Chapter Three

“Icy Reception”

1.

AFTER ALMOST FOUR weeks of seeing nothing outside but the star-spangled blackness of space, Annabelle found herself looking at the off-white surface of Ceres with anticipation. Very few travelled this far out, mostly because the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter was as far as a solar boiler could take them. Even now, barely an hour away from Ceres, she could feel Esmeralda protesting around her, the pressure level in the boiler was as low as it had ever been. It was sufficient for flight, but the Esmeralda 2 was moving at a sluggish pace. For most aether travellers there was nothing of interest beyond Mars, unless mining was something they enjoyed. The asteroid belt was a rich source of minerals, and scientific research. She remembered many stories her uncle had told her of the mysteries surrounding the lost planet of Vulcan, which was now survived by the thousands of asteroids that made up the belt.

Personally she had little interest in the asteroid belt. Mining had never been an interest of hers; even as a child her father’s stories of the gold mines had held little fascination. Stories of Red Indians had appealed to her much more—until they had turned horribly real. But she knew they needed Arnaud’s experience, which meant a trip to Ceres was necessary. Folkard was still not entirely convinced, but she had regaled him with tales of Arnaud’s bravery on Mercury, and his role in solving the mystery of Hermes. She wasn’t certain it had helped convince the captain, but he had grumbled less about it in the past two weeks. Which was something at least.

The tension on the flyer was fraught enough as it was.

Nathanial was as far away from Annabelle as he could be—both literally and figuratively. He was in the engine room with Mister Fenn, assisting in preparations for planet fall… Not that Ceres was classed as a planet any longer, of course, but Annabelle had argued that since it had gravity and an eco-system of some kind, she would consider it a planet whether the astronomers agreed or not—it seemed every conversation with Nathanial ended in debate at the moment, Annabelle reflected. She never went to him with the intention of fighting, but ever since his revelation after leaving Mercury she found she just didn’t know how to speak to him.

Truth always conveys its own moral to those who are able to receive it. She had read that somewhere, but what was the moral here?

It hurt her knowing that he had shown no consideration of her during her incarceration in London, yet she knew he had had his own troubles with which to contend. Was she being selfish, expecting her own problems to be of more concern to him than his own? If not more, then they should have least been some concern. After all, despite being locked up in the Tower of London, and then spending some time as a prisoner in Dorset House, she never once forgot about Nathanial and had even sought George’s help in finding out about Nathanial’s wellbeing.

No, she decided, she was not wrong for feeling abandoned by him. Nathanial should have made more effort, especially after all they had been through since Peregrine.

She turned from her position at the heliograph station and looked at Folkard, who was strapped in his seat, one hand on the ratchet-wheel that controlled the aether propeller, the other tapping a lazy tune on the attitude indicator in readiness for entering the Ceren gravity, such as it was. His attention was focussed entirely on the planet; even an hour away it filled the entire window. It was barely a speck, but she was sure she could see Messor Base on the surface, a collection of linked spherical structures. Folkard had told her a little bit about the base; run by a British administration, the base was used as a place for all miners with an interest in the asteroids to use as an ore refining platform, or for the scientifically minded there were the labs. She had been impressed by the generosity of the British, until Folkard had mentioned how it enabled the Empire to keep a close eye on any rivals. Regardless, Annabelle looked forward to setting foot on the planet, despite her lack of interest in mining. There was something almost thrilling about visiting a planet most people wouldn’t even go near.

“Are we close enough now, Captain?” she asked.

Folkard glanced back, and smiled through his bearded face. “Yes, Miss Somerset,” he replied.

He generally used “Miss Annabelle” these days, but she had noticed that when she worked on the control deck with him, he tended to address her more formally. She didn’t mind so much, after all soon she would cease to be Miss Somerset forever.

“Please announce our intention to land on Messor Base, and to inform Doctor Fontaine of our arrival.”

Annabelle saluted. “Aye, aye, sir!” she said in her best English accent, and turned back to the heliograph.

2.

DYLAN BLAYNEY DOWNED his ale in one go and looked across the table at Craig Callaghan, his ears disbelieving. “Boyo, you need to be telling me this is one of your practical jokes, you do.”

Callaghan looked around the canteen, a bead of sweat running from beneath his cap to his left eyebrow. “I’m telling you I’m not. There’s a flyer approaching the base right now. I saw it with my own eyes, I did.”

Blayney knew his men well enough to know if they were lying to him; the boy may have had a silver tongue, but he’d learned to keep to the truth when talking to the base manager.

