The Mysterious Planet of Captain Moreau

Other Novels by This Author

The Nemo Paradox

Book 1: 20 Million Leagues Over the Sea

Book 2: The Mysterious Planet of Captain Moreau

Book 3: The Invisible Woman (TBA)

Table of Contents

Other Novels by this Author

The Invasion Chronicles Addendum

The Story Begins

Acknowledgements

About the Author

The Invasion Chronicles Addendum

Thus ended the nightmare of the Martian Invasion.

Or so we thought.

Brave and clever souls collected what the dead aliens left behind, determined that such an Invasion would never happen again.

Two decades later, in 1924, the gallant crew of the Thunder Child's Fury left the safety of Earth to take the fight back to Mars. A ship full of those orphaned by the Invasion left Shackleton Station under the command of Captain Christophe Moreau. The highly trained crew included staff officers, navigators, operators for the wireless radio, Booleans for the Analytical Engine, a Scientific Cohort, a housekeeping staff, and other brave spacefarers determined to make their mark on celestime history.

Little did they know that, hidden in the walls of the ship, was another Orphan, yet another victim of the Invasion. Maggie, the child of one of the Invaders, was raised in secret by our patrons, The Wollstonecraft Foundation, and aided us in our voyage to The Red Planet. Also in their midst was a young lady who later became the foremost scientist of her age: Gemma L. Aronnax, Ph.D.

Despite all the usual incidents and accidents concomitant with this type of maiden voyage, including the tragic deaths of First Mate Miguel Cervantes and several engineers, they arrived as planned on Mars and prepared to conquer the remaining Enemy.

They were unprepared, however, for what was really there...

Christophe

This shouldn't be here.

Gemma's tinny voice sounded much farther away than the two feet between them. He could barely make out her features through her helmet's visor as she turned about to view the mysterious land in which they had just emerged. Just outside the wreckage of the Iron Wind, the pair stared into the sky of Mars. After searching for endless hours in deep rocky canyons barren of any sign of habitation, they had bungled their way into this hidden pocket of life. They had crashed into the very boundary of it in their sole means of escape from this alien world. Their gazes tracked across the wide expanse, searching for any sign of the Thunder Child's Fury as she sailed over them. There was no trace of their ship, none at all, in that impossibly blue sky, the first blue sky they had seen since they had left Earth.

Pugh and the rest of the Cohort believed that the air would be cold and thin here, she continued. I feel rather warm, to be honest. And the gravity! Even with weighted boots, I feel heavier than I expected. It's like wading through mud.

They had sailed for millions of leagues from Earth in search of revenge, revenge against the aliens that had Invaded more than two decades earlier. Yet they had found themselves in orbit around a Mars devoid of even the faint memory of life. No cities, no ruins, no oceans, and no resistance to their unannounced presence. Christophe grimaced as he recalled his decision to explore the nooks and crannies of this silent world in the ship's lone shuttle, with his mother, Maggie, and Gemma Llewellyn in tow. He wasn't sure whether he was happy they were there with him or if he was in despair at putting them in such jeopardy. He pushed the warring emotions aside and studied the landscape into which they had crashed instead to search for some way to escape said jeopardy.

The rolling valley floor of rock, a sea of stone frozen in time, that they had seen around the portal had disappeared, to be replaced by a softly undulating wave of grassland that drew upward into a metropolis built by as-yet unseen hands.

Or unseen tentacles, he reminded himself.

How do we know that? Christophe replied. The excitement coursing through him bubbled up through his voice, and he did not fight it. He wished Miguel were there with him. Christophe had whiled away many hours with his late friend and first mate imagining what they would find at the end of the journey they had prepared for their entire lives. Perhaps this is the way it should be. This is how we imagined the planet looked, not that empty wasteland out there.

Gemma pointed to the massive metal arch that grew from the canyon wall and pushed into its rocky floor, only a hundred yards from the remains of their ruined dropship. The odd gateway had been the only indicator of intelligent life on the Red Planet, at least until they had emerged from the Iron Wind into this secret garden. The portal was the only feature that was the same on both sides of the brilliant membrane that they had crashed through. The blue sky hovered over them almost too closely, growing nearly solid in appearance as it touched the ground in a slow curve starting at the glowing arch. The horizon was too near, almost as if they were surrounded by an impenetrable fog of empty sky or an opaque dome of azure. The distant opposite wall of the Rift they had been exploring was nowhere to be seen.

We were on this side of that old relic before we flew through it, she explained. But there was nothing there when we flew over it. Nothing but rusted rock. The sky, the ground, the very air and shadows. They are all different here, as different as Frau Knopf's parlour from the bridge!

