IT WAS four or five hours past sunset, and most of the soldiers were asleep, but a small fire and its circle of light identified a sentry post.
“I want my mommy! I want my daddy!” Annabelle bawled as she staggered toward the light
“Hey, hey, li’l’ girl, whoa there,” a young cavalry trooper called as he and a comrade rushed toward her. “What happened to your mom and dad?”
“I don’t know,” wailed Annabelle, before descending into incoherent sobs. “We were in the mountains and then we―we―ˮ
“In the mountains?” said the older one doubtfully. “Why, they must be five miles from here! You bin wanderin’ all night, young lady?”
She nodded as the younger sentry offered her his handkerchief. “I don’t know what happened, one minute we were having lunch and then―ˮ She trailed off into further sobs.
The two sentries turned to one another. “I don’t see how she coulda got this far out on her own,” said the older of the two. “Why, the only people who’re normally around this area are Apach―ˮ But he was afforded no opportunity to complete the thought, as at that moment an arrow pierced his throat.
Realising too late the treachery, the younger sentry turned sharply on his heel so that he might run back to camp and warn the men, only to be caught in the skull by an arrow from the opposite direction. Annabelle watched him fall, then saw flaming arrows streak through the night, turning canvas tents into infernos, and saw men, some on fire, cut down by arrows as they scrambled from their burning shelters.
I SHOULD have warned them, Annabelle told herself. She should have remembered the Apache trap, should have told them to watch the ground nearby, send only one man to check the bodies, keep their guns trained on any spot of cover. It all came flooding back now. Too late!
Such was the mortification which Annabelle Somerset found herself in the throes of. She hobbled downstream alongside the River of Life, to the point where her companions had lately been snatched. It was scarcely her fault that the men had been taken, of course: however, Annabelle should have recognised a ruse of this nature when she saw one and she held herself accountable for failing to do so. Had she been wise enough to recall the horrors of her youth, some good men could have been saved. What was the point of having lived through that experience if she could not now gain value from it?
There was no question of her exposing her despair to these men; it was scarcely appropriate to break down in tears around men she had known a matter of hours. She would simply have to deal with her pain in the same manner as the Englishmen themselves would: by internalising it, however much she felt the need to weep, for her parents, drawn into a trap of a similar nature; for Nathanial, her companion over the last seven months, now seized by forces she could hardly begin to comprehend and who she felt she may never see again; for the men who she barely knew and who were largely innocent. They had, all of them, been drawn into a life that had known nothing but death and pain at every turn, from the killing of her parents by the Chiricahua to the death of Kak’hamish on Mars. Would that George Bedford had been here! Annabelle had no doubt that a word from him would have set her mind at ease.
No. Better for him to remain as far away from the death pall which seemed to touch all those who grew close to her.
She swallowed her emotions down. As she did, Annabelle watched and listened as the remaining men and Selenites considered their options.
“My God! What were they?” asked Gibbs, one of the sailors of the rearguard.
“Why not ask the ant man?” growled Henry, turning on K’chuk. “You’re from this Godforsaken place, aren’t you? Probably they’re your allies.”
K’chuk veritably bristled at such a slur. “Not friends of Selenites! Enemies of our people. Take Selenites. Make Selenites work. Not friends. We will fight them!”
At this exchange of raised voices, Annabelle regained her composure. “Henry, do settle down, dear man. It’s clear that these creatures are no allies of the Selenites. K’chuk, when last we were on Luna and these men we found here dead first disappeared, you spoke of Drobates. Are the creatures we saw Drobates and can such creatures be defeated?”
“Yes, Drobates very bad, but can die,” K’chuk said. “Many have. But they are…” He struggled for the appropriate word. “They…cannot be seen. Do not fight fair. Five Selenites can beat five…” He again paused, but on this occasion it appeared that this was no language barrier, rather a refusal to speak of the creatures, almost as though to do so would be to utter an unspeakable oath.