Blayney stood up. “Right, then, let’s go and welcome the examiner. Bloody idiot’s here too early!” He looked around the canteen. “Hobbs,” he called, his Welsh baritone booming across the canteen, “go and make sure Budrys and his gang have Occator Six secured fast. Don’t want to have any trouble while the examiner’s here, do we?” Blayney waited until Hobbs had left the canteen before he looked at the rest of his miners. A lot of his most trusted workers were still off Ceres, working the asteroids, which was just as well. They knew how to improvise, and would keep the examiner happy. His problem was making sure the examiner didn’t get suspicious while he was on Messor Base. “The rest of you listen now. Spread the word, let our people know the examiner’s on his way. If we can get through this without any hiccoughs, then he’ll bring no trouble to us. It’s our livelihood that’s at stake here now, so just you all make sure you remember that. Okay, then?” He clapped his hands. “Get to it!”

Within seconds the canteen was cleared of all but he and Callaghan.

“What if the examiner asks about Cadogan and the others?”

Blayney looked at Callaghan sharply. Ferguson had returned with the remains of Pettitt, and Blayney had sent him straight back in there, to back up Cadogan and the rest of his posse who had pursued Fontaine; none had returned. It was unlikely they would now. But that wasn’t Callaghan’s problem, it was Blayney’s. “Don’t you go worrying about that now. I’ll take care of the examiner’s concerns there. Mining the asteroid belt is treacherous work. Accidents happen, don’t they?”

Callaghan swallowed. “But Cadogan was your friend.”

“You think I’ve forgotten that, do you, boyo? Ivor and me, we grew up together, and that’s why we made sure the doctor paid for what he did. But if it gets out what happened, we’re all for it. Every single one of us. And don’t you go forgetting that now.” He placed a hand on each of Callaghan’s shoulders. The boy was barely out of his teens, but he had worked as hard as any of the older men, it was just a shame he had a loose tongue. “Now, I want you to go and make sure Doctor Gully is kept occupied while the examiner is here. Archaeologists ask too many questions, they always want to know too much, him more so than others. Make sure he doesn’t learn nothing, right?”

For a moment he held Callaghan’s eyes in his, before the boy looked down. “You can count on me, boss.”

“Bloody better. Now, off you go.”

Once Callaghan had left Blayney alone, his composure slipped a little. He had spent all his life working the mines; trapper, chainrunner, slopeman, underground manager—he’d done it all, both in Llanfairfach and out here on the asteroids. He had worked his way up from the bottom, and he had no intention of losing his grip on Messor Base. Miners from all over the Earth came to work the asteroids, and it was a matter of some pride that he, a miner from a small Welsh colliery town, was now in charge of all mining operations in the asteroid belt. It was he who decided who went were, and it was he who was responsible when things went wrong.

Responsibility did not bother him; that was his job, and he knew he could talk his way out of most things. The life of a miner was fraught with danger, even more so this far from Earth. But what had happened…

He didn’t see how he’d be able to talk his way out of that!

The examiner was not supposed to be due for another month, plenty of time for Blayney to get everything together again. But now?

“Dylan!”

Blayney turned around, regaining his composure as he did so, wondering why Emrys Morgan had left the heliograph room. It had to been manned at all times, in case they received an important message from Mars, or one of the serritor teams needed help. He almost laughed at the perplexed look on the small man’s face, and once again wondered why Morgan had even come to Ceres. The man had been far too dainty to be on a mining station, but Blayney couldn’t deny that the higher gravity of Ceres had done wonders for the man’s muscles. One day he’d have to get Morgan down one of the mines back home. No one would have a problem with his strength when they got back to Llanfairfach.

“What is it? Special orders from the examiner?”

If it were at possible, Morgan looked even more confused. “Sorry? The examiner’s not due until next month.”

“Well I know that, don’t I? Nonetheless, his ship is…” Blayney stopped. “Wait. That’s not the examiner’s flyer approaching us?”

“Well no.” Morgan nodded slowly. “Oh, you thought it was, didn’t you? No, man, it belongs to some scientist chap. But…” At this Morgan paused, looking around the canteen, and lowered his voice. “Apparently they’re here to collect Doctor Fontaine.”

For a moment Blayney wished it had been the examiner. A French mineralogist would have been of little concern, and he would almost certainly not have questioned the lack of Fontaine on Messor Base, but someone who had come there especially for Fontaine. Blayney frowned. Tricky. “What the bloody hell do they want with him, then?”

3.