Perhaps it is some sort of bubble that conceals what lies within? Christophe wondered.

You mean, makes it invisible? He could hear her smacking her lips in thought. "My friend at Brightman's once told me a wild tale of a scientist that had once tried that sort of thing, but it was a drinkable formula, for a single person. Not something like this.

If there was an edge of pain as she mentioned her lost friend, Christophe’s mysterious sister, or of terror at their precarious situation, the radio transmission stripped it away before he could hear it.

Did he succeed? Christophe asked.

I would hardly call what she described a success. Becoming visible again, he found, wasn't so easy. He caused sheer bedlam wherever he went. Didn't become visible again until he died. No one knows where the formula is now, or if the story is even true. The scientific world is rife with such fables, like the ones about your namesake. But even if the Martians have technology that would make an entire city invisible, surely we would have crashed into one of those spires as we approached? Did we not fly low enough for that?

Christophe squinted up at the shining spires. Their outlines rose and fell against the sky. Thick grey rectangles squatted between lean cylindrical giants. One lone building thrust high above the rest, its upper levels tapering off into a thin sharp rod, like a hypodermic needle piercing the skin of the heavens. They were too far away to see any detail, so he examined the area closer to them, a stretch of gently rolling hills.

We did fly below some of the taller ones. Perhaps we're just really damned lucky. He gestured at the wreck. In a manner of speaking. Perhaps a closer look will yield some answers. Wish I could take off the helmet and look through the spyglass before we get any closer.

You brought your spyglass?

He wished he could see her face, but still he could hear a chuckle of incredulity lurking behind her lips.

If I didn't carry it with me at all times, I would lose my captain's license, he replied with mock seriousness.

He gazed down at the brass instrument box in his hand, which he had all but forgotten. He flicked the switch on the side on, praying that the Leyden batteries inside still worked. The needles sprang to life over the dials and rested comfortably over their own fields of green.

Interesting, he said. According to this, the temperature and pressure are fairly tolerable, more so than I would have expected, given the landscape on the other side of the portal. We'll be a bit cool, but we are prepared for that. Oxygen level is acceptable, about what you'd see at altitude back home. I'll wager we can take off the helmets, and even the suits, as long as we keep our exertions low. At least until our bodies adjust to the lower levels. 'Twill be like training for mountain climbing.

Gemma nodded without looking up from the blades of grass she was examining. The ambient air in the shuttle will only last so long, anyway. Let's go back in and regroup.

Maggie waited for them on the other side of the now-useless airlock. She nibbled the tips of two tentacles until they smiled at her.

You could have said something while you were out there, she fussed telepathically as she released the locks on their helmets. He could tell by Gemma's half-grin that Maggie was broadcasting to her too. Well?

Oh, mum! Christophe replied once he was free of the copper bowl on his head. It's fantastic! Not like the rest of the planet. Nice and green. We think it's safe enough to wander around without suits. I think it's safe for you, too.

And quiet, added Gemma. At least so far.

Is anyone approaching? Maggie asked. If anyone is still here, surely our crash will get their attention. We should be cautious. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to create this little pocket of green. They'll want to protect it.

And who knows if the crash didn't destabilise the cliff? Gemma asked. Christophe noted how comfortable she seemed with Maggie's tentacles as they aided her egress from the heavy pressure suit. We could find ourselves buried in a rock slide. I suggest we take a few necessaries and scout out some possible shelter. Come back for the rest when we know where we're going, if it's not too far.

Roughing it on Mars. Mr. Twain would be so proud, Christophe replied as he shouldered his way out of his own pressure suit.

He pulled the fully packed ditty bag -- Hansard had warned him to keep it close at hand -- out of the storage closet. Turning his back to the ladies to shield its tightly packed contents from view, he retrieved the spyglass and extended it. Like most of the rear of the ship, it had survived intact and unbroken. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he poked at some of the other oddments in the bag. He yanked out a folded length of cloth and tossed it into the closet.

A flag, he muttered, for claiming Mars in the name of the TIA. Seems a bit silly now.

Gemma finished emerging from her protective garb, and then she retrieved her journal from the ruined bridge of the Iron Wind.

They opened both sides of the airlocks at once. The air within did not figure to last, at any rate, he told them, so it would be useless to lock through and put Maggie through that discomfort. With her knitting re-secured on the needles tight within her grasp, she emerged into the Martian air. She dropped down onto the ground and turned this way and that, studying their surroundings without comment with her wide blue eyes. She nibbled the edge of a tentacle in silence.

