A Fistful of Dust Page 5

  My point, Elizabeth, this man is a hired help and nothing more. Perhaps he needs to feel important or believes I will not attend him if he has no scientific knowledge. Carstairs distrusts him, but then he distrusts everyone on my behalf. But some knowledge Miller let slip piqued my already abundant interest.

  There is indeed a monolith on Phobos!

  Oh Elizabeth, can you even begin to fathom what this could mean? I had heard tell of this strange shape as seen from afar, but all dismiss it as a trick of the light, or damage caused by a meteorite strike, perhaps an interplanetary fragment. Miller probably noticed the mere mention of this was the one thing to insure my help for I must confess, I was unable to contain my enthusiasm. He describes a shape with three sides, two leading to a point, the third side curved. Entirely too uniformed to be natural!

  3.

  “I CAN TELL you what it isn’t,” Arnaud said in response to Nathaniel’s question. “It is not Silicon Dioxide.”

  “Citrine,” Nathaniel translated.

  Arnaud smiled.

  Folkard having as good as taken the wind from his sails, Nathaniel felt more than deflated. He’d tried to interest the captain in the monolith, to convince him a visit to see it was imperative. What he’d received was a terse, “Not now,” and an explanation concerning Phobos’ short orbital rotation, and the threat of aether vortexes in this location. In other words, Folkard’s undivided attention was needed elsewhere. Nathaniel had dropped in on Arnaud in the laboratory on the way back to the engine room to see if he’d made progress…and because Arnaud’s company lightened his spirits. As Arnaud was standing, Nathaniel sank down into the chair beside him.

  “Iron gives citrine the golden colour and extreme heat, naturally occurring or otherwise, gives it the deep burnt golden hue. Pale citrine means no heat. Pity.” Nathaniel frowned at him. “Citrine is said to be a stone that disperses negative energy. I would say we could do with that for there is decidedly too much energy of the wrong sort aboard. Also many believe it attracts…” Arnaud seemed to struggle over choosing an appropriate word. “Bounty or plenty. Some merchants carry citrine for good luck, profit. Something else we could use just now and it would fit with the idea of some imbécile searching for treasure.”

  “Treasure to one man is worthless to another.”

  “Exactement.”

  “So what else is it not?”

  Arnaud spread his hands. “You ask the impossible. I require better facilities. Even to do a hardness test… This sample is hard and does not break. Even if I could test the pressure point, I would have to attempt to crush the whole thing, as I cannot get the right size sample. I have managed a couple of slivers only and then because they are flaking off, not because I broke them loose.

  “I’ve tested for the presence of gold as it does seem to…glitter in its depths, but I thought that was in error before I started. Only fool’s gold flakes. Still, I put a drop of muriatic acid on the stone.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing happened. This would usually indicate gold… ” Arnaud made a dismissive gesture.

  “You’re convinced it’s not. And not diamond?”

  “Non. I have managed the scratch test. This is, in places…I would say harder than diamond. In others, where flaking, not hard at all. I’m performing a calcium carbonate test on one of the flakes. A simple basic level test, but ideally it should sit for several hours or overnight. I keep checking, but no bubbles.”

  The word “bubbles” spoken with Arnaud’s accent made Nathaniel laugh. Arnaud frowned at him, which made him laugh harder. He rolled back in the chair, giving way to what felt very close to hysteria. The idea that he might not be able to control the wild laughter that threatened was the very thing to chase it back. By the time he managed to recover, Arnaud was on his knees beside him, looking at him with an expression that threatened to set him off again. “Forgive me. I’ve not too long ago shared a very strange conversation with Joseph Highmore and it gave me much to consider. We have much to discuss, you and I.”

  “Tell me in a moment. Before you do, I have something equally important to tell you.”

  “Such as?”

  “You are quite damp and have dirt on your cheek.” Arnaud reached out to brush it off. “Now I have made it worse. And there is dirt here…and here.” He punctuated the words with the lightest touch.

  Then, for a while, there was silence.

