20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (7 page)

Behind her, she could hear the Booleans
shuffle cards and paper about. Out of the corner of her eye, she
saw Mr. Davies pushing a notebook into Caroline's hands.

"We talked about this," he said. "Please keep
your personal research in your stateroom, Yeoman."

"What," Mr. Humboldt chuckled, "did she see
it again?"

"Roger, this is serious research!" Caroline
replied. "The Psychical Society--"

"Shut it, you two," Davies said. "We've got
work to do."

They lapsed into a barrage of technical
jargon, and Gemma tuned them out as she continued to study the
bridge. On the opposite side from Informatics was a matching
window, and she recognized the man standing there as one of the
wireless operators. Apparently, the room was long enough on that
side of the ship to have windows onto both the main corridor and
the bridge. She supposed that was so that they could have direct
access to the bridge but also serve those who did not need the
bridge.

To the left of that window sat Mr. Wallace,
who was stroking his enormous mustache and glancing at his
reflection in the glass panel next to him every few seconds. The
officer on the other side of it added notations in a red grease
pencil. He struggled to keep a straight face every time Mr. Wallace
preened himself. The poor man was losing his fight.

"This is a real treat. Historic, this is,"
Mr. Humboldt said. "In fact, keep hold of your gear, lads. It's now
all part of history! I bet people are trading our CDVs even now!
Why, even me French letters will be in a museum!"

"Still in the box, like as not," another
Boolean muttered.

"What sort of fuel are we using?" Gemma
asked.

She was thankful that in her guise as a
scientist that her questions would be part of her role instead of
something suspicious. A natural philosopher was supposed to be
curious.

Mr. Davies replied, "It might be better if
Dr. Pugh covered that. I believe your Cohort will have a tour later
today? It takes a while to explain it all."

Mr. Humboldt broke in. "Well, we have a
technological wonder here, Miss L. It's sort of a multi-fuel kind
of engine. Anything that has a melting point, see, can be made into
what we call propellant. Although mostly we use argon gas, and lots
of it, 'cause it's easy to get. What we do is heat up the gas to a
really, really high temperature, hot as hell, and it gets all the
electrons in the gas all excited, see. They get so happy they push
themselves out the ship's backside, and Bob's your uncle. We start
out a little on the slow side, but we speed up as we go, right?
It's getting to where we're moving along at a pretty good clip.
There's this old cove, Newton, you see, and he calculated that once
you get something moving along it stays moving along until
something interrupts it. So we'll just keep moving along until we
get to the other place, and we'll have to be braking about halfway
there or we'll pass it right up. And can you guess what we use to
get it so hot? I guarantee there's no amount of coal going to get
you that hot anytime soon. We use the same thing we use to send our
messages to the folks back home -- radio waves!"

"Radio waves?" Gemma asked. She had seen many
strange things during her forays for Mrs. Brightman, but she had
never heard of using radio waves in such a manner.

"Radio waves is just part of the spectrum,
you see, all 'lectromagnetics. You can use it for a lot more than
sending a telly to your mum back home, let me tell you. You being a
scientist, I'd figure you might know about 'lectromagnetics,
though."

"She's the ship's geologist," Mr. Davies
said.

"Rocks," Caroline added. "She studies rocks,
Mr. Humboldt."

"Oh, well, I guess you don't have much call
to study 'lectromagnety when you're gawping at rocks all day."

The bosun's whistle interrupted them.

"Attention, all hands! Make preparations for
departure."

Gemma could hear the echo from the speaker as
the actual man spoke into the tube just a few yards away. Mr.
Davies pushed down a slider on the wall, and the speaker went
silent.

"That would be Commander Cervantes, our first
mate. We can hear him well enough in person," he said.

"Mr. Cervantes," the captain said, "poll the
stations, if you please."

Olive-skinned and raven-haired, Mr. Cervantes
rolled the names of the various stations on the bridge off his
tongue in a Spanish accent that went straight to Gemma's toes.

"Dock Control, prepare to cut station mooring
cables and umbilicals."

"Prepare to cut moorings and umbilicals, aye,
sir."

"Life Support, switch to internal power
only."

"Life support on internals, aye, sir."