“I do agree with the ant about that,” said Henry. “If we surprise them, they’ll have to fight fair. I fancy my chances against those things,” he added, pounding his right fist into his left palm to illustrate his fighting credentials.
“Did they look as if they would fight fair?” asked Annabelle, quenching the blood lust. “We must be realistic, gentlemen. These Drobates, then, are superbly organised, outnumber us by at least three to one, and will doubtless lead Captain Folkard and his men to a place where they outnumber us further still. A skirmish would simply be impractical.”
“That’s fine,” Charles finally said. “Everyone’s had their chance to say their piece, have they? Lots of talk about will they fight fair, won’t they fight fair? Lots of brandishing of fists there, Henry. But look at that dead ’un the Cap’n took down. T’wasn’t a fist did that; it was a four-seven-six Enfield bullet between the eyes. I don’t give a tinker’s damn whether they fight fair or not; we ain’t gonna, understand? They like to fight close in. Don’t let ’em. Cap’n filled our pockets with Enfield cartridges, so by God we’ll fill their bellies with ’em.”
“Aye,” O’Hara said, his first word since the attack. It came out as a low growl and he hefted his revolver. Annabelle looked at his face and saw narrow eyes and a thin-lipped, grim mouth. For all Henry’s imposing physical size, O’Hara, the smallest of the sailors present, was the more dangerous man. Dangerous men were a subject about which Annabelle knew a great deal.
“I guess they think they have all of us,” Charles went on. “We use that, see? We follow at a distance; find out where they take the Cap’n and the others. Looks to me as if they took them right into the river, but that don’t make sense.”
“Could they have drowned?” Annabelle asked, hurrying to the edge of the river and peering into the water.
“Not in water,” K’chuk said. “Travel under water. They go that way.” At this last, he pointed to the ripples and bubbles forming in the water some distance away from them.
“We move on foot,” Charles commanded. “Follow the water and make the best time Miss Somerset can manage.”
Taking the only option available, the group marched down-river in the direction the strange creatures of Luna had gone, preparing to fight an unknown foe.
IN THE docking bay of Sovereign, George Bedford faced an unknown foe of his own. Five in number, the invaders regarded the humans with an unpleasant curiosity as they advanced, in much the same way that a cat may size up an unusual bird with a view to its dismemberment.
“Good Lord, Lieutenant! What are these things?” asked the bosun.
“Selenites. Of a sort. Quite unlike those I’ve seen before, though,” Bedford replied uncertainly as he backed cautiously away from them. They certainly looked menacing enough, but were they actually hostile? It wouldn’t do to gun down the first representatives of a new tribe of Selenites just because they looked frightening, and then find out they were ambassadors of peace. His eyes were drawn to a gleam of light coming from the tarsal claw of the Selenite at the far end of the party. It clutched something that looked familiar. “Take cover!” He barked, and the four of them scattered behind winches and crates of engine parts. As they did, a loud report echoed through the dock, although the sound of the ricochet came from several feet to Bedford’s right. He turned his eyes back to the Selenite invaders. “Well, that’s a hostile act, I’d say, and with a Berdan Model 1870. Open fire, Mister Barry!”
Bedford and Barry each put several bullets into the two Selenite-types wielding firearms, clearly inexperienced marksmen, as the other three monstrosities charged them. The Selenite’s mandibles snapped horribly, hungry for the kill. Bedford realised quickly that brawling with these creatures would be suicidal: six limbs, six stone of extra weight, armour plate, and mandibles made the contest decidedly uneven. As one of the onrushing Selenites thrust at him, he aimed a revolver bullet into its knee. The creature stumbled momentarily, before aiming a powerful snap to Bedford’s head. Bedford lurched back and fired a bullet into the eye of the ant, which, now lifeless but carried forward by momentum, crashed into him and sent him sprawling.