IT HAD TAKEN Arnaud over three weeks to realise why the thought of a bull didn’t quite fit. The shape of the horns was wrong and far too large. More like water buffalo. This seemed even more accurate when he discovered that they liked the water, and he was grateful to find that there was a nearby source—an off-shoot of the main lake that, sheltered by trees, did not suffer a sheet of ice. Still, he drank from the leaves more often than the stream as he didn’t like to imbibe that in which these creatures wallowed. He washed in the same stream, but sparingly—it was certainly too cold to wash more than one limb at a time—and his curses seemed to amuse them, although they ceased the strange rasping sound he took for laughter and looked away whenever he looked at them. Fine for them to dive straight in when they could swim and had such thick skins. Arnaud preferred to stay at the edge and could not be persuaded even into the shallows. He hadn’t forgotten the sight of that squid creature that had stopped to look at him.

Strangely enough, the idea of a water buffalo had come to mind one night while he was sitting with them just as he was doing now. Even that had taken a while. For the first few days they had seemed…more frightened by him than anything, although they outweighed him by several pounds of muscle. Even now they kept their offspring away, and the females—he could identify them by their smaller horns—would get out of his way. The males were more tolerant, but these changes had all taken time. They appeared as curious about him as he was about them, and even tried to hide their amusement or disgust. He’d received both reactions over his choice of food.

Not a day had gone by before Arnaud had realised he had a very real problem with food. It was take a chance or starve, so noting what the wildlife consumed and avoided, he’d tried some plants, finding many too bitter or too tough, but persevering until he finally located some he could tolerate. Understandably, the Bubalus—as he had named them—found this strange. They were meat-eaters…as he had learned the hard way. One month on, what he still couldn’t figure out was why they hadn’t eaten him.

He ignored it when one of the Bubalus nudged his foot and held out a piece of meat. While he was fairly certain this was the flesh of an animal, they had preserved and stored some of the men for a good while and he preferred to seek his own sustenance. They’d offered before and often met his refusal with perplexed glances.

This time a hand encircled one of his ankles and pulled…hard, making Arnaud slide a few inches. If he hadn’t been sitting on one of the fleshy leaves the ground might have scored his backside even through his trousers, even ripped his clothing. He bit back a curse—from the rough handling and because his garments were looking threadbare in enough places as it was. Still, that one should touch him was usually enough that he paid attention.

When the meat was again offered, Arnaud shook his head. The one who returned his stare shook his, leaned forwards and grabbed another piece of meat. Arnaud put up his hands to stop a lump of flesh hitting him in the face and was left holding what looked like a chicken leg, roughly plucked so that some blue and yellow feathers remained embedded in the skin.

Arnaud swallowed, disgusted with the fact that saliva flooded his mouth. The bird was raw; he couldn’t…shouldn’t be salivating. At least, he recognised this as one of the parrot-type creatures he’d first seen.

“Minos…” Arnaud said, sounding uncertain. How could he explain that his kind cooked meat? He’d found no way to create a fire here. The caves were warm enough and the leaves kept him from freezing, but…fire? He couldn’t create a flame and keep it burning long enough to catch hold. It was as if the frost itself was determined to thwart every attempt, and the one way he’d found of preparation wouldn’t work on such tough flesh.

How strange he must appear to them—pale skin, a strange creature that ate leaves and wrapped himself in them, would not shuck his clothes and wade in to bathe. Weak.

The one he’d named Minos still regarded him, that great maw working, chewing. Not wanting to lose the leeway he had gained, to belittle the progress he had made communicating, Arnaud reached for a spearhead that lay on the ground. As well as using these for weapons, the Bubalus used them for knives. Some were fashioned from stone, some from bone. Arnaud didn’t stop to wonder over the construction of the one he had selected. Under watchful eyes he used it to cut and pull away the skin. Fortunately, the flesh beneath was pale, almost bloodless. He’d always refused meat before but this time he could identify it, and to prepare it was like skinning chicken. He wasn’t sure he should eat fowl raw but…what choice did he have? Maybe he’d be lucky. He’d risked food-poisoning often enough, yet was still breathing; aside from one instance of a resulting upset stomach and rough few hours, he was surviving.

He handed the skin back to Minos who took it and tossed it in his mouth, complete with feathers. He pressed a hand to where Arnaud assumed his heart lay and then to his mouth, which seemed to be a particular way to the Bubalus of giving thanks. As far as he could make out it meant gratitude for the sacrifice, of giving something up. Maybe Minos thought the skin an offering. Arnaud cut the rest of the portion up into small bites. This way he could pop them into his mouth and swallow them without chewing, or tasting. He needed to show gratitude, fortitude…and he required nourishment, and not only because he had lost weight.

