February 20, 1779
Father,
It seems fortune is with us, for there is indeed an alchemist available to us on Elizabeth Mercuris. This is most timely, for we have found that Deacon, the late Dr. Ashton’s alchemist’s mate, is no match for the occult workings needed to tether the Essences of Earth and Air to our lodestones. The man tried, of course, but the result of his efforts was an area below decks in which everything not bolted down crashed suddenly into the ceiling.
The commandant of the Royal Navy shipyard here has recommended one Andrew Finch to us. He is already in the employ of His Majesty, having been detailed to the workings necessary to keep the outpost—one of England’s most lucrative and important holdings, dating to the time of Charles I—afloat over the dark side of Mercury. Of course, we immediately assumed that this Dr. Finch was someone the shipyard commander would be happy to be rid of, but we cannot afford to be choosy in this matter. Thus, Captain Morrow ordered me to go collect our new alchemist, which was a most interesting experience.
Weatherby quickly hurried along the wooden footpaths of the Elizabeth Mercuris outpost. Looking down, he couldn’t help but note the appalling gaps in the walkway, with nothing but black Void and the rocky, hard surface of Mercury below. When he first sighted the settlement the previous day, as Daedalus came up alongside, he couldn’t help but think how precarious it looked, hanging above the heat-blasted world, hidden from the burning Sun by Mercury’s bulk.
Yes, Elizabeth Mercuris was a wonderful feat of engineering—an entire town, made of dozens of old ships lashed together with rope and planking, held above the planet by hundreds of carefully deployed sails and lodestones. From that distance, it seemed quaintly cobbled-together and altogether marvelous, belying its reputation as a run-down shanty-town of miners and those who would give them the rudiments of comfort. Even the hodge-podge of sails poking forth in every direction seemed inventive and charming.
But as Weatherby walked through the outpost, it now appeared that only a bare handful of rusty nails and worn rope kept the entire assemblage from crashing down upon the surface of Mercury or floating off into the Void. In addition to the gaps in the walkway, ranging from a few inches to a hole two feet wide, the “buildings” on either side were covered in scavenged planking and poorly constructed add-ons, so that only the barest hint of the ships they once were remained.
To the inhabitants of Elizabeth Mercuris, however, this must seem like paradise compared to the surface. There, miners labored in either bone-chilling cold or oppressive heat, depending upon where their tunnels were situated, to bring up valuable ores from inside the rocky husk of a world. Unlike the Void, there was air upon Mercury, but it was a dusty, sooty stew that demanded kerchiefs to be worn around the miners’ faces. Ingenious mechanical contrivances, powered by rope, pulley and the muscle of many men, brought the minerals from the depths of Mercury to towering wooden platforms, where ships could safely dock and thus ferry the goods to the outpost above. There, in addition to the foremen and traders, the other denizens of Elizabeth Mercuris eagerly served the miners; there seemed to be a drinking establishment every ten paces and a house of ill repute every twenty.
A squadron of red-jacketed soldiers trotted past as Weatherby neared his destination. They seemed to be in an awful hurry, and the young Navy man assumed they were on their way to break up the latest tavern brawl or some such. Around the next corner, another group hustled past, led by a worried-looking officer not much older than Weatherby himself.
For a moment, he wondered if there was some sort of riot going on. Perhaps there was a sudden deficit of libations.
Weatherby finally arrived at the boarding house where Dr. Finch was said to have taken a room. What was once a proud sloop fifty years ago was now generously called a lodging. The gunports were turned into windows, though few had glass within them. A door was hewn from the side, and various chimneys and holes were cut into the hull, the purpose of some of which remained elusive. Taking a deep breath, Weatherby entered.
The parlor consisted of a very small room, a desk, and an ancient crone of a woman sitting there. “Aye? Needs a room?” she barked preemptively without looking up.
“No, ma’am, thank you,” Weatherby said, doffing his hat. “I’m here to inquire about Dr. Andrew Finch. I am to understand he lodges here?”