Through the magnifying lens, Christophe brought the tiny details that he had missed earlier into focus. Wide cracks shot through many of the windows in the upper levels of the taller buildings. Some windows were missing entirely. Sun-faded drapery fluttered through the shattered openings. On the few patches of ground he could see past the rolling hills, there were trees, scraggly and twisted and heavy with spherical fruit the colour of the sun. One of the citrus-like fruits resigned and plopped to the ground.

It will be sunset soon, I'll wager, Maggie said. We should find shelter before we explore too much.

He handed the spyglass over to Gemma and showed her how to focus it. As she gazed into the distance, he took one of Maggie's tentacles in hand and stroked it gently, urging her softly to stop gnawing on her limbs. He sniffed the air. It was fresher and cleaner than the air on the Fury, except perhaps for the Gardens. There was a background hum not unlike that of the Oberths (when they were working), and he found it comforting.

How the devil did they build it? he mused, continuing to pat the shivering tentacle. And conceal it? You were right, Gemma. It's more than just invisible. It's as if it only exists within the bubble itself.

Is it possible there are other such bubble cities around the planet? Gemma said. Surely their entire population does not fit in here. And if it did, would it not be more crowded?

I wouldn't rule out anything at this rate, Maggie interjected. Every time we think we know something for certain, it changes. This place feels cultivated, if a bit neglected.

And in human proportions, as well, Gemma added. If our theory that Martians are analytical engines -- present company excepted, of course -- then perhaps this is all for their creators.

And they are more like us than we suspected. I wish we could report our observations. Maggie, any luck contacting Elias?

I have tried everyone. Even Mr. Wallace, she said with a shudder. I have heard nothing in reply. Nothing at all. I worry that something has happened to them as well.

"Well, keep trying. Everything was in order when we left, and we've seen no evidence of an attack. I am concerned for Pugh’s health, though. Dad's had more than his fair share of knocks lately, and I can only imagine how he's reacting right now. One thing's for certain. No matter where the Fury is, we're on our own," Christophe said.

I am not so sure, my bud.

A tentacle tapped him on the shoulder and called his attention to the edge of the city where the hard grey gave way to soft green. A small cluster of shadows crossed that boundary in their direction. Shadows moved towards them. Bulbous waving shadows slipped between much taller ones, ones that walked on two legs.

Caroline

Caroline felt as if she were floating, cut free from any mooring. For a fleeting moment of panic she thought the manufactured gravity had given way again. Panting, she blinked away the fading rainbow of afterimages that marked the end of the Iron Wind. Her gaze flitted about the bridge. Part of her was dismayed to see that everything was still firmly lodged on the deck, except for Dr. Pugh. He slumped in a chair, tended by Dr. Hansard, who had just arrived on the bridge. Ron Pritchard, in command of the ship since the Iron Wind's departure, called out orders and requests for information with a forced, icy calm. He pipephoned Alfieri and ordered him to focus his telescope on the crash site in the Rift, the same Rift that was as deep and wide as the one tearing through her heart.

She swallowed hard when she realised that Ron was no longer just an acting captain.

He was Captain Pritchard.

The first commander of the Fury and two of her dearest friends had just dissolved into a flare of light. She stared at the screen and numbly wished that she were just hallucinating. The light had faded, but the Fury could not hover to watch. Their slow polar orbit continued as they sailed south. Everything was still moving, but in Caroline's mind, everything was frozen in place, just like the broken Orrery several decks below.

She barely registered the presence next to her, until she felt a hand squeezing her shoulder. Humboldt stood there, as stunned as she was. He was weeping, openly and without shame. The only other time she had seen him so shocked was when Gemma had pinned him to the floor, ages ago, after he had sipped one drop of liquor too many. After that, though, he and the geologist had become fast friends. Even Caroline had felt more relaxed around him. She had not seen her fellow Boolean touch his daily ration of beer since.

He released her shoulder and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Only strangled croaks escaped his throat. Caroline sniffed, once, and led Roger by the hand to one of the chairs scattered about Informatics. She turned his face away from the bridge, which was starting to shake itself back to life.

They’re not gone, are they, Caroline?

She shook her head. Don’t know, Roger. Ron, I mean, Cap’n, has asked Alfieri to look with the telescope. Let’s wait. See what he says.

He took two deep breaths and closed his eyes for a long moment. Nigel should know, he said as he looked at her again.

Yeah, Rog, he should. No matter... no matter what Alfieri finds. Gemma was his friend, too. And Cap’n Moreau-- She cleared her throat and looked about at the other Booleans, no longer frozen at the bridge window but gesturing wildly and murmuring amongst themselves. Roger, you wrangle this lot. Get ‘em ready in case--

Ready? Ready for what?