Pushing his fallen opponent aside, he turned to see the two ratings grappling with the other ants while Barry tried to reload his revolver with trembling hands. The bosun swung his spanner with both hands, bringing it down with a powerful overhead blow into the forehead of the attacking red Selenite, which crushed the creature’s head and brought it to the deck in a spray of vile fluids. Beyond him the other rating struggled in the grip of the remaining ant’s mandibles, plunging his screwdriver again and again into its eye and skull. Bedford took careful aim and fired a bullet into the ant’s thorax, which staggered it, and then he fired another which brought it down.
“Lieutenant Barry, inspect the cutter for any more of those creatures,” Bedford instructed the officer of the watch. “In the event that we are now relieved of the company of these monsters, please arrange for the disposal of these bodies.” Barry finished loading his revolver and clicked it shut before advancing on the open hatchway
“Tempting to put their heads on spikes or summat. Send ’em a message,” the bosun offered, although Bedford did not intend to let any other intruders get close enough to appreciate the display.
He walked over to the seaman who a moment earlier had been held aloft by an ant, and who now stood looking at the gore-covered screwdriver in his hand. “Able Seaman Platt, that was a close call. It would seem trips to Luna do not agree with you. Do you need to attend the infirmary?” Bedford asked, noticing the spreading red stain on Platt’s jumper. “Get Doctor Beverly here at once,” he shouted to a group of sailors who had heard the sounds of gunfire, but who had arrived too late to contribute to the fight. He lifted Platt’s jumper and realised immediately that Beverly would stand no chance of rescuing the seaman. The mandibles of the Selenite had evidently connected inside his abdominal cavity.
Platt’s eyes turned to him as the colour drained from his face. “Thank you, sir. Those were two good shots.” His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed. “Damn this rock!”
Bedford grabbed him and lowered him to the deck, but by the time he finished doing so the seaman no longer had a pulse. It was amazing that Platt, having suffered the wound, had been able to fight at the ant at all, or stand here. He had died heroically. The Admiralty didn’t award posthumous decorations, except for the Victoria Cross, and they’d never approve that for this action. Still, Bedford would mention the lad in his dispatch, and his family and all their friends could read their boy’s name, and what he’d done, in the London Gazette. Nothing the Admiralty could do to stop a mention in dispatches.
“Barry, is the cutter empty?”
“Seems to be, Lieutenant,” the officer replied. “No sign of those devils.”
Bedford nodded. There was no telling what had befallen Ainsworth or the others, but clearly someone had trained at least one of these Selenites to pilot a cutter, and then armed them, albeit indifferently, for an attack. That they were armed with Russian Berdans, which he had recognised from the distinctive pear-shaped bolt handle of the Model 1870, provided more than a hint as to the architects of the scheme. He hardly believed that a contingent of five would be dispatched and realistically be expected to overthrow a ship of the size of Sovereign. No, this was clearly a diversion, an attempt to keep Sovereign’s personnel off balance and in a defensive posture. There was a peculiarity about this group, in both its hostile manner and its nauseating appearance, which he did not like. Well, if they wished to engage in psychological warfare, they would find no purchase with George Bedford.
“Sub-Lieutenant Barry,” he called.
“Sir!”
“Back to the bridge and sound action stations, if you please. Then give Lieutenant Blake and Major Larkins my compliments and have them join me here.”
HIS LOCATION was a mystery. The group had, each of them, been knocked unconscious by a blow by some blunt instrument. By the time they regained consciousness, they found themselves on the beach of a large island, and doused with water to revive them. How far from their colleagues they had travelled, and by what method, none of them could say. As for the present, however, they found themselves dragged into consciousness and marched towards a nearby group of buildings. Every one of the buildings was austere, made of carved stone blocks, devoid of windows or character. It seemed that their captors had no spoken language; Folkard gestured to his comrades to remain silent themselves, aware that it did not necessarily follow that their captors were deaf or ignorant of the English language.