The woman opened a ledger on the rough-hewn desk. “Finch…Finch…aye! That blighter owes me eight shillings!” She eyed Weatherby warily. “You’ll not be taking him before he’s paid up, I’ll tell you that!”
Weatherby frowned. “I assure you, madam, he will make good on his charges before he leaves. Pray, what room?”
The woman directed him up a flight of rickety stairs and down a hall toward what was once the stern of the vessel. If anything, the ceilings were lower than that of Daedalus, and the once-ship was in a worse state of repair inside than out. Finally, he came to a door and rapped upon it. “Dr. Finch?”
There was no reply. A second knock and a second request garnered only a low moan, the kind of groan that a man in some distress or stupor might make. Weatherby tried the door but found it locked. “Dr. Finch, I am Lt. Thomas Weatherby of His Majesty’s Ship Daedalus. You are required to report for duty,” he called out.
“Go away,” came a sullen, tired voice from inside.
This was going to be considerably more difficult than Weatherby had wished, and his stomach began to feel slightly ill—whether from nerves or foul odor remained to be seen. Orders being orders, however, and noting that the door shared the same general disrepair as the rest of the lodging, Weatherby put his shoulder to it and shoved.
The door gave way easily, but struck something hard not two feet inside and stopped. It opened barely enough for Weatherby to squeeze his way through, which he did, only to discover a large crate blocking the way. He shoved the crate further aside and entered the room.
He was immediately appalled—and frightened for the future of his ship.
The room was in complete disarray, with books and papers strewn haphazardly across the chamber’s lone table and chair, as well as most of the floor. Another crate was along one of the walls, and upon it was a neatly tailored Royal Navy uniform that had been casually flung aside. The bed was a crudely wrought affair, the linens in desperate need of washing.
The man upon the bed was similarly composed. He was in his nightclothes, his long dark hair disheveled and unkempt. He held a water-pipe to his lips, and Weatherby could see it was attached to a smallish device upon the floor that reminded him of a hookah from India. A most noxious fume permeated the room, with the hookah the apparent cause. Weatherby quickly surmised that it was some sort of plant, probably Venusian in nature, designed to addle the mind and senses. It seemed to be working quite admirably.
The man on the bed lolled his head toward Weatherby and looked up at him. “Who the hell are you?” he slurred quietly.
Weatherby straightened up and adopted his most stern demeanor. “I am Lt. Thomas Weatherby of His Majesty’s Ship Daedalus, as I have already announced, and I am here to collect one Dr. Douglas Finch. I pray God you are not that man, for you, sir, are most unbecoming of an alchemist in the Royal Navy.”
The man upon the bed smiled, and rather stupidly at that. “Ah, good. My chariot awaits, then, and I shall be off this decrepit wooden piss-pot. Be a good lad and collect my things while I attend to my toilet, will you?”
Weatherby had expected a variety of responses, but this one had eluded his imagination. How much leeway should he offer to such a man in this state? And what would Morrow say should Weatherby fail to return with him?
Such questions were most assuredly not on the Admiralty Board’s lieutenants’ exam.
Weatherby opted for controlled wrath, hoping it would mask his nerves. “I am not your valet, Finch. I am a representative of His Majesty’s Navy, and you will put down that infernal device, get yourself out of bed and get yourself together. And you will address me as ‘Mr. Weatherby’ or ‘sir.’”
“Actually,” Finch said, swinging his legs off the bed and pushing himself up to a sitting position, “I think it is you who should address me as sir. You see, my father is the Earl of Winchilsea. So he is to be addressed as His Lordship, while I…” Finch’s voice trailed off a moment. “Well, I dare say I warrant at least a sir…or something…don’t you think?”
Weatherby had no inkling of Finch’s aristocratic lineage. Thankfully, the Royal Navy put rank before birthright, and Finch’s actual ranking aboard Daedalus was generally on par with the officers of the wardroom. Given the circumstances, Weatherby felt justified in grabbing Finch by his gown and hauling him to his feet.