In case Alfieri needs coordinates, or something. If they need to plot a new orbit to get a better look, or whatever. Just don’t let ‘em panic. And don’t you panic, either, mate. She squared her shoulders. I’ve got to find Nigel. He’ll keep this lot going, no matter.

Aye-aye, he replied.

She left the chamber and followed behind Hansard’s corpsmen, who were carrying a senseless Dr. Pugh in a stretcher. They paused in front of the lift, and she passed them by for the ladder shaft. She grasped the rungs and leaned into the open tube.

There was more than one way around this death-trap.

Gemma

Gemma and Christophe helped Maggie scramble out of sight as quietly as they could. Loose shale crunched beneath boots and tentacles as they crept to higher ground along the same stark cliff that had been the demise of the Iron Wind. Christophe slung the ditty bag across his long back to free his hands. They crouched behind a protective wall of boulders that hid them from sight whilst giving them a clear view of the wreck.

Gemma squinted at the approaching figures as adrenaline surged through her system in alternating jolts of anxiety and curiosity. She fought to keep her ragged breathing under control after their climb.

Oh my, said Maggie. Are those Martians?

Gemma recognised the rolling movement of the newcomers. Christophe handed her the spyglass. As she studied their companions through it, her eyes widened in fascination and alarm. She and Christophe looked at each other in stunned silence for a moment. She peeked through the eyepiece again to get a better look.

Five tentacled aliens in various shades of oily brown and grey surrounded three human-sized walkers. The leader strode along, slowly turning her face from left to right, scanning and sniffing the air as she led the way down the terraced hill away from the city. Gemma was sure, from her straight posture and smooth gestures, that the entity was female. Without the spyglass, the woman appeared to have flat auburn hair crowned with an odd headdress with black tips that matched her black gloves. The tail of a long, high-collared blue tunic fluttered behind her. Glimpses of black trousers, frosted with rock dust and loose dirt near her slippered feet, flashed against the blue as she walked.

With the spyglass, however, everything changed. The auburn hair extended down onto her face, covering the high parts of her cheeks and ending at her nose. The nose itself was a wonder, tipped with black skin and longer than would be considered human, though shorter than the canine snout that it resembled. Below the auburn, the hair continued down her face and into her high collar in a soft creamy white. One hand reached up to scratch the headdress, which turned out to be more fur and slightly pointed ears on either side of her head. The hand, with long elegant fingers, was not gloved, after all, but covered in yet more fine hair. Her elegant tunic (finely tailored and delicately embroidered, Gemma noted) had only veiled the fact that she was not human.

Gemma relayed what she saw to Maggie through their mental connection, and she could tell by the movements of Christophe’s eyebrows that Maggie was passing the information on. Gemma’s inner scientist was ecstatic over her first sight of actual aliens. Her inner spy danced on tenterhooks about how the aliens would respond to uninvited guests.

The group moved slowly. The other two -- males, by their general shape -- studied the valley as they progressed.

Maggie’s mental voice whispered to her, I think they are speaking. Can you hear them?

At that moment, Gemma thought she heard the fox-woman at the front speak to her companion, whose skin appeared covered with a grey and black coat that tufted out of a set of dungarees that could have been borrowed from Nigel. Shorter and broader than Vivian, he puffed along. Black stripes raced down his forehead and across his eyes down to his shallow chin, breaking up the chalk-white fur on his face. Their voices echoed amongst the boulders below them, and Gemma thought she heard the woman say, Gareth, keep up.

Was that the King’s? Christophe asked aloud in an excited whisper.

Maggie popped him on the back of the head with the tip of one of her tentacles. He rubbed his head and glared at her, but he remained quiet. Gemma, moving carefully, returned the spyglass to him but continued to listen to the small group below them.

Sorry, Vivian, the badger-faced Gareth replied. It’s just that we don’t get out this far very often. The Norg want to have a run out.

The other man, whose furry coat was a softer, shorter all-over foggy grey with a great black bump of a nose, clad in a similar fashion to Vivian but in a sage green, said, I do not recognise this one. Do you think it is from the other island? Have they returned?

I don’t know, Percival, Vivian answered. But they could be hurt. They did not enter properly. They did not use the code. We should examine the ship for Clofor. That is the law.

That is the law, the other two replied in unison, almost as a chant.

It is our duty to keep the Clofor out of Noble Island. That is the law. And we keep the law. Are we not men?

To clean the Clofor, that is the law, said Gareth.

We are men, said Percival.

What the devil is Clofor? Gemma said to Maggie.

I haven’t the foggiest, Maggie replied. "Did she say Noble Island?"

The one called Vivian held up a hand in a gesture that reminded Gemma of Father Alfieri. The Clofor is Blessing. The Clofor is Bane. His is the hand that makes the Blessing. His is the hand that turns away the Bane.