As to their captors, the bipedal creatures’ physiques were roughly akin to human. The dimensions, however, differed grotesquely. The skull was longer, with an extended forehead, while the length of their arms exceeded that of their legs. Together with the shape of their craniums, they were ape-like in appearance. It was clear by sight alone, however, that this simian appearance was not coupled with an intellect comparable to the baboon. Their eyes betrayed an intelligence and complexity of a superior race. Most striking of all their features, however, was in the tone of their skin. It was of a faintly bluish cast, yet the colour was pale enough to give them an almost translucent quality, revealing a network of veins and arteries below the surface. They wore tunics made of a material one would call silk were it not for its singular iridescence. Their overall appearance was at once both fascinating and repellent. Clearly these creatures were not the same as the half-man half-ant skeleton seen earlier by the river.
When they reached the buildings, they found themselves rudely bustled into a large chamber of substantial depth and height which already contained a dozen human prisoners, and perhaps a score of Selenites. The men were gaunt, with long beards and hair, and dressed in rags. Folkard heard some of them exchange quiet remarks in Russian. He was not so able to tell the physical condition of the Selenites, although they did not display the same rich coloration or energetic movements of K’chuk and his companions. There were also, he noticed, a few Selenites of a different sort, ant-like in overall form but different in coloration and other anatomical details.
While the prisoners were allowed to mingle as they pleased, it was notable that each group kept their own counsel. The dejected expressions on the men and the downbeat body language of the Selenites indicated beings who had been imprisoned for some time, to say nothing of the reek of putrescence which recalled the most rancid inner-city gaol. A disturbing number of the group appeared to be crippled in some respect, or else lunatics. Beyond the wailings and soliloquies of the insane, however, the most lucid of the group remained eerily silent.
Folkard took it as a given from the despondent atmosphere that any attempts at remonstrating or even bargaining with their kidnappers would be futile. Instead, he reasoned that it would be worthwhile seeing whether any of the group―be they Selenite or even Russians―would be willing to lay differences aside for the sake of escape from these dread creatures.
McKittrick appeared to be demonstrating signs of mental strain already and he had no intention of allowing the man to slip further into the abyss of mental incapacity.
“Do any of this group speak English?” Folkard barked. There were feeble cries from the back of the hall, barely audible over the groaning of the insane, which had to be taken in the affirmative. “No more? Very well. I am Captain Jacob Folkard, of Her Majesty’s Aether Ship Sovereign. It is not my intention that we linger in this glorified school dining hall longer than necessary. I shall need some information first in order to facilitate an escape.”
NATHANIAL RAISED an eyebrow at the obvious optimism of Folkard. He recalled being in a similar situation on their last adventure on Luna, which led to him and K’chuk attempting to navigate a mining vehicle while Folkard impersonated a Russian sub-lieutenant. Such adventures seemed almost quaint now. Though it was less than a year since he first set foot on Sovereign, he had seen and done so much in that time that it were as if twenty years had passed. Compared with the ordeals of dragging a delirious woman across the Martian desert, unlocking a mystery on a space station and confronting dinosaurs on Venus, sitting in a mining vehicle with an excitable ant seemed like small change. The unnecessary cost of human life had moved him deeply and left him acutely sensitive to the uselessness of hostility. He decided he should make a resolution: only when it was absolutely necessary was he prepared to do battle. Of course, that necessity seemed to be occurring more frequently than he was strictly content with. This would never happen in Putney.
“Who here can tell me of the enemy we face?” Folkard demanded.
“They call themselves the Drobates, sir,” replied a distantly familiar voice.
It was a voice that Nathanial had heard before and he found himself so preoccupied with the voice of the speaker that he could barely comprehend the words. The voice was one that he felt he surely must be imagining; a voice from beyond the grave, perhaps, or at least that of a man long since disappeared. That there was the possibility that the voice was not merely imaginary but was, indeed, the real voice of a man with whom he could finally enjoy a reunion…why, his heart leapt to even contemplate it! He could barely conceal a smile.