“You will listen to me most carefully, Dr. Finch,” Weatherby said, tamping down his nerves and summoning as much cold fury as he could. “You are in service to the Royal Navy, and you will do well to remember your place. Now, I will give you five minutes to assemble your effects and make yourself presentable. If you fail to do so, I will have you thrown in the brig for insubordination and laxity of duty. The inevitable court martial likely will result in a short but difficult prison term on Europa. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Finch could only nod, a terrified look on his face that put Weatherby’s own fears at ease somewhat. Weatherby let go of the man’s clothes and stalked back out the door, closing it behind him and pulling out his pocketwatch to mark the time. A shout down the stairs brought the ill-tempered matron to Finch’s door, whereupon Weatherby prevailed upon her to bring some coffee. It cost him a half-crown for her to comply, but that at least settled Finch’s debt in the bargain.
Five minutes and fourteen seconds later, a mug of foul-smelling coffee in hand, Weatherby prepared to do battle once more. Too soft, and Morrow might criticize him for bringing such a wastrel aboard. Too harsh, and Finch could very well create problems for him. Feeling ill-prepared and altogether too inexperienced, Weatherby took a deep breath and reentered the squalid little chamber.
To his very great surprise, Finch was actually dressed in his uniform, though it remained askew, and was hastily throwing books, papers and unidentifiable chemical apparatuses into the crates. Despite this marked improvement in dress and surroundings, Finch looked altogether horrible—glassy-eyed and sweating, his thin face all too pale for someone residing so close to the Sun. Weatherby thought the man would keel over at any moment, but he continued to work steadily, and even apologized for keeping the officer waiting. Weatherby allowed him the few extra minutes, feeling that a good effort was worth at least that much.
Finally, Finch stood before Weatherby in something approximating attention. Weatherby checked his uniform fastidiously, commenting on a loose neckerchief and fixing a button here or there. Despite his pallor and overall ill-cast look, Finch at least resembled an officer.
Weatherby regarded him a moment longer, gauging how best to proceed. If Finch were simply a crewman or a midshipman under Weatherby’s command, his next move would be obvious. Finch’s posting and lineage complicated things somewhat.
Or perhaps not. In for a pence…
Weatherby reached back and slapped the doctor in the face.
Finch cried out in pain, forgetting his meager attempts at decorum. “Damn you! What in blazes was that for?”
“To help you find your wits, man,” Weatherby said coldly, feeling a touch more confident. “I will not have you appear before Captain Morrow in such a state. You have your coffee here. Drink it up before we are off. I will send some of the men for your effects.”
“Yes, fine, but I assure you Mister…Weatherby, is it? I assure you that such handling is completely unnecessary,” Finch said as he reached for the coffee.
“And I assure you, Dr. Finch, it is. Whatever lax discipline you enjoyed here, you will adhere to Royal Navy standards and become an officer worthy of that uniform. Fail to do so, and I will beat your poisons out of you one by one. Is that understood?”
Finch stared hard for a moment, while Weatherby tried to keep his nervousness out of his eyes. It was a bold gambit, but one his superiors had often recommended when dealing with new recruits. There would be time for bonhomie later.
The doctor relented. “Quite so,” he said simply, gulping down his coffee with a grimace. “Shall we, then?”
The two quickly strode out of the hovel—with the matron giving Finch one final, withering stare—and made for the Daedalus, moored at the Navy shipyard on the other side of the outpost. Weatherby kept a close eye on Finch; despite his modest improvement in dress and demeanor, the doctor seemed somewhat unsure of his feet as he followed along, and a thin sheen of sweat began to cover his pallid countenance.
Yet when they turned a corner in the middle of the outpost, Finch’s face managed to get paler still. Before them was the troop of soldiers Weatherby had earlier spied, standing guard in front of what likely passed for an upper-class home on Elizabeth Mercuris. It likely was once the windowed aft section of a first-rate warship, commissioned before the reign of William and Mary.