We are men, chanted her fellows.

Oh dear, Maggie muttered into Gemma’s brain.

What is it? Gemma thought back at her along the mental connection between them.

That bit sounds far too familiar.

Gemma looked at Christophe, and the concerned expression on his face told her that Maggie had said as much, or perhaps more, to him.

The scientist. Christophe’s namesake, Maggie said. I read the journal of the man marooned on his island, a fellow called Prendick. They had some so-called laws that they chanted like this. But Moreau isn’t here. He could not possibly be here. He died on that island. And even if he somehow escaped his fate there, he would be dead of sheer old age by now.

As Maggie spoke, Gareth climbed into the remains of the Iron Wind. The one called Vivian waited by one of the smaller Martians. She took one of its tentacles in her hand and scratched at it lovingly, the way Frau Knopf was wont to touch Maggie back on the Fury.

Percival took a closer look at the aft section and scratched his chin. Repulsors are in the wrong place, Vivian. I wonder how it flies! If they are even repulsors at all. Are those rockets? How primitive. And the markings! He leaned forward and touched the name stencilled on the side. "Iron Wind, he read out slowly, lingering on each syllable. No, this is not one of ours."

Gareth emerged empty-handed and clambered down from the wreck.

It is empty, Vivian, he said. But they have not been gone for very long.

I smell them, said Vivian as she sniffed the air again, then scanned the area about them. But I do not see them.

Their scents are much stronger in there, Gareth said. Three of them. Only one smells of Norg, but not quite like our Norg. The other two smell like the Sage and the Captain. But I think one is Norg-born.

Not the Captain’s men, then. Do we have Intruders?

Intruders? With a Norg? What should we do, Vivian? asked Percival.

You are the Sayer of the Law. Tell us what to do, said Gareth.

To protect the Island from Intruders, that is the Law, Vivian said as she stared at the small wreck and continued to caress the tentacle in her grasp. But we do not know if they are truly Intruders. They do have a Norg with them. To nurture the Norg, that is also the Law. If they are hurt or lost, we must help them. The Sage is Wise. He will know what to do. His is the hand that makes. His is the hand that heals. We will consult the Sage.

We are men, repeated the other two.

It is good, added Percival. If we obey, he will take us to see the deep salt sea! The Captain will sail the deep salt sea once more, and we will be his crew.

Vivian spoke quietly to the Martian next to her, apparently dictating a long message to it. Its other tentacles twitched as she talked.

Can you hear it, Maggie? Gemma asked.

I can feel something happening, she replied. "They are communicating with someone in the city above us. But I cannot make sense of it. It’s not like speaking to you. It’s as if it were using a code. Not words. I just hope they don’t hear me."

They don’t seem to, Christophe said softly as he ducked to avoid another one of Maggie’s tentacle pops.

He slipped open the ditty bag -- possibly looking for a weapon in its depths -- as Gemma cast her gaze about their small shelter. She had no burning wish to start a fight until she knew more, but she wanted to be prepared just in case. Several rocks of the lobbing variety were strewn about. She bit her lip to keep from giggling as she remembered Dr. Pugh’s fussing at her at their first meeting. His harsh words about lobbing influenza-coated quartz at the Martians now seemed more like a private joke than an insult. She wondered how her adopted mentor was handling their sudden disappearance.

All was still quiet below, so she continued to search the nook as widely as she could without disturbing the pebbles beneath their feet. Maggie pointed to a spot ahead of their perch on the other side of their stony blind with a twitching tentacle. Gemma followed the line with her gaze and spotted what Maggie had seen, an opening in the face of the cliff that might allow them to flee, or at least hide, should they be pursued. It was better than nothing, but they did not dare climb over to it as long as the people by the ship were blissfully unaware of their presence.

Vivian’s voice wound its way up to their perch. The Sage says that the Clofor should be our priority. He believes that the jumper's odd entry may have bypassed the filters. He will send others to search for any survivors.

Gemma dared another peek down at the strangers in time to hear Gareth say, I will obey.

Percival nodded, a large exaggerated movement that was easily seen from Gemma’s distance. I will obey. I hope the Norg is safe. We should get our gear.

They turned back and headed towards the city. The trio above them waited until they were halfway up the terraced hill before taking a deep breath of relief.

Right, then, I believe that’s our cue to leave, whispered Christophe, even if there is nowhere to go. What a bizarre place.

Certainly not what I expected, Maggie replied. So, I’m a Norg? Is that what the Martians call themselves? What about those Beast People?