  Chapter Five

  “In Which False Evidence Appears Real”

  1.

  AS NATHANIEL MOVED to put on his helmet, Arnaud waylaid him. It looked as if the geologist would speak; however, he first cast a glance at Highmore who had said he would wait for his sister’s return by the airlock, and happened to be standing close.

  “Get me a sample of the surface.” Arnaud handed Nathaniel the means to collect some soil.

  Nathaniel turned away, setting his mind to the task of getting his helmet in place. Arnaud checked it for him. When he looked at the geologist, an inner light seemed to shine out from the other man’s eyes, one he could not interpret before Arnaud turned and hurried off.

  Feeling what he could only describe as chilled, Nathaniel forced himself into action. He wasn’t at all sure how Arnaud would fit into his life, but he did not like the sudden and unreasonable thought that they might not see each other again. Perhaps Phobos truly did inspire anxiety.

  Holding to that thought, he entered the airlock, braced for the flow of cold air as he broke the seal on his oxygen tank, and then looked to Phobos as the outer door opened. There being no true up or down out here, it was best to stare at the surface as much as possible and not look to the stars. Linked by cables the five, consisting of Annabelle, Elizabeth, Whitlock, Nathaniel and Burton, were able to keep in contact.

  “I think I may be ill.” Elizabeth’s voice sounded strained.

  “You’re doing well, Miss Elizabeth,” Whitlock said. “Have to say this fair turns my stomach, too, so no shame in feeling a little queasy.”

  The moment the corporal said it, Nathaniel heard the sound of the others gagging inside their helmets.

  2.

  FOLKARD HAD HIS eyes closed. He was aware of this, aware that if anyone were looking at him they would see that and worse. They would see his brow as furrowed as Phobos, maybe dewed with sweat. He gritted his teeth so hard he was sure he heard his jaw creak. Fortunately, the landing party had disembarked without needing assistance from him, leaving his mind free to… What? To the influence jumbling his thoughts? He shouldn’t feel disposed to that.

  Something called to him. The sensation felt similar to the Heart, but worse. Stronger. More insistent. He took no effort at all to recall how it first felt on Luna to be called by the Heart, to feel alternately pleasantly befuddled and even soothed, and then pained when he had resisted. He’d likened it to how he imagined addiction, and this was in some ways like that and in others…not. It was more like toothache.

  The moment the idea popped into his brain, he clung to it. He imagined a nerve set deep in his jaw, slowly rotting, sending out signals. The difference between that and what he was feeling was a bad tooth would cause so much pain it would require pulling before it grew excruciating. It would infect the tooth next to it, and the one after and the one after that. He felt something more insidious, almost gentle in its complexity, slowly spreading. One nerve alive nudging the one next to it until that sprang to life, and sent a jolt of acknowledgement in the nerve next to that. That might not have been so bad if confined to his jaw, but it would grow worse before it got better if it ever did. Already the sensation made it difficult to think. As the jangling of his nerves increased, it had grown unpleasant enough for him to resent it. Apprehension spiced the resentment.

  The thing to do would be to tell someone, but he dreaded that, too. Almost as much as he grew anxious over the increasing discomfort. Besides, how to explain this sensation to anyone? This wasn’t the pain of illness, or disease. It wasn’t something the skill of a surgeo
n could eradicate. How could he explain the utter devastation of knowing there was something within eating away, gnawing, yet no one could stop it? The source was external, out there, and he could not cut it out of his body even if he dug deep. It would strip his mind before he could sever it from his flesh.

  For the first time on this voyage, Folkard began to worry he might actually do something stupid.

  He hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t asked to be some magical divining rod. How freeing it would be to cast off the mantel of authority. Then there was his belief that Heaven awaited him. His beloved wife, Charlotte. His dear daughter, Felicity. Since his brief visit with them, he sometimes felt as if he were only half here. Part of him wanted to return to the people he loved. Maybe it would be best to let the others take over. How freeing…and traitorous.

  Folkard was no traitor.