The sickness had come upon him after he’d been bitten by one of the “butterflies”. Pretty they might be, but their bite was more vicious than any mosquito’s. Still, he hadn’t thought anything of it—he could hardly protect himself from every threat—until the bite became inflamed. Minos had taken one look at it, nodding, as if he’d expected this. The Bubalus put up with these bites, too, but either their blood was different or their thicker hides protected them, because they seldom grew sick. Even when they did, the effects did not last, and they knew how to treat the disease. They had shown Arnaud how to mix the juices from two separate plants, to use the squeezed leaf as a poultice for the bite itself, and to drink down the liquid. The first time the rancid taste had been so unexpected, Arnaud would have spat it out if Minos had not clamped one of those great hands over his mouth and forced it down. He’d drunk the rest without complaining, shuddering at every swallow. Even with medication, for Arnaud, the suffering lingered.

He threw raw meat down his throat hoping it would bolster his immune system to beat this illness. Which reminded him: worried that his strength might fail, he always kept his own stocks. He would have to go out tomorrow to replenish supplies.

4.

ANNABELLE WAS THE last to emerge from Esmeralda 2, and as she took her first step outside she found herself stumbling down. Folkard, who was only a few steps before her, turned quickly and prevented her from making a fool of herself. No one seemed to notice, the few people in the bay were too busy going about their business. Even if she had fallen all the way down the steps leading out of the flyer, she doubted they would have heard her anyway. The bay was noisy, mining carts being pulled on wheels to and from smaller flyers, some full of ore and minerals, others empty.

“A problem with your leg?” Folkard asked.

Annabelle looked down at the offending appendage. “I feel so.” She stood up straight, feeling all her muscles strain under the pressure. “The gravity of this planet is unusually low…”

“High actually,” Folkard corrected her, “it’s one point one five of Earth’s, which explains the extra weight we are feeling. Given the diminutive size of Ceres, its intense gravity had long been a genuine mystery—still is to those scientists innocent of the discovery of gravitar. The core of the world must contain a considerable quantity of the substance. A lengthy stay here would do wonders for our bodies; loss of excess fat, our hearts would eventually pump a greater supply of blood, our extensor muscles would develop.” He raised an eyebrow and nodded at a passing miner. “You don’t think he got like that from an excessive health regime, do you?”

Annabelle watched the brawny miner in question. For quite some moments. She turned away, feeling she should probably blush at the sweat running down his extremely firm forearms, but instead she simply thought of George, and idly wondered if he would be allowed to work on Ceres for a few months before their honeymoon. Folkard was now watching her, and this time she did blush. What would Jacob think if he could read her mind?

“Yes, well, I think Nathanial needs to fix this leg of mine. I feel like I can barely move it! At this rate I will have one vastus medialis bigger than the other…”

“Not to mention the vastus lateralis and then…”

Annabelle held up a hand. “Please, Captain, let us not stretch the point.”

Folkard laughed. “Ah yes, very good, Miss Annabelle. I see the gravity of your situation has not dulled your humour.”

Annabelle joined him in his laughter, an act that elicited the admiring look of several miners. She was almost tempted to give them a wave, but she had to remember she was now betrothed and had to act with a certain degree of decorum. Even if her instinct insisted she do otherwise.

“Let us see how Nathanial is doing, shall we?”

Folkard nodded, and offered Annabelle his arm. Together they joined Nathanial, who was talking to a particularly tall miner. Not that he was a patch on Nathanial, of course, but he towered over Annabelle, and just about beat Folkard, too. His blond hair was dirty, sweat and grime over his face. Annabelle would have thought the miners on Messor Base would at least clean themselves from time to time.

“Ah,” Nathanial said, noticing them, “this is my sister, Miss Ann-Marie Brooker, and our captain, Richard Matheson. This is Eero Koivunen, he has been sent by Mister Blayney, the base manager, to welcome us.”

Mister Koivunen regarded Annabelle for longer than she found comfortable, his blue eyes speaking of dark thoughts. He smiled, and offered her a slight bow. “Noin kaunis nainen, tarvitsevien miehien ympäri, ole hyvää.”

Annabelle frowned, but did not step forward; instead she continued to hold on to Folkard’s arm. “I’m sorry?”

“You do not speak Finnish?” Koivunen nodded, with another smile that betrayed his lust. “I was saying you are welcome to Messor Base. All of you are,” he added, reaching out a hand to Folkard.