And what is Clofor? he asked. Or a jumper? This lends credence to Gemma’s theory that the Invaders were--

Not here, Gemma said. She pointed out the cleft in the rock wall. We need to hide before they come back. With more Norg, as they said. I’d like to find out more about them before I wind up in their custody.

Agreed, said Christophe. But we have much to discuss. Like, how in the world they sound like they attended Cambridge!

As soon as the Martians had disappeared into the city, Christophe pulled an electric torch out of his bottomless ditty bag and slipped through the opening to scout ahead. A few moments later, he popped his head out and beckoned Gemma and Maggie over.

There’s a large chamber here, with a passage in the back. Very big, very clean. There may be a source of water somewhere close. Let’s get in before we’re seen. Are you all right, Maggie?

I’m not sure, Maggie said as she squeezed through the small portal. There’s more going on here than I can get my tentacles around.

What is it? Gemma asked.

Moreau’s laboratory. It was on an island, a real island. Noble’s Isle.

Jules

We're not for sale.

Julian Humboldt repeated the statement for the fifth time that night. He said it without looking up from the india-rubber limbs of the faux Martian he was cleaning at the bar of the Badger and Tentacle. A tipsy sailor had tried to turn Daisy into a drinking companion with Red Planet Rye earlier in the evening. It wasn't the worst thing someone had tried to do to poor Daisy over the years. Despite it all, she kept watch over the sturdy wooden bar carefully mounted on top of a leg of a Martian walking machine.

The man was from the Company. Jules could tell by the sound the bar stool made as he eased himself onto it. It was a different man every time, but they were all the same. Same wire-rimmed glasses, same manky hair pomade, same stiff collar, same highly polished leather valise. He had given his name when he had slid onto the stool, but Jules had already forgotten it.

Jules tossed the rag aside. He could only clean Daisy's floppy tentacles for so long. He picked up a newspaper someone had left behind on the bar next to an empty pint glass. The paper's headline screamed in three-inch high letters: TRAGEDY AMONG THE STARS - THUNDER CHILD'S FURY LOST.

We'd pay a fair price, the man continued. You'd be set for life, governor. Take the missus to the Canary Islands. Send your little ones to the poshest schools.

Jules could tell by the way he said governor that he wasn't from this part of London, nor any other part of England. The publican knew a fake accent when he heard one.

Nearly midnight, Jules said. We'll be closing soon.

He folded the paper and slipped it (and its article SPACE-MAD CAPTAIN RESPONSIBLE FOR DEATH OF CREW, along with memorial images of several officers) into a cubby behind the bar. Previous days' papers already crouched there, informing the reader that France had revealed its walking machines. WILL THEY CROSS THE CHANNEL? one headline demanded.

Retrieving a dirty pint glass, Jules hollered to the room. Last call for drinks!

His voice echoed over chairs turned up on worn tables and empty wooden booths. Two decades' worth of names and rude mottoes carved by patrons in various stages of inebriation answered him with silent approval. Spirits of patrons past watched from a warm darkness past the cone of lights shining over the bar. They spoke of comfort and rest instead of loneliness and terror.

Your brewery contracts will be up for renewal soon, the man continued in his oily voice. And we own the breweries now. All of them. We've improved the business, you know. Tightened the supply chain. Runs like clockwork. Very consistent and efficient. Without them, your taps might just run dry. Just like they did over at your friend's pub. What was it called, now? The Dove. Yes, that's it. They're part of the Company now. One of the newest Pint and Plough establishments.

Julian whistled Jack Star's Shanty and fetched a clean cloth from a basket beneath the bar, the basket with a pistol tucked in beneath a pile of towels. He rubbed the bottles of whiskey and gin behind him, removing dust that didn't exist. He exaggerated his motions to show off his thickly muscled forearms and his fading blue and black tattoos. Compact and stout like the beer kegs he hauled up from the cellar every day, he could easily toss this dandy into the darkened streets of Hammersmith. The TIA had already snapped up most of the other pubs in this part of London, and they were dropping in on his establishment more frequently. He bit back the urge to chuck him out physically; he didn't want an arrest to give the Company any leverage against him.

Jules focused on his bottles with their many hues of amber as he studiously avoided the man's reflection in the mirror. Inching farther away from the intruder, he brushed the side of his newest memorial, a framed CDV of that Cervantes bloke from the Fury. He considered posting the CDV's of the defeated pubs, until recently run by old friends, there as well. The corner of his eye still detected movement, however, as the man slipped a card onto the bar. He picked up his valise, put on his hat, and headed for the door.

Ring me up when you're ready to sign the papers.

The bell passed up jingling and went straight for clanging as the man slammed the fire-brigade red door shut. The stuffed badger crouching in the entrance shuddered with the force of it.