  The thought sobered him; he opened his eyes, immediately aware that Arnaud stood watching. He swallowed, straightened, took a ’kerchief from a pocket, dabbed his brow. “I’m all right, Doctor Fontaine.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  Considering whether to argue, Folkard took a moment, nodded. At least Fontaine had the decency to be discrete. “I have already given the command to put the safety of the ground crew first despite any orders to the contrary. If you do not believe me, ask Carter. This flyer will only move should survival of the ship require it.”

  “Did the officer not find such orders strange?”

  “It does not matter how he found them, only that he obey.”

  Arnaud nodded. “And in the interest of the ship and its crew may one enquire how its captain is feeling?”

  Brushing one hand against the next, Folkard was surprised to discover he was smiling. “As if…ants are crawling all over my skin. Something calls to me…Arnaud, but I’ve never felt anything this erratic. I cannot fathom it.”

  “How much time before we gather the ground crew?”

  Highmore broke into their conversation, arriving on the control deck without Folkard’s permission. He was about to berate him for what he knew was an offence, but something in the other man’s mien gave him pause, so Folkard answered him. “Fifty minutes.”

  “So long?”

  Folkard disliked the man’s behaviour. He’d harboured no desire to leave the ship and attend his sister and had allowed Whitlock to go in his stead. A poor showing by all accounts, and now he’d gone against Folkard’s express orders to keep clear of the control deck.

  “Would our time not be better served doing a sweep?”

  The surprise in Doctor Fontaine’s face did not escape the captain. They both studied Highmore with expressions of concern.

  “We will not leave this position until the others come aboard, sir.”

  “We need to locate the other flyer if, indeed, one does exist,” Highmore said, pacing, talking as if he hadn’t heard.

  “And we will, once the others return.”

  The man stopped sharply, eagle gaze piercing. “Our enemies may be gathering at our flank while we debate.”

  “There is no debate; the decision is mine. Tell me, sir; why would you wish to move off and leave your sister unattended?”

  “Unattended? Why no. She has Whitlock to care for her. It’s just…”

  “Yes, Sir Highmore?”

  “I…don’t know.” Highmore fiddled with his cane in such a manner that it made Folkard desire to take it away from him. “I just… This all seemed so much easier when we were moving.”

  “Easier? Moving?”

  “Yes, Captain!” For a second Highmore’s stare became a glare. “The ship did not feel half so…crowded, when we were in flight. You keep a disorganised ship, Folkard.” Then, as if the man realised his outburst, he fingered his collar. “It grows hot in here.”

  “The environmental controls are functioning as they should.”

  “You’re sure? No. Of course you are. Why must you keep these aether ships so damn hot?”

  Another look at Arnaud confirmed to Folkard what he already knew. The ship was not hot, the temperature normal. Whatever was bothering Highmore, he was the only one feeling it.

  “Can you not move this ship to cool things down?”

  “It is not hot and movement has nothing to do with the internal temperature of the ship.”

  “What rot! The only other explanation is equipment failure. Inspect the…gimbal arm or whatever you call it. Turn the boiler’s mirror away from the sun!”

  “That would not be wise at this juncture.”

  “Is it any wiser that we should all boil like lobsters? You’ve flouted authority from the moment I arrived. Elizabeth told me. I know you had the audacity to question Routledge, a man by far your superior,” from Highmore’s tone Folkard deduced Highmore did not just infer rank, “and now you refuse to move to cool things down when we are clearly at risk of overheating.”

  “And I have told you moving has nothing to do with the systems you speak of on this ship. Calm down.”

  “Do not tell me to calm down!” Highmore brandished his walking stick. Folkard met his outburst with a moment of silence before speaking.

  “You are lacking in social graces, sir. As to your complaint, I speak from fact.”

  “Provided by Stone no doubt. An amateur’s take,” Highmore sneered.

  “You seem to forget I am captain of this vessel and while that does not make me an engineer, it does mean I have some knowledge of how the craft I command works, sir!”

