series 01 01 Journey to the Heart of Luna Read online

  “Yes, sir, which means all we need to do is find an entrance to one such cavern.”

  Bedford nodded decisively. “Splendid! Let us quickly finish our recce of the Annabelle then and pray we find a cavern before the oxygen fails us.” He turned to Miller and made his way out of Grant’s quarters. “Shape up, Mister Miller, we may yet survive our little excursion.”

  The expression on Miller’s sweaty face told Bedford that the young man was unconvinced. Bedford smiled to himself grimly, once he was out of Miller’s line of vision. The young seaman would soon be convinced. Stevenson would not let them down.

  3.

  “NOW AT a depth of fifteen kilometres, sir,” the coxswain said.

  “And still no glow,” Folkard pointed out to Nathanial.

  Nathanial had to confess he was somewhat disappointed. It seemed they had been descending the gorge for an eternity, although in truth it was probably no more than twenty minutes. So far there was little of interest to be seen. Just rock all around them. He, like Folkard, had felt sure they were on the right track. That this is where either Doctor Grant or the Russians had gone. Perhaps such gorges did exist in the other craters that scarred the surface of Luna, just as Folkard had surmised. None other, though, was the source of the glow. A fact that almost certainly would have attracted the attention of the Russians. It was a foregone conclusion; after all they already knew that both nastavnik Tereshkov and Doctor Grant displayed a more than idle curiosity about the glow.

  “The glow is clearly not a continuous occurrence, Captain. Perhaps it is the result of some heretofore unknown intelligence.”

  “An…alien intelligence, Professor? Further supposition about the moon men?”

  “Maybe, after all there has never been any indication that the glow appears at regularly occurring intervals. Perhaps it is some form of communication, analogous to the smoke signals of the Indians?”

  “If that is so, Professor, who could these moon men be communicating with?”

  “Another mystery, Captain. It seems this mission is replete with them.”

  Folkard smiled. “All the best missions are, Professor, that is why I am out…” His riposte was cut short by an abrupt jerking of the ship. He turned to the coxswain, as Nathanial grabbed at the nearest station for support. “Report, coxswain!”

  “Sir, the aether propeller appears to be having trouble responding,” the coxswain said, as he tried to manipulate the aether wheel.

  The pipe whistled and the bosun snatched it up quickly, putting the end to his ear. He listened, responded, then turned to the captain. “That was the trimsman in the liftwood room, sir. It would appear the liftwood is reacting to something.”

  “Reacting? How is that possible? Mister Dinnick, contact the engine room and discover the situation with the aether propeller.”

  Still the bridge continued to shake, as the coxswain attempted to coax a response from the propeller. Nathanial looked out of the glass window, something in the back of his mind was trying to wiggle its way free. Something Annabelle had told…

  His eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the gorge wall drawing closer.

  “Captain, we’re going to be smashed into little bits!”

  “At ease, Professor, the Sovereign can withstand a little buffering against rock.”

  Nathanial wished he could agree, but since Folkard appeared to be so nonplussed by the situation he decided he would also attempt the same resolve. Nathanial turned his mind to the problem. The propeller was designed to work at its best in the aether, or in a marginal way in the thin atmosphere high above the Earth’s surface. For the latter it needed the assistance of the liftwood. In the upper atmosphere the propeller merely served to direct the ship with more accuracy, it was the liftwood that kept the ship afloat.

  “Of course!” Nathanial exclaimed, slapping his forehead. “Captain, I know to what the liftwood is responding,” he said as he staggered across the bridge. He stumbled into the bulkhead and reached out his left hand to stop himself from hitting it too hard. He let out a gasp of pain as the bandage pressed even tighter over his burned hand.

  “Professor, are you okay?” asked a member of the bridge crew.

  Nathanial did his best to ignore his throbbing hand, and nodded. “I will survive,” he said, with a wan smile. He would have to visit Doctor Beverly again at some point, see if he could receive something for the pain. For now, though, he carried on towards Captain Folkard. “We have hit an atmosphere pocket,” he said once he reached the bosun’s station.