"Oberth Control, confirm that the main
engines are on standby and ready to commence primary plasma
heating."

"Confirm engine standby, aye, sir." The
officer standing by one of the round telegraphs moved its lever and
watched the pointer on the neighboring telegraph move in response a
moment later. "Oberths are on standby, sir."

"Thruster control," Mr. Cervantes said.
"Stand by for push away from station, Mr. Goldberg."

"Thruster control, standing by, aye."

"Mr. Rathbone, confirm wireless contact with
Shackleton Station and TIA headquarters."

A few moments later, the man in the Wireless
window replied. "Confirmed, sir. Flare Watch reports no signs of
solar activity."

Gemma noted that everyone stopped and took a
deep breath at that announcement. Cervantes paused to cross
himself, and then he snapped to attention in front of the
captain.

"Captain Moreau, all bridge stations report
ready for departure."

"Excellent, Mr. Cervantes. Mr. Rathbone,
please open a voice channel from the bridge to the Station."

"Channel open, captain."

He strode over to a large microphone attached
to one of the side stations. "Shackleton Station, this is Captain
Moreau." Gemma detected an edge of nervous pride in his voice.
"
Thunder Child's Fury
requesting permission to depart."

"Permission granted, Captain Moreau, and
godspeed," came the reply through the bridge speaker. "
Terra
Vigila!
"

"Mr. Cervantes, we have clearance to depart.
Complete your procedures."

"Dock Control, secure the cargo bay doors,"
the first mate said. "Complete the retraction of all cables and
gangways."

Gemma watched the responding officers at
their corner stations. She anticipated feeling some rumble, even a
small vibration, as these chores were completed, but she could
detect nothing.

"Mr. Allston," the captain said to the
officer at the bridge telegraph, "Have Chief Nesbitt commence the
plasma heating sequence."

"Commence primary heating sequence, aye,
sir," Mr. Allston replied. He pulled the lever on the telegraph to
"CPH" and watched the responding telegraph move to a symbol that
she did not recognize. "Estimated time to optimal temperature, two
minutes, Captain."

"Mr. Goldberg, commence push away from the
station." The captain turned to the officer at the navigation
station, who was a broad-shouldered man with deep brown skin. "Mr.
Pritchard, once we have cleared the station, navigate us to the
launch point."

Mr. Pritchard responded, "Navigate to the
launch point, aye, sir."

The crew called back the orders in a
surprisingly calm fashion, as if they had rehearsed it a hundred
times. She found Mr. Pritchard's cadence of speech odd. Perhaps he
was an American? She knew that there would be some of them among
the crew. The Martians had hit North America hard, and many of
their larger cities had been devastated by Black Smoke.

She finally felt a slight movement as the
ship nudged itself away from the station. She felt hollowness in
the pit of her stomach. They were committed, now; this was the
point of no return, and they were leaving the only world that they
had ever known. She gripped the rail in front of her until her
knuckles turned white and threatened to burst through her skin.
Whispers of the disastrous lunar voyage curled around in her brain,
and the hollow feeling in her gut ached.

The bosun's whistle echoed throughout the
ship. Everyone snapped to attention. The captain's voice flowed
through the speakers throughout the ship.

"This is Captain Moreau. As the entire world
listens for word of our departure, I would like to share my
thoughts with you. Many of us were just infants when our namesake
struck the first blow against the Invading Martians, but we still
carry within us the heart of that brave steamship. Many people are
alive today because of the courage of her crew. Others gave their
lives during the construction and maiden voyage of our own vessel.
We carry that legacy forward to realms unknown. We are the first of
our race to break the bonds of our mother world. We do so through
human innovation and inspiration. We carry the fight back to the
Red Planet to protect our loved ones back home. We do not know what
awaits us there, but we are prepared to bring them low enough that
they will never trouble us again. We will be free of the Martian
Threat for all time. Because we as a people have the ability to
turn tragedy into something greater, humanity will someday see her
children in every corner of the sky. Every one of you, down to the
last cabin boy and galley assistant, will have their names written
in the great volume of History. Earth is awakening to claim her
destiny. As we set sail, let us give meaning to the lives lived
before us and give a new world to those who come after us. We walk
among the stars, among the legends, where no other human has
walked, in the name of all those who perished, in the name of the
Terran Industrial Alliance, in the name of our Kings and Countries,
and in the name of all Humanity."

