The Venusian Gambit (7 page)

Men raced across the deck of
Victory
as she raced toward the battle. Marines climbed to the tops, rifles slung across their backs, so they might take aim at the French officers upon the quarterdecks of their ships—just as the French sharpshooters would take aim at Weatherby and Searle. It was Weatherby’s duty to stand tall in the midst of this, showing courage and heart for the men aboard—indeed, while Weatherby could coordinate the battle from the safety of his cabin by using runners to convey his orders, he well knew that he served as a symbol to the men of
Victory,
and by extension his entire fleet, by being seen.

Searle, of course, was busy with the efficient handling of the grand old ship, conveying his orders to his first lieutenant, whose shouts pierced the bustle aboard. Young men, barely out of their teens, hauled powder and shot across the decks to arm the guns, while the larger, stronger seamen loaded shot into their guns and ran them out. The men swarming through the rigging prepared to adjust sails according to whatever Searle—and Weatherby—wished in the moment. All 800 souls aboard were part of a well-trained, well-oiled mechanism designed to bring raw destruction forth as quickly and efficiently as possible.

And Weatherby, as the fleet admiral, was responsible for all of it—and none of it, as it was not, strictly speaking,
his
ship he stood upon.

The admiral watched
Thunderer
quickly grow larger as it neared, with the Xan ovoid racing after it, arcs of electric wrath firing into the Void toward the English ship. She was out of reach for now, but at those speeds, she would feel the power of those infernal workings in seconds. It would be up to the men of
Victory
and
Swiftsure
to ensure the ovoid would not get a clean shot upon their comrades aboard
Thunderer
, for if it did, the grand 74-gun ship would surely see the aft third of its hull ravaged.

In a flash,
Thunderer
passed between
Victory
and
Swiftsure
, with O’Brian suddenly tacking downward in a course-correction that would likely wrench every man aboard his ship and stress the gravitational lodestones to a great degree. And just as suddenly,
Thunderer
reversed course yet again, shooting straight upward and well behind her sister ships.

“Two points down starboard-side plane! Two points up larboard-side plane!” Searle shouted, his timing very close to perfect. Through his glass, Weatherby saw
Swiftsure
making the same adjustment.

The Xan ovoid was doing its level best to follow
Thunderer
and—as O’Brian planned and Weatherby had hoped—placed itself slightly below and in between
Victory
and
Swiftsure.

“FIRE!” Searle shouted, just as Weatherby’s mouth had opened to give the order himself.

Streaks of alchemical fire rained down upon the Xan ship, with several shots striking the egg. Soon, several more shots came from above as well; O’Brian had turned back around, rotated his ship, and contributed a broadside to the effort. Yet even as a strange orange-and-black smoke began to pour forth from several rents in the Xan hull, bolts of bluish lightning erupted from the ship, lancing the sides of both
Victory
and
Swiftsure
. Weatherby watched as the powder inside four guns aboard
Swiftsure
exploded in flame, and the tremors he felt underfoot told him a similar effect had occurred on
Victory
’s gundecks below.

“Fire crews, to your stations!” Searle yelled, and immediately a score of men raced for the hatches leading belowdecks, buckets in hand. They were not at sea, of course, so the usual seawater was replaced by an alchemical powder that would smother flame in an instant—if they were fast enough to keep it from spreading.

And yet, despite the damage—and the likely deaths of a dozen or more men below—the Xan had only gotten off weakened shots at best. Weatherby watched as the ovoid, wobbled off into the distance, spinning uncontrollably now.

“Shall we take her, sir?” Searle asked, a gleam in his eye. No English vessel had ever successfully captured a Xan ovoid. And Weatherby had given strict orders not to try, but Searle was an ambitious man, and likely wanted some recompense—or revenge—for the damage to his vessel.

Weatherby shook his head sadly, for he understood perfectly well the man’s motivation. “The Xan will not allow it, Captain. Engage the nearest enemy ship still standing.”