  “Professor?” asked the puzzled captain.

  “In Miss Somerset’s letters to me she told me that in the caverns beneath Luna there are pockets of atmosphere. They get more frequent and thicker the deeper you go, which is probably how the moon men survive.”

  “Very well,” Folkard said, looking at Dinnick. “Bosun, instruct Boswell to deploy the air screws.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “I hope you are right, Professor.”

  “I am,” Nathanial said, standing up straight despite the buffering. Folkard just watched him, and slowly a smile plagued his lips. For sure the captain was getting to like his guest. Nathanial positively glowed at this thought; he wanted to ensure his own worth with the crew. He may not have been an expert on aether travel, or indeed any kind of aerial travel, but he had an amazing deductive brain and it was an asset to the mission. As, indeed, was he after all.

  For a while they waited in anticipation, as the bridge continued to be buffeted by the coxswain’s best efforts with the aether propeller. Then it happened. The aether wheel froze up as the propeller was disengaged and the air screws were activated. The rocking subsided. Nathanial looked to the viewing window, and was relieved to see the rocky wall of the gorge moving away from them.

  “Well done, Professor,” Folkard said, patting him on the back. “Coxswain, take over at the air wheel and continue our descent.”

  “Yes, sir,” the coxswain said, and moved to more traditional looking wheel.

  “If she survived the crash, remind me to thank Miss Somerset for her letters, Professor,” Folkard said, bearing his biggest smile yet.

  Nathanial wanted to return the captain’s smile, but the image of Annabelle’s corpse filled his mind once more. He certainly hoped the rescue team found her.

  4.

  “LIEUTENANT BEDFORD, sir!”

  Stevenson looked up with a start. Loud and clear was an understatement! He had been trained in the use of atmosphere suits, but the practical use of the telephonic cable was something he had not been prepared for. It was like having people talking directly into your ear or, as in the case of Miller, shouting.

  Just at the rear of the small bridge, to the starboard, was the airlock, the most secure and structurally intact section of the flyer still. Miller had been sent to that room to check for extra oxygen canisters; even with the possibility of caverns with atmosphere, Bedford still insisted they locate extra supplies of oxygen. Stevenson agreed that was prudent. They only had about half an hour of oxygen left at best. The inner iron door of the airlock was open, and Miller was calling from inside it.

  Bedford looked up from the station on the opposite side of the bridge, glanced at Stevenson, and indicated that he should respond to Miller instead. Without a second thought Stevenson moved from the navigator’s station and crossed the bridge. Once again it was his turn to be the star pupil.

  “What is it, Miller?” he asked, as he stepped into the airlock. “Oxygen canisters not viab…” He stopped abruptly, both in speech and in actuality.

  Miller stood at the far end of the airlock, by the still secure exterior door, next to a supply of more compact oxygen cylinders. They looked similar to the one resting on Stevenson’s back, although much smaller. If he had to guess, he would have estimated no more than half an hour’s worth in each. It was not, however, the discovery of the cylinders that had caused Miller to call for his commanding officer, but rather the body laying next to them.
r />   A slender female, thin but not tiny by any means. Something like a see-through neckerchief covered her mouth and nose, a small tube protruding from it and running to a much larger oxygen canister by her side. This one, five times as large as that worn by the men, was no doubt the primary source from which the smaller cylinders were filled. A design of Doctor Grant’s Stevenson would wager, and one that could be of great benefit to the Navy.

  “Sir, Miller has found Miss Somerset,” Stevenson said, making full use of the telephonic cable. As long as they were connected, Bedford would hear every word.

  With a hand from Miller, Stevenson crouched to his knees and knelt beside the woman. She looked so young, probably about his own age. Her face, now bruised with dried blood caked below her nose, was quite pleasant, almost pretty he would have said if it wasn’t for the frown. He did not need to check for a pulse, not that he could with his gloved hands, to see that she was alive. That kind of frown could only come from unpleasant thoughts during unconsciousness.