D'you think he knows about the meeting tonight, Jules?

His wife appeared in the door that led to their upstairs flat. Rose had to duck to avoid grazing her head against the door-frame. She held the Fury crewman's infant in her plump and dimpled arms. Baby Gemma slept soundly as Rose rocked her.

"Course he knows, Rosie. Midnight salon's not that secret. And they're not illegal. They just don't like 'em. Buying us out, making us another one of those cookie-cutter Pint and Plough's, is the only way he can disrupt 'em here. Unless he decides to burn us down or get us condemned. Let's hope he doesn't think of that."

Can they do that? Cancel our contracts? Like they did at Dirty Dave's? The only thing left of The Grapes and The George are their CDV's.

Don't worry, my sweet, he said. I'll sell bathtub gin if I have to. We've worked too hard for something of our own just to have them take it away without a scrap. But he came after the chuckers-out had knocked off for the night for a reason.

She frowned and spoke in a low, sad voice. I've got more bad news, love. Our Roger sent a message while you were dealing with that bastard. They've lost their cap'n. For real, this time.

Moreau? After all those others? He pulled the newspaper out again, folded it, and tapped it against the edge of the bar. How did he go?

Says he crashed on the planet in their dinghy, taking a look round, lookin' for Martians. He radioed that he'd seen something. Bright flash, then nothing. Not even a scream. This little one's namesake was with him, too. She wiped a wayward tear away with a corner of the baby's blanket. Poor little thing, she's losing what few people she's got! Rog's despondent. He thought a lot of that girl. And of that cap'n. Think you can talk to 'im?

The front door opened again, gently this time, and the bell jingled merrily in relief. The first of the Badger and Tentacles' after-hours patrons wandered in with a wrapped canvas tucked under his arm. He stopped briefly to rub the head of the stuffed badger. Then he waved at Jules before slipping through the worn green door leading into the back room.

I'll get this lot settled, Rosie, then I'll chat with him. He nodded at the baby. This one's dad all right still?

Rog didn't say, and I was too upset by then to ask. But I guess no news is good news.

The bell jingled again. Two men in identical crisply pressed suits and silk hats entered. They crossed the room, arm in arm. One held a thick paper-wrapped manuscript in one hand. The other man waved at them before they, too, passed through the green door.

Jules waved back at them as moved closer to his wife. He patted the blanket gently and stood on his toes to kiss Rose on the cheek.

At least this little one's sleeping well, he said. He kissed the child on her forehead. Don't worry, love, we'll keep you safe 'til your dad comes home. We'll--

Another tinkling cut him off. But this was the shattering of glass in the rooms above them instead of the warm jingling of the door bell. The baby squalled at the sound. Jules grasped Rose's arm and pushed her in the direction of the green door.

Damn! he said as he ran for the pistol stashed inside the bar basket. He ran for the stairs. Go to the back room with the rest of 'em, love. I'll deal with this joker. I'll teach 'em to mess with the Badger 'n' Tentacle!

Christophe

Christophe held two of Maggie's tentacles out of the way as she squeezed through the cleft in the rock. He released them gently. Once inside, the two ladies flanked him closely. They all strained to see by the plume of light from his electric torch. He nodded as Maggie purred audibly.

I agree, he said, his voice rolling back to him like a boomerang in the darkness. What a fascinating place!

It feels much like the Oberth chamber, Gemma said, her own voice echoing. Perhaps a bit smaller.

But blessedly free of angry sailors, Maggie replied, sans echo in their minds. She rubbed two of her tentacles together to dislodge some of the grime she had picked up from the uneven and slightly slimy floor. Though a bit damp for my taste.

The cave reminded Christophe of the tidal caves that he and Miguel had explored in their days as swabbies on the Kiwi Clipper. With their heads full of visions of lost gold doubloons and pirate skulls, they had found only seashells and the rank odour of long-dead fish. He had a feeling they would find no pirate treasure here, either. The walls were worn smooth and shiny with moisture. On Earth, salt water and time had hammered away at the sea stones, but these walls seemed all too smooth even for that. Christophe swept his electric torch back and forth, cutting across the open space with his beam of light, higher and higher up the unbroken surface.

The walls are very smooth, down low, Christophe observed, but they get rougher, more fractured, higher up. He flashed the torch's beam high above their heads. Were we back home, I'd declare that the high-water mark.

But there's no body of water here, Gemma said. At least, not now. So, is this deliberate? Martian-made? Or did they have oceans once?

Interesting theories, all, Maggie said. But perhaps we should pick another spot for contemplation? We are far too near that opening for my comfort. Are there any exits? Preferably to somewhere a little drier?

"It's not that wet, Mum."