A moment later, as
Victory
moved off, the Xan ship exploded in a puff of orange flame, leaving a glittering cloud of shards drifting toward Mercury. The warlike Xan partisans would never allow themselves to be captured. Certainly not by a race of people they considered patently inferior.

Victory
came up upon a large triple-decked French vessel—Weatherby could not make her name nor recognize her lines—and began opening fire, joining the 60-gun
Agamemnon
in pouring shot into her. Only half of
Victory
’s larboard-side guns fired, for it was a standing order in Weatherby’s fleet to alternate fire from target-to-target whilst in the Void; opportunities flashed by quickly, and the divisions below decks needed to have at least some guns ready to engage at a moment’s notice, while the others reloaded as quickly as possible.

The French ship shuddered under the assault, and quickly dove toward the Sun and away from both English ships, maneuvering toward the ribbon of glowing specks emanating from the star itself—the Solar current, a powerful flow of motes and lights that could whisk ships away toward the other planets at immense speeds.

“Permission to pursue, Admiral?” Searle asked. In actuality, it was more of a statement, and it was quite evident he wanted the French triple-decker as a prize.

Weatherby supposed that’s why there were admirals aboard ships after all—to rein in talented but ambitious captains.

“Permission denied. I’m sorry, John, but we must assist the rest of the fleet, and we’ve not the space nor manpower to keep hundreds of French prisoners secured upon Elizabeth Mercuris,” Weatherby said gently and quietly. Even though he was in overall command, Weatherby knew to not loudly countermand his captains whilst upon their very quarterdecks.

“As you wish, my Lord,” Searle said, with the very ghost of a smile upon his face, for he likely knew Weatherby’s answer before he gave it, but thought to chance it regardless.

As it happened, there was little more
Victory
could do. Weatherby’s fleet of swarming ships had scattered and flayed the French fleet quite nicely. One French ship was adrift in the Void, fully engulfed in flames, while two others had lost their masts and had struck their colors; Weatherby would later allow one to be sailed to England as a prize. The other would be disarmed, her cannon added to the defenses of Elizabeth Mercuris, and given over to the two French crews to sail wherever they pleased, so long as they left Mercury and swore never to return. Much goodwill had been engendered by these tactics, as the bulk of the French crews—and even some of their junior officers—had been pressed into service. Many had set sail for Ganymede, where the ships would become merchantmen or be sold to the upstart United States.

The rest of the French had followed the French flagship into the current, allowing themselves to be whisked away in defeat. As was his practice, Weatherby went below decks to congratulate the men—and to survey the damage. It was upon the middle gundeck that Weatherby saw the carnage the Xan weapon had wrought, for there was a massive gash in the ship’s hull, some forty to fifty feet long and four feet wide. No fewer than seven guns had been hit, disintegrating under the alchemical onslaught and sending thousands of bits of metal shrapnel careening through the entire deck. The decks were slick with the blood of brave Englishmen, and even though he had seen such horrors many times before, it was all Weatherby could do to maintain his composure and put on a brave face for the men, many of whom looked at him with any number of emotions: pride, sorrow, horror, recrimination.

There were scores wounded, and junior officers and alchemists were quickly administering curatives to any who could be saved. Finch was there as well, still looking wan, but moving deftly to save the life of some poor soul whose name he likely did not know, nor would ever learn. The fleet alchemist’s arms were covered in blood up to his elbows, and it was left to one of his assistants to procure the necessary curatives from his stores, for the glass vials and cloth satchels would be tainted with blood were he to handle them personally.

“How bad?” Weatherby murmured as he drew close enough to speak quietly.

Finch poured a silver liquid into the abdominal wound of a sailor who could be no more than fifteen years of age, and the young man screamed in utter agony. “Sixty, perhaps. I cannot say yet for certain. Now if you please, Tom…”

Weatherby straightened up and left Finch to his workings, slowly making his way forward once more, shaking hands with the survivors, consoling the injured with a kind word and a hand upon brow or shoulder. He knew full well his legendry, and knew that the merest touch could be a salve to a dying man, giving those lost souls a measure of purpose and grace, even as they breathed their last.