Finch made a surprisingly rapid beeline for one of the soldiers. “What has happened here?” he demanded. “Is Dr. McDonnell all right?”
The soldier demurred, nodding toward the entry of the home. Without further ado, Finch stepped inside, leaving a confused and annoyed Weatherby to follow quickly in his wake.
“Doctor,” Weatherby protested, “we must report to Captain Morrow in all haste. Otherwise, I daresay…”
Weatherby’s sentence was left hanging as he spied the interior of the home, which was ransacked to a near total degree. Furniture was overturned, while books and papers were spilled out across every available surface. A number of soldiers and official-seeming personages had just made way for two men carrying a stretcher—with a dead man upon it, the dagger which caused his demise still protruding from his chest.
A wail erupted from a corner of the room. There sat a young woman, in the garb of a house servant, her blonde hair disheveled and her face—pretty in the simple way of the lower classes—profusely streaked with tears. A gentlewoman sitting next to her on the low sofa pulled the girl’s face away from the scene, holding her close and whispering comfort to her.
“My God! It’s Roger!” cried Finch. “What happened?”
A rather portly, older man, dressed in faded finery and a slightly askew wig, approached them. “‘Tis murder, Finch, and far more than that!” The gentleman looked over to Weatherby. “You’re from the Daedalus, yes?”
“Lt. Weatherby, at your service,” he replied, stunned, still looking at the corpse as it was removed from the home. “And unfortunately, I must take Dr. Finch here—”
“I hope you are indeed at my service, for I may have need of you and your ship,” the gentleman interrupted. “These are fell events indeed!”
Finch drew his own gaze away from the body as it left sight. “Governor, what of his work? Tell me it is still intact!”
“I am afraid not,” the gentleman replied. “’Tis gone, all of it. Notes, materials, everything!”
Finch pressed a hand to his head and leaned up against the wall. “I told him to pay mind to his security,” he bemoaned. “He was as stubborn a Scotsman as there ever was.”
Weatherby cleared his throat. “Finch, terrible as this is, we have duties to attend to.”
Finch shot him a hard look. “None so great as unraveling this,” the alchemist said disdainfully. “You’ve no notion of this matter.”
“I suppose I don’t, but ‘tis not our issue, Finch, and you’ll mind your place,” Weatherby snapped before turning to the gentleman. “So…Governor, is it?”
The gentleman turned and drew himself up to his full height, still several inches shorter than the young officer. “Sir Alastair Worthington, governor-general of Elizabeth Mercuris.”
Weatherby immediately felt uncomfortable as he continued. “Of course. My apologies, Governor. You have my condolences for your loss here, but Dr. Finch and I—”
“Loss?” Worthington snapped. “This is no mere murder, boy! Roger McDonnell was our foremost alchemist, and a researcher into the mystical properties of Mercury’s ores. And most recently, he told me in confidence that he may have discovered a method for reliably producing Mercurium.”
Finch pulled himself upright once more, eyes alert. “So it’s true. He found it!”
“So it would seem,” Worthington replied. “We cannot know for sure, but if he has, and it is now in the hands of a party willing to murder for it, this cannot bode well for England. Not at all!”
Weatherby looked at one man, then the other, then finally took Finch by the arm. “Governor, again I must apologize, but Dr. Finch here has just been transferred to the Daedalus, and we are already late reporting.”
“Transferred? Like hell he has!” Worthington sputtered. “Do you even know what Mercurium is?”
Weatherby merely frowned at the governor, prompting Finch to elucidate. “It is nothing less than the alchemical essence of the planet itself, a material that could hold the key to many occult mysteries, and with numerous practical uses besides. It is cousin to the Philosopher’s Stone itself in terms of power!”
“And who has it now?” Worthington cried, his belly shaking with his indignation. “The Spanish? The damnable French?”
“And what of our navy?” Finch added, eying the young officer most critically.