Caroline whispered into Gemma's ear. "Told
you he was like Lancelot, pretty speech and all."

"Bet he was up all night, writing that,"
Humboldt said with a cackle. Davies elbowed him in the ribs until
he stifled his giggles, but his grin remained.

Captain Moreau took another deep breath and
turned to the officer standing at the bridge telegraph. "Mr.
Allston, what is the status of the engines?"

The officer gazed down at the pointer on the
telegraph. "Captain, the engines are in departure status and are
standing by to fire on your command."

"They heard his speech down in Luxembourg
City," Mr. Davies explained. "We can broadcast voice as well as
telegraphy. You can be sure, they've recorded it so it can be heard
'round the world. After it's been edited, of course."

In this quiet room with only a few people
watching, it was hard to believe that an entire world waited
breathlessly to hear this man, and that his speech would be read by
schoolchildren for years to come, perhaps in a sequel to the
Invasion Chronicle
.

"Mr. Pritchard, notify me the moment we are
in launch position."

"Aye, sir."

An excited tension sparked around the bridge.
Everyone watched the captain, Mr. Pritchard, and each other, as the
seconds stretched out like taffy. Everyone but the captain jumped
when Mr. Pritchard spoke again.

"Captain, we are in launch position."

"Let us depart, then! Mr. Allston, give the
word to Chief Nesbitt to engage main propulsion. All ahead full."
He looked at the navigator. "Take us out, Mr. Pritchard."

Mr. Allston moved the brass telegraph lever
to "All Ahead Full". The ship shuddered a bit, and the captain gave
the order to check the dampeners. The shuddering stopped.

"Are you certain we have engaged the
Oberths?" Gemma asked.

"Oh, most assuredly," replied Mr. Davies. "I
was on the lunar shakedown voyage, Miss Llewellyn. Believe me, the
dampeners have improved much since then."

"You were on that voyage?" she gasped. "Is it
true that half the crew--"

"Yes, I was," he said as he lowered his voice
to a whisper. He patted the chair next to him. She sat in it, and
he leaned in closer so that the others could not hear. "So were
Caroline and Humboldt, but none of the rest of this lot. They
replaced the ones we lost. I was fortunate enough to be in a
sheltered area of the ship when the flare enveloped us. So were the
Captain and Mr. Pritchard. We had no warning at all. We lost many
colleagues ... friends... that day."

"It must be so difficult to go on another
voyage after that," Gemma said.

Sympathy did not come easily to her. She
could not afford to become emotionally involved in any job. It was
more emulation than genuine concern. She reckoned that in the next
few months she would have lots of practice. But there was something
compelling about his earnestness. "It would take a great deal of
fortitude to venture out again, I think."

"I owe it to them," he replied. "I owe it to
them to complete what they started and make sure that they are not
forgotten." He looked down at his wedding ring. "My wife is
carrying our firstborn. I have to make sure they are safe. I want
to ensure that my child does not live in fear that these monsters
will come and take his mother away at any moment." He glanced at
the rest of the Booleans, who were watching the captain through the
window. "I will tell you more later. Such talk makes the rookies
uneasy."

Gemma's chest tightened as he spoke. This was
one of her few tender spots -- encountering a fellow Orphan. He was
not much older than she was, but he was most likely old enough to
remember his parents.

All the Brightman Girls were Invasion
Orphans. It was forbidden to discuss that fact amongst themselves,
for Mrs. Brightman was their mistress and mother now. Even whispers
in the dark were discouraged by the night monitors. When she was
older and shared a room with just Philippa, that lesson had
remained with them. Brightman had tolerated the stories of spirits
and monsters (Philippa had told Gemma a deliciously wicked tall
tale about a mad vivisectionist that had attempted to turn animals
into people, though she could not remember his name). Her teacher
had always assured her students that they were safe from such
things inside the School. However, discussions of their
might-have-beens were deemed fruitless and therefore forbidden.
Gemma was startled to hear the Boolean speak of such a thing so
openly. He said no more, and she let him be.