Prologue

“My prince,” Shistomo said as he entered the small sitting room, and he bowed to the room’s sole occupant. His companion smiled in appreciation, leaf-like ears twitching with pleasure, but he waved away the title with a hand heavy with gold and silver rings.

“Not a prince yet, my friend, but soon, ah? Soon the usurpers will be overthrown and the Old Order restored.” He held up a paper bearing the remains of a red clay seal disk, the mark of official correspondence. “I have just received the final assent. All four of the Charoni princes have agreed to support our plan—unofficially, of course.”

“Of course,” Shistomo said. “Although you have the letters, My Prince, which might embarrass them should the plan…enjoy less success than we hope.”

“Oh, they were careful enough about that. All are from minor functionaries in their administrations and all are in code, with separate ciphers. I suppose if they want to distance themselves, they can claim I invented the ciphers to make innocent communications appear sinister. It does not matter. What matters is their assent. They will place no obstacle in our path.”

“Nor will they assist us in any meaningful way,” Shistomo said.

“It is as it should be,” his companion answered with a graceful gesture. “Our destiny is now in our own hands.”

In my hands, you mean, Shistomo thought to himself, but he smiled and nodded. Shistomo would gladly make a hundred new princes, let them all rule by murderous whim and live in shocking opulence, and never himself take so much as a copper ring in repayment, all provided it would speed the day when Stafraana—Syrtis Major, as the British devils called it—was reduced to a smoking ruin, stained red with Earthman blood.

EXCERPT 44.

“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press).

Monday, September 16th, 1889.

It has been six days since the destruction of Peregrine Station, six days filled with anxiety and boredom in equal measure, a combination I never before contemplated, let alone experienced.

My anxiety is both particular and general. That swine Le Boeuf made a proper job of poor Annabelle’s leg and she suffers most grievously. The aether cutter, which I appropriated for our escape, was stocked with some basic medical supplies—alcohol, carbolic acid, fresh dressings, that sort of thing, along with a very useful copy of Blackwood’s Pocket Physician. I was able to clean her wound and bandage it, so I hope to avoid infection. Since removing the bullet, I also extracted bone fragments from the wound. Le Boeuf’s revolver bullet clearly broke one of the two bones of her lower leg, the tibia I believe if I have read Blackwood correctly, and so I made an effort to set and splint it as well. She does not have a fever—and thank God for that!—but her behaviour has become erratic, her mind confused, and her sleep troubled by violent dreams. I have read this result often accompanies the escape of bone marrow into the bloodstream following a severe fracture. Laudanum eases her physical pain and dulls her mind—both outcomes welcome under the circumstances.

Cleaning and dressing her wound was one of the most distressing things I have ever done—as well as quite embarrassing to see her unclothed limbs, at least at first. If she had been wearing a dress it would have been easier, as it was the coverall she appropriated from Peregrine makes things somewhat more difficult. It mattered very little after a moment, however, in the face of her injuries. I don’t find that I am particularly squeamish about my own hurts, nor have I ever found the sight of my blood upsetting in the least. Seeing the damage wrought to dear Annabelle’s leg by that single revolver bullet, however, made me light in the head and weak in the stomach, and it was only with considerable difficulty that I did that which needed doing.

Were it within in my power, I think I should require all would-be generals and admirals to work in a field hospital for a month or so. Let them peer into pulped flesh and shattered bones, let them hold down a man (or woman) screaming in pain, and see how many are still anxious to send soldiers into that butcher’s arena afterwards.

Of course, the ones still willing to do it would be the first ones I’d strike off the list. But as the others would have surrendered their candidacy, there would then be no generals or admirals at all, and I suppose we need some.

My thoughts wander. That is the boredom at work. As perilous as is our situation, and as worrisome as is Annabelle’s condition, there are only so many things which can be done to deal with them, and those I have done, and done again, and done once more for good measure. Dealing with Annabelle’s injury has allowed me the distraction to take my mind off those lost on Peregrine. So many people…friends among them. No, I must not think of them, for there is naught I can do at this time.

I have also been reading up on Mars, from Conklin’s Atlas of the Worlds. I have, of course, read the entire section several times now, first from a sensible desire to prepare myself, and then from simple boredom. Now I wait.

My general anxiety is for the condition of the flyer. Our craft was struck by debris from the destruction of Peregrine. The hull leaks were comparatively easy to repair and I did so before we lost much of our oxygen. The aether propeller was damaged as well, but fortunately its external components were unharmed; the concussion of the explosion misaligned the internal armatures, but this I was able to correct, so we now are able to make a very good turn of speed. I expect to make Mars-fall within two days. I have no means to inspect the exterior of the craft, however, and so cannot observe whether the airscrew and lifting vanes are intact.

I suppose I shall determine that empirically in forty-eight hours.