That struck a chord in Weatherby, prompting him to release Finch’s arm as he contemplated the potential enormity of what may have transpired. Captain Morrow had standing orders that the officer of the watch beat to quarters when sighting any ship, even an apparently friendly vessel—better to be ready for naught than unready at the wrong time. The same calculus applied here, he felt.
“I think,” Weatherby said finally, “we should adjourn to the Daedalus. Captain Morrow should hear of this matter, and quickly.”
July 25, 2132
Shaila finished reading Stephane’s preliminary report and put the datapad down on the mess hall table between them. “Nice job,” she said, reaching for her third cup of coffee this morning. “I mean, it doesn’t actually say anything, but it’s well written. Lots of nice, big words.”
Stephane leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his dirty blond hair. “I know, Shay, I know. We have nothing.”
The two of them had spent six hours in the lab the previous evening poring over sensor data from across McAuliffe’s area of operations (AOO). There were more than five hundred AOO sensors spaced out across three hundred square kilometers of territory, each sensor set atop a ten-meter high pole that also carried communications gear. The sensors picked up fluctuations in radiation, temperature—anything that could impact mining ops. That also included seismic activity; Mars wasn’t prone to earthquakes, but the ops could trigger a rockslide or collapse that could literally have repercussions elsewhere.
And within that comprehensive sensor blanket, exactly three sensors picked up the barest hint of seismic activity. Stephane believed the quake could have reached a 6.5 on the Richter scale within the cavern, but the three nearest AOO sensors, each roughly a kilometer away, barely registered a minute tremor.
Aside from that, the only other thing they managed to wheedle out of the data was a half-second communications outage which occurred two seconds before the sensors detected any seismic activity. The outage covered all incoming and outgoing transmissions in the area, including the signals every sensor sent back to the base computers, on-planet audio and video signals, and even the narrow-beam laser array that kept McAuliffe in constant contact with Earth via the six MarsSat satellites in orbit around the red planet.
Coincidence? Possibly, but Stephane chose to include it in the report. After that, there wasn’t much more he could do, mostly due to lack of in-depth geologic data. So that’s where Stephane and Shaila left things before heading to the sleeping centrifuges for the night. Living on Mars took a toll on the body, but sleeping in capsules hooked up to giant centrifuges allowed McAuliffe personnel to at least sleep in Earth gravity. That, along with twice-daily exercise and a regimen of pharmaceuticals, helped stem the effects of low-G living.
Stephane had offered to continue their “research” in Shaila’s sleep pod—one of his typically outrageous flirtations. She, of course, declined, though with a bit less annoyance than usual; he had turned out to be a pretty smart guy after all, now that he had something to do. Besides, sharing a pod was out of the question anyway—the last couple that tried it unbalanced the entire centrifuge, prompting a week’s worth of repair work.
“So I guess we’re heading back there,” Shaila said between bites of tofu scramble. The McAuliffe mess was decent enough for most meals, but seemed to have issues with breakfast. “I’m still not thrilled about going back in that cave, you know.”
Stephane shrugged. “There is no sign this will happen again. Of course, there was no sign before, but we must chance it. Otherwise, we will never know what happened, or if it will happen again.”
“All right. What do you need to bring?”
He called up a new file on his datapad and slid it back to her. “It is all here.”
Shaila scanned the list, which took up two pages. “Jesus, Steve. That’s a hell of a lot of equipment. Audio/video? Radiation sensors? Seismic units? We don’t even have a portable GPR imager.”
“Billiton does,” he replied. Ground-penetrating radar imaging was standard fare for geologic study. “I’ve already talked to Yuna Hiyashi this morning. She’s willing to lend us the imager, but she wants to come out to the site with us.”
Shaila groaned into her coffee. Dr. Yuna Hiyashi was a pioneering astronaut from the glory days of JSC. First woman on Venus, first person on Europa. She spent the better part of 40 years in space—so much so that her body could no longer handle Earth’s gravity. When she retired eight years ago, Billiton hired her as a consultant at McAuliffe, a great public relations move given that she once commanded the base earlier in her storied career.