  “Report, Mister Stevenson.”

  Stevenson glanced up at Bedford. “She is alive, sir. I suspect she scrambled to the airlock moments before the ship impacted with the surface.”

  “Upon what do you base such a supposition?”

  “If she had been in the bridge upon impact, her body would be as broken as the flyer. As it stands, sir, her body seems to have suffered little damage. Of course, I am no doctor, and a more detailed examination may reveal more intense internal injuries.”

  “Indeed. However, secure in the airlock she would have sustained the least damage possible, while at the same time having access to her best chance of survival. These oxygen canisters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bedford frowned. “Still…It has been a week since her distress call.”

  “I suggest this canister,” at this Stevenson indicated the large one, “clearly contains more oxygen than it would appear.”

  “Yes, that would seem reasonable. Doctor Grant is quite the genius it would seem.” Bedford was pleased. “Excellent. Try to revive her. Miller, I want you to locate the rest of our team. We have what we came for, now it is time we found those caverns Doctor Grant spoke of, from where we shall wait out the return of the Sovereign.”

  Stevenson patted Miss Somerset gently on the cheeks in an effort to revive her from her deep sleep. He glanced up, noting that Miller had yet to move. The young rating was looking down at Miss Somerset.

  “You have a problem with your hearing, Mister Miller?” Stevenson asked, before he realised he was over stepping his authority. He looked to his lieutenant, but Bedford was regarding Miller with steel in his eyes.

  “No,” Miller replied, “but…alone?”

  Stevenson understood Miller’s hesitation. There was something a little unnerving about the crashed flyer. He hadn’t felt anything unusual since that occurrence in the greenhouse, but he was still convinced that somehow they were not alone. Nonetheless, Miller had been given an order.

  “Yes, alone. If there were anyone else here, we would know by…”

  Once again Stevenson’s words were cut short. This time, though, it was not the sight of a body that had interrupted him, but rather a reverberation so powerful it almost knocked the three men off their feet.

  “What was that?” he asked, and he struggled up.

  “Miller, remain here, protect Miss Somerset,” Bedford said. “Stevenson, you are with me.”

  Stevenson removed the jack from Miller’s helmet and raced out of the airlock. He found Bedford advancing towards the rear of the flyer. “Sir?”

  Bedford removed his derringer from its holster. “Felt like something was ripped from the hull, Mister Stevenson,” he said grimly.

  “Another breach. Russians?”

  “Let us hope so, I would not like to consider the alternative!”

  5.

  THE SOVEREIGN steadied its descent at twenty-two kilometres. There was still plenty of gorge below the ship, but it had become too narrow for the great flyer to go any further. There was talk of releasing a cutter, since the Sovereign carried two for emergency purposes. They had been especially designed for the Sovereign and were more advanced and larger than the standard two-person cutters, with enough space in the rear of each to carry twenty standing men, and fitted out with light armaments for defence. Using a cutter would mean further exploration of the gorge, but Folkard had decided that he wished to proceed on foot. This was a task made simple by the fact that they had spotted an entrance to a cavern along the port side of the ship a couple of kilometres before the gorge got too narrow. It was decided, however, that a small team, complemented with Royal Marines, would take a cutter deeper into the gorge to ascertain if there was a Russian presence at the lowest level.

  They were now walking through the ship, as the Sovereign climbed the two kilometres back up to the cavern entrance, just Nathanial and the captain, and one seaman, on their way to the open deck. Nathanial was not entirely sure he liked the idea of just stepping into the sub-lunar caverns. He was not wholly familiar with all the rumours, but he knew enough to find the thought of venturing out there a bit daunting.

  “Captain, are you quite sure this is wise? Surely my deductive brain would be best suited on the bridge?”

  Folkard laughed at this. “Stuff and nonsense, Professor. As I explained earlier, when we discover Doctor Grant I will have need of your deductive brain to tell me exactly what Grant is up to. I am not a stupid man, Professor, but neither am I a scientist. I hardly suspect I will get much understanding from Grant, and especially not from Tereshkov, but I am counting on you translating it into layman’s terms for me.”