Only the exercising of decorum prevented Nathanial from racing to the back of the hall to embrace his friend. Hardly wishing to risk the mocking of the captain, however, Nathanial adopted a brisk walk in line with Folkard in the direction of the voice.
What he saw was beyond his wildest imagination. There, indeed, was Ordinary Seaman Erasmus Stevenson. Seven months older, of course, rather gaunter than Nathanial remembered and wearing the scars of his ordeal with the Drobates; however there was no mistaking the man who Nathanial had befriended on his first space-faring mission.
Upon seeing Folkard, Stevenson presented his captain with a brief salute, suggesting that it was proving rather an effort even to lift his arm.
“Stevenson! By God! A pleasure to see you again, man!” Folkard said, putting Stevenson at ease.
“Can it be? I hardly expected I would clap eyes on you again in this life,” Nathanial said, taking Stevenson’s hand in a firm handshake.
“Nath…” Stevenson coughed, and resumed with a weak smile, his blue eyes dulled. “Professor Stone, as you see, I live.”
Nathanial felt an overwhelming relief that his friend was safe and that Stevenson even remembered Nathanial at all. To think of the things he must have been through!
McKittrick, reaching the front, was keen to add his commentary to proceedings. “When we saw what had happened to Challoner and Clements…”
“Yes, I think Ordinary Seaman Stevenson understands our point, Mister McKittrick,” interjected Folkard. The man was clearly in no position to learn of the dreadful fate of his comrades. “How have you survived these long months, Stevenson? I imagine you’ve had quite an ordeal.”
“To say the least, Captain Folkard,” nodded Stevenson. “I rather fancy that were it not for an inherent ability to understand these awful creatures, I would have been left for dead by now.” He scanned the group: four familiar, one unknown. “Perhaps you have felt likewise? A feeling as though a key has been held against the nape of one’s neck?”
The group’s brows in one movement knotted in confusion, save for that of Folkard, who nodded. “I have experienced this feeling, Stevenson; more than once, in fact.”
Stevenson nodded. “Some men can feel it, some cannot. I can’t suggest why that is. Professor Stone, have you any suggestions?”
Nathanial shook his head. “Perhaps after more observation I might be able to give my opinions. I cannot formulate a theory without data. Mister Stevenson, can you tell me more?”
“Perhaps it might be best,” said Folkard, “if Stevenson were to tell us about his unexpected sojourn with these Drobates. What can you tell us?”
Stevenson, however, had no opportunity to obey his captain, as it was at this point that the Drobates returned to the chamber.
They surveyed their prisoners with a contemptuous air. There were perhaps thirty who had been shepherded into this awful compound, against a mere five Drobates. It would seem that, if the group gathered together, they would overwhelm this small detachment. Yet it was clear that none of the prisoners dared to attempt a confrontation with their captors: too weak, it appeared, either physically or mentally, or perhaps wary after unsuccessful attempts in the past. There was also the matter of the unusual weapons that the Drobates held. These had an appearance roughly akin to a carbine, but with a uniquely large magazine and a mysterious metallic coil wrapped around the barrel. Sheathed on a belt around the waists of the moon men were daggers, with ornately designed hilts. The Drobates turned to regard each other, as though they were considering their options.
“Be careful,” said Stevenson at Nathanial’s arm. “The things these creatures can do!”
Folkard was holding his lower back uneasily, while knotting his brow. It was the sort of expression, Nathanial thought, that one might have if they were listening intently to a whispered conversation.
“Can you understand it, sir?” Stevenson whispered, having realised Folkard’s efforts.
“No. Can you?” Folkard hissed.
Stevenson nodded. “After a time, you learn it, sir. They intend to move us!”
“Move us? To where?”
“To a city, I think.”
Nathanial was confused. “The Drobates are speaking?”