Retirement didn’t seem to suit Yuna well, however. She puttered about the base, engaging in scattershot experiments ranging from terraforming to geologic history—with little to show for it. And her intense curiosity meant she stuck her nose into just about anything going on. She was your typical old-lady neighbor with too much time and not enough to do—albeit an old lady who retired as the civilian equivalent of a two-star general and lived on Mars.
“Steve, you can’t just invite random people to go on an EVA like that,” Shaila said, trying to summon up patience. “Especially Yuna. Harry’s bad enough, but now Billiton is going to be really all up in your business because she’s going to be reporting to them. Not to mention the fact that she’ll have you chasing random ideas all over the place.”
“I know, I know,” Stephane said. “But we could use the extra set of hands, and eyes. She has seen a lot of things in her time. And I need that imager. I need to see what is under that rock, and this is the safest way to do it. Besides, I think she could use the distraction. She does not have a normal life any more.”
“Yeah, well, trust me. Astronauts don’t get to have normal lives,” Shaila said. “Stay out here long enough, you’ll see.”
“No, thank you. After Mars, I plan to get a nice little university job somewhere. Somewhere with nice trees and grass outside and big wooden desks I can sit behind and talk all day.” Stephane looked up and waved to someone behind Shaila. “And there she is now.”
Shaila turned and saw Yuna walking over to them, breakfast tray in hand. She was a thin reed of a woman, her white hair kept back in a simple ponytail, her smooth features giving away nothing about her age.
Shaila gave Stephane a hard glare. “You still should have cleared this with me.”
“I am sorry, ma cherie. I am not used to all of these JSC rules yet.” His smile, however, told her otherwise.
Before Shaila could rip him a new one, Yuna had taken a seat next to them. “Good morning!” she chirped. “I have your GPR imager loaded into Rover Two. And Shaila Jain! Why haven’t I seen you in my yoga classes lately?”
“Sorry, Yuna, just been busy is all,” Shaila replied crossly. “I know Steve brought you into this, but I’d appreciate it if you’d let JSC make an official report to Billiton before you fill them in on things.”
Yuna smiled. “Don’t you worry. I was JSC since before you were born. Billiton doesn’t even give me anything to do around here. Besides, who doesn’t like a bit of mystery?” Her grin was contagious, and Shaila even felt her frown twitch upward a few millimeters. “The Billiton wing was buzzing this morning. They’re pretty up in arms about this. We’ll probably see them already out there.”
“Super,” Shaila said. “I just hope they stay the hell out of the way.”
As Yuna and Stephane exchanged pleasantries and nattered on about fault lines and strata and such, Shaila reviewed his shopping list one more time. She’d have to clear out every last bit of equipment in storage, and the junior officers would probably see their own little pet projects delayed for a while. But Diaz told her to solve this, so solve it she would.
An hour later, they were suited up, outside and readying Rover Two for their return to the cave. “I couldn’t lay hands on anything else besides the GPR imager,” Yuna reported. “I imagine Harry had them pull all the sensor gear for the other mining sites.”
Shaila looked over to Billiton’s depot, about 150 meters from McAuliffe proper. The ore haulers were out, as usual, ferrying deuterium and ores between the mining sites and the smelting and loading bays here. But Billiton’s own personnel carriers—super-sized pickup trucks with bench seating in the back—were gone as well.
“I just hope it’s manageable out there,” Shaila muttered, climbing in and revving the rover’s engine. “Hard enough as is without Harry getting antsy about things.”
Twenty minutes of rolling Martian terrain later, they arrived at the cave, located atop a gently sloping ridge that leveled off onto a wide plateau. Yesterday, before going down into the lava tube, Shaila had thought how desolate and bleak it looked.
Now, however, it was frenetic.
As she pulled the rover to a standstill, she could see at least a dozen people milling about the skylight leading down to the cave, and three of them were busy erecting a scaffold around the skylight itself, probably to support some kind of lift system. The surface was blanketed with sensor modules, creating an array at least 250 meters wide, while a few technicians were taking soil samples and other readings.
