glasses to see the effects of the strategy. Smoke poured from several gaping holes in the French vessel, both upon the sides and from her keel. One mast was listing to starboard, and both her planesails were in tatters. Open flames could be seen from inside the windows of her stern, and there were several men dangling over the sides on lifelines.

The admiral snapped his glass shut. “Very well, then,” he said grimly, turning back to his map and mirror and, with substantially more confidence, donning the lenses once more. “I shall contact
Thunderer
and, if they have fared as well as we, select new targets. Captain, give me a damage report on
Victory
when you have it.”

Yet before Weatherby could focus his mind upon his captain and friend O’Brian, there were shouts from the topmast and forward—more ships spotted.

Weatherby tore off Finch’s goggles and used his own glass to look, and felt his stomach sink. “Dear God, have we fallen into a trap?” he muttered.

During the battle, the Royal Navy ships had continued to travel toward Venus at a very high speed, and the green, cloud-shrouded planet began to obscure more and more of their view. But now, from either side of the world before them, more French ships were spotted—at least three clusters of them, coming from larboard, starboard and above.

“Captain, I need numbers for these contacts,” Weatherby said as he snapped his glass shut, and wrestled with putting his headgear on once more. “I shall warn the others and see what their lookouts may find as well.”

The news was far from good. Each of the three clusters of French coming toward them had two ships of the line and at least four other vessels, which meant they were more than a match for Weatherby’s own groupings. The admiral’s mind raced, even as pain seemed to emanate from his very skull. The French had at least half again as many ships, with at least a third more guns. They could be more flexible, darting around the Void to pick off their English targets as if they were hunting grouse.

So we must be larger game, then
, he thought suddenly.

“I’m telling
Thunderer
and
Agamemnon
to signal the others and form up on
Victory
,” Weatherby said to his officers. “Captain Searle, identify the very nearest group of French ships and make for them, full sail, royals and stud’sels. Signal
Mars
and
Surprise
to follow suit.”

Weatherby returned to the mirror upon the table before him and added instructions to his captains as to how they should form up, for the old admiral had a very specific plan in mind for maximizing his guns. He was in the midst of explaining it to the captain of
Kent
when the mirror before him burst with a strange blue light, causing his eyes to water as he turned away suddenly.

“Finch!” he cried. “What was that?”

The alchemist scurried over to the table and, using a strange eye-piece of his own, peered into it. “My God,” Finch said quietly and reverently, which was wholly opposite his normal demeanor. “Look at it, Tom.”

Weatherby turned back and saw that the starfield before him had several new additions; in his mind, he could hear the confusion in his captains’ minds as well. A lookout upon
Agamemnon
had seen one of the unknown marks up close, and found it to be a metal object some twenty feet long, shaped like a coffin, with insect-like, yet rectangular, wings protruding from it and two large concave plates attached at either end.

“What just happened, Finch?” Weatherby demanded. “There are several new…things…out there.”

Before Finch could answer, they were interrupted by a cry from Searle. “Full down on the planes! NOW!”

Reflexively, Weatherby grabbed for the railing of the quarterdeck with one hand and at Finch’s wrist with the other. The gravity upon
Victory
shifted greatly as the maneuver prompted the massive
Victory
to begin a steep dive. And just overhead, Weatherby saw a massive object nearly scrape the top of the mainmast. It was similar in metallic design to what the lookouts had seen—but several times larger.

It was so close, in fact, that Weatherby could see the markings upon it—including a flag painted upon the side, in an all-too-familiar pattern of stripes and stars.

“They’re here again,” Weatherby said, amazed. “Dear God. Are we too late?”

CHAPTER 16

January 29, 2135

I
t didn’t take long for
Hadfield
to discover the malfeasance aboard the Virgin Galactic liner. Baines managed to avoid collision with ease, but then required an additional thirty-second burn to get the ship back on course—and they lost several hours on the other ship.

Of course, nobody thought this was coincidence, but confirmation came just a few short hours later—when the first frozen corpse appeared on sensors.