“Not speaking as we might understand it—but yes, they are speaking. Captain Folkard, sir, you have a sensation in your spinal column perhaps? You will experience that when they communicate. It is, I think, some kind of subsonic buzzing.”
“I can’t make sense of the conversation, though, Stevenson. It is as if someone had attempted to connect a telephone call from thousands of fathoms beneath the ocean which was being conducted in a foreign language.”
It was astonishing, Nathanial thought. As perilous as their plight might be, he found himself intrigued by his kidnappers. Their method of communication—and the fact that this could be noticed and even understood by certain humans—fascinated him. To be confronted by creatures and situations like this: why, surely such discoveries were the reason that man looked towards the stars in the first place? Even in the middle of an adventure, there was something of the scientific detachment still lingering in him, perhaps.
An unpleasant rattling sound interrupted their conversation. Turning their attention again to the front of the room, they realised that the Drobates were setting about handcuffing the men’s hands behind their backs, linking them by chain in groups of six. The Selenites among the group were being chained in similar fashion but utilising two chains and two sets of handcuffs to address their additional upper limbs. Moving among the men were two unarmed Drobates, who were studying the infirm and treating any fresh wounds with a curious expression that suggested compassion. At the same time, the soldiers among them were responding to any signs of disobedience in their prisoners by roughly striking them down, thusly creating as many wounds as the medics were attempting to cure. It was all something of a queer affair.
There was a rippling of agitation among the British contingent, whose presence at the back of the hall meant that they were to be among the last to suffer the indignity of being chained together.
“Good God! These monsters intend to march us in a chain gang!” Burroughs said, not troubling to lower his voice.
“Keep your voice down, man!” hissed his captain.
“If it quells your concerns any, Burroughs, I think that they at least intend to take us alive,” remarked Nathanial, sotto voce.
The groups were starting to be marched out of the building, leaving only the British and a party of Russians, some of whom seemed scarcely mobile, let alone prepared for a lengthy hike to a mysterious city.
“Keep calm, men,” Folkard advised. “This is scarcely the time or the place to risk doing something…”
His counsel was brought to an abrupt halt by a deafening crash to his right. Astonished, the men turned in the direction of the sound to see McKittrick holding a splintered wooden chair aloft. “You’ll never take me alive, you fiends!” bawled McKittrick, running toward them and brandishing his improvised cudgel.
With astonishing speed, a Drobate avoided the club and in one graceful movement unsheathed its dagger and swung its arm in a broad sweep. A flash of silver was visible briefly before the dagger returned to the ornate scabbard. Aghast, the men returned their gaze to McKittrick. The man’s throat had been slashed and he collapsed to the floor as blood spurted fatally from the wound.
“Put your hand to the wound, Mister McKittrick!” Nathanial shouted, resisting the pull of the Drobate guard as best he could.
McKittrick was already too weak to do so, however. Unable to speak, he looked apologetically at his captain.
“No need to look so remorseful, McKittrick, you have been slain in the name of Queen and Country. Naught nobler,” Folkard responded.
“‘With heavy heart and failing light/I fear I go into the night/Recall me thus, if must you mourn/Not at the dusk, but at the dawn.’” The group turned to Burroughs, who had recited these lines. “A poem of McKittrick’s own, sir,” he explained sheepishly. “I thought it might be what he’d like.”
McKittrick managed a faint smile at this and died with his own words still in his ears.
“I TRUST you will excuse my waking you up at this time, Major Larkins,” Bedford said when the commander of Sovereign’s Marine contingent joined them in the docking bay. “Let me assure you that I would not take such a move were it not urgent.”
“Nothing of it, First Officer,” remarked Larkins, who then nodded his greeting to Lieutenant Blake. “So those are the invaders I heard about. Nasty looking buggers, ain’t they?” he said, examining the five alien corpses now dragged into a line by the bulkhead. “And I thought the Selenites we encountered before looked rum.”
