A Fistful of Dust (12 page)

2.

THE PATH GREW
steeper, in one or two places so much so, Annabelle began to feel certain she would do worse than embarrass herself. As if the prospect of breaking one’s neck wasn’t bad enough, her dreams had begun this way: with a slip. The others claimed not to remember their dreams, although all agreed a disturbed sleep had been had by all. However, Annabelle recalled too vividly.

They began on a path such as this where her leg buckled and gave way on her. She fell, injuring an arm. An arm that could not be saved, and once they returned to Mars, Nathaniel replaced it with another artificial limb. No matter. She had coped with a replacement leg and in the universe of her dreams, she had learned to cope with the arm. George still loved her.

Then on another mission, she had been pushed from a great height and broke her back.

No matter when Nathaniel was so resourceful as to find the greatest surgeons in the world, and together with his cleverness with technology, they had invented an artificial spine to repair her damaged one. During the many months of waiting, the blood supply to her legs had been hampered and so she had to have both amputated at the thighs. She emerged from her hospital bed with one mechanical arm, two mechanical legs, and a torso through which a skeleton of metal, wires and cogs ran. When she moved she made either a clanking or whirring sound; sometimes both. Her reflexes were hampered and although George still claimed to love her, gradually he found more reasons to be away from the home to which she found herself confined. Nathaniel visited whenever he could, but he was always so busy checking she was in “working order” that she quickly forgot what their friendship prior to her metamorphosis had been like.

Then came the day when she snapped in a fit of pique, rearing out of her chair, awhirl. Her legs moving in strange twitching motions, jerked her across the room, her false arm spinning in a murderous orbit, fingers revolving from the end of her hand like rotating blades. All Nathaniel could say was that he’d have to get that seen to and the next thing she knew Nathaniel lay at her feet, the rug in the drawing room as well as her dress splashed bright red with his life’s fluid.

She could have discounted the dream as comical if it had ended, but there
was
more. A hideous amount more. Unless she fought to suppress them, these recollections came to her bright with noise, colour, pain and smell. The thing she struggled with most was the scent of her own flesh burning—surgeries in which she had to remain awake while they cut into her with the aid of some strange light that Nathaniel had naturally invented for precision work. He’d lied to her, told her she wouldn’t feel a thing. She
could
feel. Maybe not as much as she should have, but she felt them slicing her open, and smelt it too. To smell one’s own flesh burning even in a dream stole any merriment she might have gleaned from an otherwise ludicrous vision. Her dream self could feel the sensation of cogs gyrating inside her, rubbing against each other. It was enough to drive a person mad.

Blinking away drops of perspiration, Annabelle clung to a rocky outcrop. She couldn’t risk using a hand to clear her eyes for fear that letting go of the wall might precipitate her falling. It was only a dream. Nathaniel was clever but he wasn’t capable of inventing the things she had seen. No one was. Not…yet. If she fell, she’d die, or be an invalid, but that she could cope with. Anything was better than being that strange creature that clicked and clanked when she walked, who made strange internal whirring noises even as she slept, who grew so despondent she would spill the blood of a friend.

“Need a hand?” Folkard made the offer sound so casual she was already accepting before she disseminated his words. Annabelle almost barked out a laugh, an image of the captain handing over an artificial limb jumping into her mind, and found she had said, “Yes, Captain,” before she could consider whether she did indeed wish his aid. She made it to the next flat level by bracing one hand against the wall, the other around the good captain’s neck and slithering down the last few feet.

“Not the most elegant way to travel, but it is a sound landing,” Folkard declared, having set her on her feet and stepped away. “Let’s hope it’s not much further. I want to get my hands on these blighters causing us such discomfort.”

3.

“HEADCOUNT?” FOLKARD ASKED.

“I count seven…hostiles.” Nathaniel shrugged.

“As good a title for them as any, Professor, and I count the same. Although there could be more elsewhere.” The number of Chaldrites moving below had made the tally difficult.