  “I see. In that case, I hope I serve you well.” Nathanial hoped he sounded sincere, but he was not overly impressed by the role Folkard had assigned for him.

  “And besides, Professor, I have every intention of making an adventurer out of you yet. Who is to say what we may discover in these sub-lunar caverns? Indigenous life forms hitherto unknown, perhaps the real source of the glow? This is why we are out here, after all, for the adventure, the exploration.”

  “Something tells me, Captain, you would have been better suited to the life of a space mariner.”

  “Between you and me, I quite agree, however here I am, captain of the most advanced aether flyer ever built.” Folkard glanced behind them at the rating that followed. “I am sure I can count on your discretion, Able Seaman Ainsworth?”

  The seaman nodded in a very serious fashion. “Of course, sir.”

  Nathanial was amazed how Folkard seemed to know the names of every member of his crew. He had been on the ship no longer than Nathanial, and none of the crew wore name badges, yet somehow it seemed as if Folkard had some kind of special sight when it came to the names of his crew.

  “And here we are,” Folkard said, reaching for the steel wheel that secured the door. Without further preamble he turned the great wheel and wrenched the door open. “Welcome to Luna, Professor!”

  As the lunar air swept in through the door the first thing Nathanial noticed was the smell. His hand immediately went to cover his nose. “Good Lord, what is that?”

  “You expected Luna to smell like Dover? Ah, Professor, you are now in an alien world.” The captain took a deep breath, and his nose twitched. “However, I will admit that smell is rather rum,” he said, and stepped out on to the deck.

  Chapter Five

  Down Among the Insects

  1.

  MILLER STOOD by the door, his breech-loading carbine in his hands. He had it aimed out towards the aft of the flyer, while at the same time casting glances inside the airlock to see if perhaps Miss Somerset had stirred. Still she barely moved. Occasionally she would move a fraction, the impulse movements of someone in a deep sleep, but she had yet to make any fast approach to wakefulness. Lieutenant Bedford and Stevenson had been gone minutes, and were now clear out of sight.

  He hefted the weight of the carbine in his arms. He never expected t
o go into combat so soon after joining Her Majesty’s Navy, although he had, of course, been trained in the usage of the standard Navy firearms by Lieutenant Bedford, from light revolvers right through to the Lee Metford bolt-action carbines that both Stevenson and Bedford carried. His own breech-loading carbine, although effective, was not a patch on the Lee Metford which had an eight-round magazine attached to it. If he came under direct attack he would have to shoot and reload each time, and every moment of reloading meant the enemy would be that bit closer, especially in an enclosed space like the damaged flyer. Bedford had once remarked, after a training class, “you make sure every shot counts, don’t allow the enemy to close in. One shot, disable or kill, there are no second chances in combat”. Be that as it may, Miller much preferred the enemy up close. Hand-to-hand combat was much more his style, having been brought up on the rough streets of Camden Town, and he did not much care for weapons that killed at a distance. Nonetheless, he suspected the Russians had no such qualms, and he at least stood a fighting chance with the carbine.

  Movement alerted him to Miss Somerset’s change of circumstance. He left his post at the door and walked over to her. He attempted to kneel beside her, but the weight of the oxygen tank made that impossible, so he leaned forward as much as he could, and reached out a gloved hand to gently shake her.

  “Miss Somerset?” he said, then remembered she could not hear him. Without a conduit by which to carry sound, there was no way he could communicate directly with her.

  Her eyes flickered open, dark as night, but they barely registered him. Instead they shifted around in their sockets, as if trying to find something to latch on to. For a brief moment her eyes seemed to focus on Miller; her brows knitted together, but her gaze soon drifted away again. Miller could only guess as to the effects long-term exposure to oxygen from a tank like the large one by her would have on a person. He had only been breathing oxygen from a tank for about forty minutes and he was already feeling a little light-headed. Oxygenated air was no substitute for the real thing.