“Nasty enough they put paid to Able Seaman Platt, and possibly the entire landing party,” Bedford replied. “I want you to muster your entire Royal Marine contingent to launch a rescue operation. We’ll take all four cutters.” He turned to Blake. “I shall be accompanying the Marines, Lieutenant. You will command Sovereign in my absence. Once we’re away, you might stand down one watch and alternate at action stations. No telling how long this will take. Make sure you have an armed guard at this docking station at all times, however.”
“Very good, sir,” Blake answered.
“Captain Folkard ordered me to send a relief force at oh-one hundred hours if we hadn’t heard from him by then,” Bedford explained. “Given that the cutter was taken by enemy forces, I see no reason to delay the mission. My intention is to first ascertain the status of Otterbein Base. Our orders are to find Grant, but our first responsibility is the safety and security of the base. Once we know the situation on the ground, I’ll decide what action to take next. I can’t very well expect anyone else to make that decision, right?”
“Sir,” they answered almost in unison.
“Assemble your men here at twenty-two hundred hours, Major,” Bedford concluded.
“Do you feel that the landing party is likely to go far?” Larkins asked. “Should I have the men bring a day’s rations?”
Bedford grimaced. “Better make it several days’ worth. Unless I am very much mistaken, this may take us to the very heart of Luna.”
CHARLES HAD, he feared, bitten off more than he could chew, not that it was his decision to take the bite, mind you. He was as handy with a small craft as any coxswain in the fleet, and he’d blacken the eye of any man who said otherwise. But piloting a cutter in a tight spot was one thing; leading a group of men—well, five men, one lady, and three great bloody ants—was a different proposition altogether. He was worried by the notion that he might not be up to the job. His father had told him, “There ain’t nothin’ Horatio Nelson Charles ain’t up to, and you remember that.” Horatio Nelson Charles! He always signed on as “H. Nelson Charles”. Let the other petty officers get wind he was named after England’s greatest admiral and he’d have to blacken half a dozen eyes, as sure as there was a hole in his bum, and maybe end up spitting out a tooth or two of his own. He wouldn’t care for that; he liked his teeth.
They reached a part of the river which broadened out and he saw an occupied island further out in the stream. From the cover of a stand of mushroom-like trees and bushy moss undergrowth they observed the island. There was no bridge to it and access was clearly by boat only. A strange metallic vessel, probably one of the submersibles K’chuk mentioned, rested moored to a pier on the near side of the island and several buildings were in evidence further toward the centre. A number of oddly-proportioned men marched outside the perimeter, carrying some sort of rifles.
“Any ideas?” Charles asked, remembering that Folkard was a keen advocate of seeking the counsel of his men before making a decision, as well as hoping that phrasing the question in that manner would disguise the fact that he lacked the slightest idea himself.
“Perhaps take a lead from Doctor Grant and construct a raft?” suggested Staples.
“Selenites swim,” K’chuk offered, to the surprise of the men. “Friends on our backs. Raft of Selenites.”
Henry pointed at the prison colony. “We would be too exposed. They could shoot us as soon as they saw us.”
“K’chuk, the Selenites know the Drobates,” Miss Somerset said. “What can you tell us that will help us here?”
“Know some, friend Annabelle,” said K’chuk. “Not enough. Drobates enemy of Selenites. Much fighting. We do not win.”
“How long have you been fighting this enemy?”
“Five generations. We know them long time.”
“Do you know where the Drobates will take our friends?” she asked.
“To city.”
“To a city? What city?”
“City of Light and Science,” said K’chuk with disgust. “Like Selenite village. But big village, for them. Many…” He paused a moment, again appearing as if there was much unspoken. “Many bad things happen there, friend Annabelle. Not good place.”
Miss Somerset nodded. “Do you know how to get there?”
“K’chuk not been there, but know way.”
“From here?”
“Yes. Down river.”