They sat for some time watching. “Seven of us to seven of them,” Folkard mused.

“I hope you are not counting the ladies.”

Folkard spared Highmore a glance. “If Miss Highmore wishes to be excluded then I amend my calculation to six versus seven.”

“I most certainly do not wish to be excluded!”

“Elizabeth!”

“Keep your voices down,” Folkard ordered.

“Forgive me.” Elizabeth looked between the captain and her brother. “I
can
shoot.”

“Hunting in the Cotswolds is hardly the same as…”

“You line up your target and fire.” She reached into her outfit and produced a small gun.

“Do not tell me you’ve been carrying that all this time?”

“Honestly, Joseph, what did you expect me to bring with me? Embroidery?”

“Killing a man is quite different from…”

“Putting food on the table?” She looked to the others. “We Highmores have always made it a point to eat what we shoot.” Looking back to her brother, she said; “I dare say it is, and I dare say I will have to spend a great deal of time in church should it prove necessary, but I will protect everyone here if called upon to do so. I
will
do what I have to do to save Henry’s life. Do not even consider it,” she told him as he made a move as if to take the gun from her. “I would not like to shoot you by accident.”

“Now that little matter is resolved…” Folkard broke off. One of the men from the main group followed a trail to the right. At Folkard’s urging the others shifted along a similar line from on high. The Chaldrites who accompanied them seemed confused by their behaviour, but came quietly. The path below narrowed between two large boulders before widening. Then it led into another tunnel. The entrance could not be viewed by anyone on the other side. If they were careful…

“Should we approach these men, do you think, Captain?” Whitlock asked.

Folkard hesitated. He should lead the watch and possible assault on these men, but violence might not be necessary. Besides, something was calling to him, whispering. He could only recall one fragment of his dreams and it could have been imagination. He saw a black shiny wall, his reflection starring back at him.

“Not under a flag of truce. I suggest we split into two parties, one to keep watch on this group. Approach only if necessary and with your weapons at the ready. The others to follow the man who has wandered off. If there is a greater number here, we need to know. It’s best we know where that man went, and his purpose.”

“Your orders,
sah
?”

“You will come with me and Professor Stone. The rest of you will remain here. Miss Somerset and Miss Highmore, if a confrontation ensues, I suggest you both hang back. Not because I believe either of you incapable or fear for your safety, but because that will give you the advantage to shoot if necessary. Do not seek to engage with these fellows unless it is unavoidable. We will return as soon as we can. Work together on this. Although Arnaud is in charge, I want you both to press ahead only if you agree.” He looked pointedly at Arnaud and Annabelle. “Joint decisions where possible because none of us can be certain we’re not being influenced by something on Phobos.”

“Yes, Captain.” Annabelle nodded. “What if you locate a greater number of men?”

“We will endeavour to keep a low profile, and return without being seen. Right now I fear being cut off at the rear more than facing what may lie ahead. Come, sirs.”

4.

NATHANIEL TOLD ANNABELLE
to take care, and was about to head after Folkard when Arnaud caught hold.

“If Folkard starts to act strangely, punch him on the nose. If that doesn’t work, kiss him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. I am joking. Just…watch him.”

“I will heed the warning.”

“Good. I could not bear anything to happen to you.”

Nathaniel cleared his throat. “An admirable sentiment.” He moved to pull away. Arnaud did not let go. Nathaniel jerked his arm loose. Arnaud looked both puzzled and hurt, but really what was he thinking? Deliberately making a show of turning his back on him, Nathaniel edged along after Folkard and Whitlock.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Nathaniel asked Folkard when they made it to the entrance of the tunnel.

“I’m not sure when we last did anything wise, but this…feels right to me.”

The two men stared at each other for an instant before Nathaniel nodded his consent. He didn’t need an explanation to know that Folkard was being pulled deeper into Phobos.

Chapter Nine

“In Which the Crew go as Deep as Their Minds Allow”

1.