Easy for you to say, my bud. You are wearing shoes.

Christophe chuckled at the old joke. Maggie only complained when she picked up splinters. He knew how much a relief the Fury had been for her. Months at sea in her tiny hidden cubby on the Kiwi Clipper tested even her great store of patience.

I'm afraid you'll have to get used to soil again, he warned. Frau Knopf is not here to frighten the dirt away.

It really is quite filthy.

They shuffled about in the open blackness, studying the loose scree at the far edges of the floor. But except for the entrance behind them, they found no openings.

We appear to be at a dead end, Christophe said. Perhaps we can go back outside once they have finished their examination of the wreckage? Or after dark?

In a few more sweeps of the torch, Christophe accidentally flicked off its power. They all gasped in the sudden darkness, only to find that it was not as dark as they had expected. A faint light, one that had been unnoticeable while the torch was on, shone from above them. They gazed upward, to see an opening far up in the rough and broken section of rock.

That's very nice, but how do we get up there? Gemma asked. He could hear the soft sound of her hands running along the slick stone. This lower wall is far too smooth for us to climb. And that is at least twenty-five metres high.

More like thirty, Christophe countered.

Christophe switched on the torch once more and examined the wall between the floor of the cave and the wide opening. That portion was studded with occasional wide bumps that had been left behind when the stone had worn down.

Those look almost like hand-holds, but too far apart for actual hands, he said. Even mine.

Maggie touched the top of the torch with the tip of a tentacle and directed the beam closer to one of the holds. But not for mine, she said. She wandered over to the one just above the floor. Perhaps our Norg friends created this place. I believe I can make it up there and scout it out.

Christophe flinched. Alone? We don't know what is up there. Elias will slaughter me if anything happens to you.

Exactly why I need to go. I'm sure if someone were up there they would have looked over the edge already. You two aren't exactly quiet! Besides, if there is someone up there, I can bluff my way through. Unlike you.

She walked over on two limbs, as she usually did when confronted with a less-than-Knopf-standard environment. He watched her, fascinated as he always was by her movements, her tentacles unrolling and rolling, contracting and expanding as she smoothly made her way up the strange ladder. Christophe remembered her descent of the pipes in the Oberth chamber not that long ago, with an unconscious Pugh in tow. He shuddered, silently thankful for Gemma's intervention in what could have been a disaster. He hoped Elias was well. The old man had had a lot of shocks in his life lately. Dr. Hansard had declared what Elias denied, that his heart wasn't up to many more. Christophe had to find a way to let Elias know that they were still alive.

Gravity! What a bother, Maggie muttered as she moved higher along the wall, halfway to her target.

Christophe could see Gemma's slight frown at that remark.

What, what? he asked aloud. Something the matter?

Yes and no, she replied. Pugh had told me to expect a lighter gravity here. One of the reasons our exploratory suits have weighted boots. She bounced on her toes for a moment. This feels no lighter than the ship. Maggie should be able to climb with more ease. Remember how easily she moved when the gravity plates gave way? We should have gravity here, yes, but, shouldn't we be bouncing more? Like we did in the tunnel between Shackleton Station and the ship?

They were both staring up at the high opening, watching as Maggie reached the top and wriggled herself over the edge. She disappeared into the mysterious light.

I see what you mean. Miguel and I used to joke about a few of the wonkier plates on the bridge. He tapped the stone below them with the ball of his right foot. Does that mean we have gravity plates in here?

Beneath this rocky floor? That would be quite a challenge. Perhaps it is part of what gives us the breathable air and the warmth. Dr. Pugh had told me to expect it to be much colder as well.

At least it's a pleasant surprise, at any rate, Christophe replied. I'm not sure about our new furry friends out there, though.

They did not seem hostile, but I'd like to know more about them before having them over for tea. She shook her head. I'm not sure which shocks me more. The gravity, or the fact that Martians -- if they are the true Martians -- speak English.

Maggie said, It is clear up here, but, oh my! You will have to see it for yourself. I am coming back to fetch you.

Martians? Gemma and Christophe asked, nearly in unison.

What they call Norg, at the very least. From a distance.

Well, I do know one thing, Christophe replied as he craned his neck up to watch for Maggie. It seems we do have a mission here, after all.

Caroline

Caroline dashed down the corridor and ducked into the Orrery. She'd already checked the mess hall. Nigel had not met her at breakfast that morning. She had hoped he would be there now, nibbling on a stray biscuit. She had found nothing but the normal between-meal hush, with a handful of swing shift swabbies enjoying a quick break. None of them had seen him. She had enquired at the gateway to Men's Country after him, but none of the sailors coming through knew where he was. Mr. Desai had even knocked on