  “And as for amateur, one could say the same of yourself, sir,” Arnaud interjected only to have the man’s wrath turned on him.

  “You speak as your precious Professor Stone sees it.”

  “I speak as others higher in authority than you see it.”

  “And what would one such as yourself know about the higher echelons?” Highmore paced towards the geologist, close enough to whisper in his ear. “Why are you here, Doctor Fontaine? To determine whether my friend, Henry, has indeed found wealth?”

  “We’ve already agreed that is not the case.”

  “Then it seems to me you serve no purpose.”

  “The doctor is not part of your expedition. He is part of mine and has a greater standing than you do on this ship!”

  “I will not be spoken to like this, Captain.” Highmore got up close and personal until the captain could smell the man’s sweat, but he refused to back off.

  “Then get the hell out of my control room, sir! Or I will have you confined!”

  3.

  THE MOMENT WHITLOCK HAD mentioned feeling queasy, Annabelle’s stomach had flipped

  At first, she could do nothing, then as things became more frantic, her breathing laboured, her stomach clenching in unbearable cramps, she isolated his thoughts from the plight of his friends and concentrated on feeling well. There was no reason for her to be sick other than possibly talking herself into it. I will not be sick. I will not be sick. I refuse.

  As soon as she felt better she had turned her attention to her companions, and she and Nathaniel—who seemed unaffected—had talked them around. Despite this, by the time they made it to the base of the monolith, Annabelle fought to breathe. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on the edifice as they approached. At one point, she’d lost track of their reason for being out here and knew nothing beyond the placing of one foot in front of the other. The shadow of the monolith had acted more as a marker to aim for than a profound find.

  Even now, she struggled to turn her attention to the very thing they had come out here to examine. She glanced back. They hadn’t walked far. Folkard had brought the flyer in as close as he dared. Why then did it feel as if they had walked miles? Was there something wrong with her suit? Was it faulty?

  She noticed Elizabeth and Burton seemed to be in similar straits. What were the chances of three out of five pressure suits having a fault?

  Sabotage?

  She wanted to call to Nathaniel but he seemed taken with the monolith and as for Wh
itlock… The other man’s gaze appeared to be a reflection of hatred, although she couldn’t tell for whom. That could be the glass in his helmet distorting the light. Had to be. The crazed notion left her shaken, her pulse pounding. A drop of sweat ran to her temple and then paved a path down the side of her face. It itched as if the salt in her sweat had dried instantly on her skin, and she longed to wipe it away, but trapped in the helmet she could not…although…

  A terrifying revelation hit Annabelle that she had raised her hands as if to remove her helmet. Even now, she wanted to.

  Cannot. Must not. To remove the helmet meant suicide.

  Trapped. Ensnared. Annabelle couldn’t breathe. Why had she willingly cocooned herself in a suit designed to protect her from the dark depth of the aether, and why had she ever thought something so flimsy could be designed to do that? Humans weren’t supposed to be out here; this was madness.

  4.

  “CAPTAIN?”

  “Yes? Out with it man!” Even Arnaud was acting edgy.

  “We seem to be gaining pressure on the solar boiler. It’s slow, but been climbing steadily, as if the ventilation isn’t working correctly.”

  Folkard marched across to the control panel, gaze skimming over gauges. He flicked a couple of switches then straightened. He and Arnaud looked at each other almost as if they were having the same thought. Following his threat to throw Highmore in the brig, he’d suggested the aristocrat retire to his acquired cabin until the others came back aboard, and the man had been almost too eager to leave.

  Folkard straightened. “It would seem, Doctor, that while you have spent your energies watching me, we should both have been focusing on our honorary gentleman.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Arnaud said, and then turned on his heel with a quick nod. Folkard took his seat and set his mind to ignoring the march of insects across his skin.

  5.

  FROM THE SHADOWS, Highmore watched Arnaud. He made no attempt to hide his arrival, no doubt aware Highmore would know someone was coming after him. He hadn’t expected the good captain to send the Frenchman but that made his job easier. The sap looked ill prepared for violence.