Jumping off the rover, Shaila headed toward the Billiton personnel, leaving a trail of red dust clouds in her wake. “Who’s in charge here?” she demanded over the Billiton comm channel.
“You are, Lieutenant,” Harry responded. She looked around and saw him hop-shuffle over. Naturally, he wore the very latest in pressure suit tech. His gear was more form-fitting and far less cumbersome, and had all the bells and whistles; she could even see the lights of his heads-up display dancing across his helmet visor. “We’re just chipping in.”
“You call this chipping in?” she said. “You’re running your own damn investigation here!”
“We’re providing you with data you wouldn’t otherwise have,” Harry said, holding out his palm. A small holoimage sprouted from his hand, showing a local map of sensor arrays. Shaila pulled out her datapad and saw that Harry already sent her links to every sensor around her—including a sensor they managed to suspend from the skylight inside the cave. “And nobody went in there yet,” Harry added. “We waited for you.”
Shaila frowned at the datapad. “So why the burst of generosity, Harry?”
“It’s not generous,” he said simply, dismissing the holoimage simply by closing his hand. “It’s common sense. I don’t want quakes on Mars. We’ve been steadily profitable for ten straight quarters now. It’s not ending on my watch. So you get our help.”
“And you breathing down my neck,” she shot back.
“Goes without saying,” Harry said. “We need this dig.” With that, the executive shuffled off toward his crew, leaving Shaila staring mutely at all the useful data scrolling across the datapad, wishing she had access to the shit-hot tech Billiton gave its executives. After a minute, she began barking orders.
Normally, it was hard enough for Shaila to get the Billiton people to follow base rules when it came to loitering in the Hub or cleaning up after their late-night mess hall parties. But here, the techs jumped at her every command. They quickly unloaded the GPR imager, checked out all the equipment—and even peppered her with unaccustomed “yes, ma’ams.”
There had to be something in the cave that Kaczynski didn’t mention for Harry to be this forthcoming and generous, Shaila figured as she prepared to re-enter the cavern. Otherwise, he wouldn’t play nice with JSC to get back in there. On the flip side, the unprecedented cooperation implied that Harry would be quite ready to blame JSC, and Shaila in particular, if the investigation didn’t go well.
Finally, after sending Yuna and Stephane into the cave to set up equipment, Shaila hooked her suit to the rope-and-pulley contraption the mining company rigged up and began to lower herself in. Thirty seconds and five meters of bedrock later, she got her first glimpse of the cavern, lit by the pale pink sunlight streaming in from above and the lamp lights below. To her surprise, it looked…different.
She was reminded of visits to her parents’ house in Birmingham, England, between off-world assignments. There would always be little changes—a new piece of furniture here, some rearrangement there—that usually added up to a larger sense of difference. That’s kind of what she was getting here.
Yes, her first visit to the cave was frenetic, to say the least. But still, some of the rubble seemed oddly out of place. Shaila could’ve sworn the pile of rock that buried Kaczynski was bigger than it appeared now. And wasn’t there a smaller pile off to the right? Shaila looked around carefully, trying to recreate the harried, blurry scene of the previous day in her head. It wasn’t working very well.
Her observations were cut off abruptly as the rope started to vibrate. She looked up reflexively, only to see small rocks and dust starting to fall from the ceiling.
Out of the corner of her eye, it seemed there was a quick flash of…blue.
“Oh, shit.”
A second later, Shaila started swinging wildly, thirty-five meters from the ground, as large rocks started to fall in earnest all around her. She struggled to grab the rope with both hands as the cavern whirled around her.
Suddenly her vision blurred, and she let go of the rope a moment. Vertigo, she thought. But then an image flashed before her eyes—some kind of structure, standing impossibly tall in the Martian sunlight, a rust-red plain stretching before it, mountains tall behind it.
It was gone a moment later.
Then she felt the rope go slack. And the floor of the cave suddenly rushed up to greet her head.