A Fistful of Dust (7 page)

“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 Whitlock… 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.

“Highmore, sir! Whatever you have done to this ship, I suggest you show yourself and repair it. If you do, Folkard will forgo pressing charges.”

Charges! As if he cared. What was the threat of charges next to asphyxiation? The walls were closing in on him, making the amount of available air diminish by the second, and here was a Frenchman invading the small space, stealing his oxygen.

Highmore gave Fontaine no reply but the doctor probably hadn’t expected one. The geologist moved deeper into the engine room, head turning and tilting as he listened for sounds other than the predominant hiss of steam. Highmore slipped further away. As he moved, one of his boots nudged something and he looked down, spying one of Stone’s precious books. He kicked it over the edge of the walkway and carried on even as the sound alerted the doctor to his whereabouts. When he got hold of Fontaine, he would do the same to him.

6.

THINK
.

If they were all suffering the same ill effects then were they all suffocating, wanting to shrug off their only protection? Annabelle had to stop them. Opening her eyes, the first thing she saw was Whitlock and Miss Highmore struggling.

Was the traitor Whitlock? Or Joseph Highmore? Was Whitlock trying to murder them all at his employee’s command?

Salt running into her eyes made Annabelle blink. Her vision cleared. Whitlock wasn’t trying to hurt Miss Highmore any more than her brother would, and now, Annabelle struggled to understand why she’d even thought that possible. Joseph Highmore loved his sister; Annabelle would…stake her life on it. She was staking all their lives on it.

If there were nothing wrong with the suits then something was affecting them. She didn’t know what… Maybe Phobos itself. Maybe the reason its name was so closely linked to fear.

Swallowing and gathering her courage, Annabelle took a deep breath. The artificial oxygen was unpleasant, but not toxic. When quite certain she was of sound mind, she called to the others. She had to make them understand they could not trust their emotions, their own senses. If she failed, at least one of them might not make it back to the ship.

7.

“ARE YOU THREATENING
me?” Highmore’s gaze flicked from Arnaud’s face to the wrench he held.

At any other time, Arnaud would have said no. He had no desire to scuffle with another man…at least not in this type of situation. He shrugged, swinging the wrench lazily. “I was just doing a little exploring down here.”

“Not your field, Fontaine. You belong underground.” Highmore wasn’t talking about a cave. Buried was more like it.

“I may need a wrench to repair whatever damage you caused.” In truth, he had stumbled across the tool and picked it up as the only defence he had.

“Damage?
Moi
?” Highmore used the French word as if to mock him. “What makes you think I would know how to damage anything any more than you would know how to repair it? Ahh…but then I can see that you
do
know something of how all this works. Which is a pity, for ignorance would better serve self-preservation.”

“I have no idea how this all works. As you say, I belong elsewhere. This…” Arnaud spread his arms, gesturing to the somewhat cavernous space they currently occupied. “
Non
. This is Nathaniel’s domain.”

“And I’m sure he’s taught you a thing or two.”

Arnaud almost said it was the other way around, but stopped himself in time. Highmore would not be the only one surprised over the things Nathaniel knew. “What did you do?”

“I see no point in denial. A cable here. A cable there. A venting system is apparently not that difficult to interfere with.”

As he finished speaking, Highmore moved so fast Arnaud barely had time to bring up the wrench. The only thing it did was to prevent Highmore braining him with his cane, although Fontaine felt grateful for even that small mercy. The wood and metal connected. Both spun away. His hands and arms went numb. Unfortunately, the impact didn’t seem to have quite the same effect on Highmore. At any other time, Arnaud would at least have been the man’s equal, but something magnified the man’s anger.

Arnaud managed to land Highmore a good clip on the jaw, which fazed Highmore not one bit. The man was fuelled with rage…and something more.

Fear, Fontaine realised, although he could not understand the cause of it, and now was not the time. Highmore had managed to get his hands around Arnaud’s throat. Instead of trying to drag the man’s hands away, Arnaud punched him in the face.

8.

“WHAT DO YOU
make of it?”

“I don’t know,” Nathaniel replied to Annabelle’s question. “The sheer size…” He couldn’t take accurate measurements. The two straight lengths appeared to have no markings on them. The curved side…had engravings. “I’d say this is a language of some kind.”

“Like hieroglyphs?”

“Similar, yes, but this is more a mixture of words and symbols. Picture-grams as well as written language. Perhaps designed so that more than one species or manner of beings could understand it?”

“Professor Stone, begging your pardon,
sah
. We must get back.”

“Yes.” It was time to go and assimilate all that he’d taken in. He’d learned something important here, but he was damned if he knew what. He missed Arnaud. Would have liked to share this with him. He wondered what the geologist was doing right now.

9.

HIGHMORE COULD VERY
well throttle him. Arnaud had punched the man twice to no effect. He couldn’t pry Highmore’s fingers loose. His hands were like steel traps. He had two choices. One was a head butt to the man’s forehead. Arnaud chose the other. He lunged and kissed him.