“If I may be so bold as to put a suggestion,” Miss Somerset said, turning directly to Charles, “it seems that our best solution would be to bypass the prison island, which is almost certain to be fraught with unassailable peril, and travel to this City of Light and Science. Perhaps we could obtain help from the Selenites as well. When those villains bring Captain Folkard, Nathanial and the crew there, as the undoubtedly will, we can plan the most appropriate method of rescue.”
“Well, beggin’ you pardon, Miss, but there’s a few things wrong with that plan,” Charles said after a moment spent organizing his thoughts. “First, this here’s an isolated outpost. If you think that’s fraught with—how’d you put it?—unassailable peril, their capital city is going to be that in trumps. Second, those crewmen we found on the riverbank, they’d held them here on this island for months—unless you think they took them down to the city and then brought them back, which don’t make much sense to me. So what makes you think they won’t do the same with the Cap’n and the others? And if it’s all the same, no women’s intuition if you please.” Charles saw her bristle at that but he shrugged and went on anyway. “Third, I’d like to know where this army of Selenites of yours is going to come from. K’chuk, can you get an army of your people down here in, oh, a day or so?”
“No,” K’chuk answered, which was brief even for him. Miss Somerset looked at her giant ant friend, who would not meet her eye, and she seemed to wilt a bit.
“And finally,” Charles said, “the Cap’n killed one of them. Maybe they mean to have their revenge on him, maybe on all of them. They could be torturing him right now while we talk on about strolling down…”
“You’ve made your point, Mister Charles,” Miss Somerset snapped, eyes blazing. “So what do you propose as an alternative, pray tell?”
Charles motioned for them to follow and led the party back upriver a quarter mile or more, until a bend in the canyon completely screened them from anyone on the island. The trees had concealed them before, so long as they were careful not to disturb the foliage, but Charles was about to disturb it very much.
“This uncle of yours,” he said once they were all assembled in front of another stand of the tall, oddly shaped mushroom-like trees. “I’ll wager he didn’t make a habit of carrying pioneer tools with him when he went out on his strolls, did he?”
“Pioneer tools?” Miss Somerset asked.
“Axes, spades, that sort of thing.”
“Why no, he didn’t,” Doctor Staples said. “I’d have remembered seeing that and he didn’t take anything with him but his notes. Nothing at all like that.”
“So tell me this, then,” Charles said to all of them, “how did he fell enough trees to make a raft?”
All of them looked blankly at him and at each other, but none of them ventured an answer. Charles turned, put his shoulder against the trunk of a tree a good six inches in diameter, dug his feet into the rocky ground, and pushed. After a moment’s hard effort, the tree trunk splintered and broke near the ground and the tree crashed down. Charles straightened up and turned to the others.
“I noticed when we made our way through the last grove. Like balsa trees, in Ecuador, they are. As light as the logs are, they’ll make a better raft than hardwood.”
“But won’t they see the raft coming, Chief?” Henry asked.
“Yes. So for the next couple hours we build our raft, but we also knock down a few of these trees and chuck ’em in the river, give ’em a good push to get them out in the main current. Maybe they’ll figure a ledge with trees on it collapsed into the river, or maybe a flood somewhere upriver swept in some trees. Thing is, after a couple hours, they’ll get tired of figurin’ and just accept that there’s flotsam in the river today. Our raft we just use as a float, rig it up irregular-like, to look like a snag in the river, with moss on top. We swim behind it, Selenites too, I suppose.”
“And how do we steer?” Miss Somerset asked, but O’Hara answered before Charles could.
“That won’t be no problem, Miss Somerset. Chief Charles here is the best small craft man I’ve ever seen. Chief’ll sort it all out.”
Charles had joined the crew after it’s baptism of fire on Luna, and had always felt a bit like an outsider, not having a part of the stories which dominated their reminiscences. He looked at O’Hara and knew he wasn’t an outsider any more.