NATHANIEL’S MOST IMMEDIATE
fear when he first entered the passageway was that the man ahead would hear them following. Then, as they were taking so much care, that they would lose him if the path branched out. Here the ground was rocky, worn smooth in places, probably from the wandering passage of the creatures’ movements. Neither proved to be a problem. The man started whistling and they were able to quicken their pace. When they did came to an intersection with three paths leading off, the ground had given way to the customary rufous dust they needed to only follow his footsteps, taking care to camouflage their own.

Up until this point, they’d been lucky to have sufficient light reflecting from the lantern of the man in front. They’d turned their own lanterns off. Expecting to follow their target, Nathaniel took a step, only to have Folkard grab his arm and bring him up short. His attention focused on another destination.

“We could take one passage each,” Nathaniel suggested.

Folkard hesitated, “That’s a good idea. Whitlock, follow that man. Observation only. Ascertain numbers, and then return to the others. We’ll investigate elsewhere.” The man, used to obeying orders, saluted and moved off.

Nathaniel was about to ask which tunnel he should take, when Folkard again snagged his sleeve and pulled him to the far right. “We go this way.”

2.

“I THINK WE
should go down.” Highmore was getting edgy, and Annabelle could now well understand why Folkard had left Arnaud and her in charge.

“Our orders are to keep watch unless we’ve cause to do otherwise,” she reminded Highmore.

Highmore shot her a look as if to say he didn’t want a woman ordering him around. It was all Annabelle could do not to roll her eyes, but accepted his behaviour could be owing to what she was beginning of think of as The Phobos Effect. Inactivity did indeed appear to make the situation worse. Sitting here…

Annabelle swallowed, looking away from Highmore as if he had cowed her. She felt…small, insignificant, and ineffective. Her logic reasoned something was indeed affecting her; what she couldn’t do was make it stop.

Beside her, one of the Chaldrites made a nervous movement. Maybe these creatures couldn’t communicate in words but they had the ability to notice mood. She didn’t want this disagreement to break out or to upset the creature at her side. Although they were difficult to distinguish, their shells did reflect unique pattern formations. Discerning one from another was still difficult, but this one had a slight chip on the edge of one side of its lower shell. She had called him Notch. Without thinking, Annabelle reached out and stroked the shell where it was damaged, instantly feeling better. “What do you suppose they are doing, Highmore?”

She was sure she knew but including Highmore in her enquiry seemed to calm him as she had hoped it would.

“Mining.”

“Quite, but why and what?”

“Never mind the what. The why…it has to be something they believe is precious, maybe even priceless.” As he looked her way, Highmore glanced at his sister and Annabelle followed his gaze. Elizabeth was helping to keep guard but every so often, her eyelids would flutter, and her head would droop. The poor woman was tired and well she should be. They’d walked for hours and what rest they’d had, had been fraught.

“Men who think they’ve found treasure are dangerous,” Arnaud said.

“All the more reason to subdue them,” Highmore insisted.

“Is that what you’re going to do?” A voice behind them rang out. “Drop your weapons. That includes you, Miss.”

Something hard tapped her in the back of the head and she knew a rifle of some kind was aimed at her skull. Why hadn’t Notch warned her of the approach?

3.

THEY HAD RELIT
one lantern, turning it down to minimal to conserve what light they had. Here, the path had become little more than a vertical shaft. Only the fact that such intersections had uneven sides and plenty of outcroppings had prevented Nathaniel from asking Folkard if he knew what he was doing. They could climb out again so he wasn’t concerned should they reach a dead end. This would be difficult in the dark though. If one lantern gave out he’d have to insist Folkard turn back while they could use the other.

“I think we’re almost…”

There?
Folkard had indeed stopped moving. They came at last to another passage, this one wider than the last. Folkard stood in the entrance, lantern held out. Light flooded back into the space.

Nathaniel dropped to the floor of the cave, ineffectually brushed himself down, and went to join Folkard.