It was appalling. It always was, it always would be. But it was the duty of an admiral to the men he used as a weapon against his enemies.

After a half-hour of this, and with his fleet turned about to return to Elizabeth Mercuris, Weatherby returned to the ship’s great cabin, where Gar’uk had poured a glass of claret for him. Weatherby struggled to turn his attention to the battle’s conduct, rather than its aftermath. The French still hewed to their old tactics, but the admiral knew that even their inexperienced officers may learn from this engagement. So Weatherby took pen and paper in hand and began to make sketches of the engagement, so that he could review the battle with his captains later. They could not become complacent, and so they would alter their approach next time so as to keep the French upon their heels.

His sketch complete and other notes compiled, Weatherby allowed himself a generous portion of wine before turning to his logbook to write his report on the engagement. But upon the once-blank page, a message awaited him.

By order of His Royal Highness, George, Prince Regent and Prince of Wales, acting on behalf of His Majesty, George the Third, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland King, Defender of the Faith, Etc.,

The message was, in fact, in the midst of being inscribed back on Earth, likely at Edinburgh, where the Prince of Wales had retreated after the French took London, and King George III along with the city. Weatherby sighed a second time, for this would likely be a message of some importance and great inconvenience.

A rap upon the cabin door was followed by the rapid entrance of Finch, who rarely waited for acknowledgement before entering. “You might be pleased to know that my original estimate was too high by at least ten or more, Tom. We managed to save more than I first thought. I—” Finch stopped as Weatherby’s face grew drawn and tense as he read the message as it was written, with the power of the Great Work of Alchemy spanning the distance between worlds.

“Your damnable message papers will be the end of me, Finch,” Weatherby growled as he finished the message and slammed his logbook shut.

Finch smirked as took the chair opposite Weatherby. “What now, then?” he asked as he accepted a glass of wine from the ever-mindful Gar’uk.. “I…oh…”

“What?” Weatherby demanded.

Finch looked away again, as if focusing on something else, then whispered quietly to himself.

“Finch?”

Looking even a bit more pale than before, Finch returned his attention to his commander and friend. “So sorry,” he replied, a bit of forced charm coming through. “Thought I forgot something below decks. What about my message papers?”

“We’re to return to Edinburgh for ‘consultations,’” Weatherby said, his dismay and disgust evident. “And we’re to take three-fourths of our ships with us.”

“Well…at least you received your orders
after
the French were defeated,” Finch allowed.

Weatherby leaned back in his chair and took a prodigious swig of wine. “Let’s bloody well hope they don’t try again until Elizabeth Mercuris is reinforced. Damn these consultations! I cannot help but wonder what scheme Prince George has in mind to rescue England this time.”

CHAPTER 3

January 3, 2135

M
aria Diaz was all smiles as she propelled herself down the corridor of her latest command, the JSCS
Hadfield
. They had launched from Ride Station, JSC’s interplanetary launch hub, located at the second Earth-Sun Lagrange point. The DAEDALUS team had set up shop on Ride for the past two weeks, dumping a boatload of scientists back on Earth with very little notice. She knew the scientists had left important work behind, and probably a few experiments were shot to hell because of it, but her team needed time to prepare. There was, after all, a goddamn for-real alien invasion coming. Not exactly
War of the Worlds
, perhaps, but potentially far more insidious.

Diaz was in her element. She wore the black jumpsuit that had been a second skin for most of her career, she was floating in zero-g, she was heading off into space to do something foolish and dangerous. Life was good.

Mostly.

She entered the
Hadfield
’s control and information center, or CIC—a kind of situation room just aft of the cockpit where all the piloting was done. Spacecraft needed far less actual piloting than atmospheric vessels; just point and go. But in this case, she wanted a warm body up there, because their quarry could suddenly get ideas.

The
Hadfield
’s crew—all of whom were DAEDALUS team members—snapped to attention when she entered, giving her a little surge of pride.
It never gets old
. Even the civilians stopped what they were doing to hear the news.