The captain stepped forward and gripped hands firmly. “Thank you, Mister Koivunen,” he said, his voice carrying a warning.

“Perhaps you are hungry after your long journey? We have fresh meat should you like some.”

Nathanial looked at Koivunen, puzzled. “How did you get fresh meat out here?”

“We have our own means, Professori Brooker.” He waved it away. “You want to see the boss?”

“Yes, I do. We have a schedule to keep.” Nathanial looked around the bay. “I don’t suppose Doctor Fontaine is nearby?”

This seemed to amuse Koivunen. “He is not. Come, I shall take you to the boss.”

He began to lead them away from Esmeralda 2, Nathanial by his side, looking around at everything as they went. Annabelle held back, mostly because she had little choice since her mechanical leg did not function very well in the high gravity, but also because she wished to talk to Folkard out of earshot.

“Something is not right here,” she whispered, looking up at him, but the captain was paying her no mind. Instead he was looking elsewhere. She followed his eye-line but she could see nothing of interest. “Captain?” There was no response. She pulled gently at his arm. “Jacob?”

He blinked and looked down at her. “Ah, do forgive me, Miss Annabelle. It was the Heart calling. We can get some of the required minerals here.”

“That is rather fortunate.”

Folkard frowned. “One would think so, but as I understand it, such minerals are located throughout the Solar System, I believe the Heart is simply making use of our detour.”

“If that is so, why do we need to go to specific places?”

“Because the Heart wishes to guide us to places where the minerals are easier to reach. As Stone said, we are on a schedule, and the Heart understands that.” He frowned again, that distant look returning to his eyes. “Interesting. I do not know how, but I just got this strangest feeling. As if the Heart wishes us to make haste.”

Annabelle wished she understood the connection that both Folkard and her Uncle Cyrus had to the Heart, but like so much else about this mission it seemed that it would forever be a mystery to her. And a source of concern. Sometimes it felt like the Heart had its own agenda. She could not believe it was simply helping them out of the goodness of its own…well, heart.

“We should probably do so, then, before we lose sight of our guide,” she said, and together, Annabelle moving as fast as her leg would allow, they both moved to narrow the distance between them and Mister Koivunen.

5.

“A WASTED JOURNEY,” Mister Blayney said, “but that is the problem being so far out here, isn’t it? You would have been wiser to stop off on Mars and send a heliograph message. It’s going to be a long wait now then.”

Not what Nathanial had wanted to hear. He looked around Blayney’s office, his eyes resting on a daguerreotype of a team of miners outside a colliery on Earth. Wales, no doubt, judging by his strong accent. What he knew of small Welsh towns, which tended to include all colliery towns, the locals were not overly keen on strangers. It seemed Blayney had brought such an attitude with him to Ceres.

“Then where is he? I certainly did not come all this way to be fobbed off with excuses,” Nathanial responded with equal obstinacy. He was supposed to be a wealthy professor, so he would play the part with fervour. Of course, he had to admit, if only to himself, that Dylan Blayney had got his dander up the moment Koivunen had seen them into Blayney’s office.

Blayney regarded Nathanial with an aggressive look. “Now, you listen to me, boyo, there’s no need to get chopsy. Don’t think you can come here with all your wealth and status and lord it over us. This is a place for hard working men, not people born with silver spoons in their mouths!”

Nathanial narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his closed fists on Blayney’s over-crowded desk. “No, you listen to me, Mister Blayney. You know nothing of my life, so do not sit there passing judgements.” He stopped, and for a moment he could see his brother, Dorian, looking back at him scornfully. No, Blayney may be an obstinate fool with too much power, but he did not deserve the kind of bile Nathanial had when he thought of Dorian. “I can see you are a hardworking man,” he started again, his tone more even, “and I can respect that. But, please, do not disrespect me by thinking I have attained my position by sitting on my hide.”

A gentle cough came from behind him and a hand rested on his shoulder. Nathanial glanced back and saw Annabelle looking at him. Sweet, gentle Annabelle. There was something in her eyes, something that gave him pause. She had frustrated him, irritated him, teased him, and always been there. He didn’t deserve her loyalty, but what would he do without her?

“Gentlemen, please,” she said, “there is no need for this. All we need to know is the whereabouts of Doctor Fontaine. We have a very efficient aether flyer, I’m sure we can reach him ourselves without putting any of your staff out.”

Still a peacemaker, despite the fire in her heart. She would make a most excellent wife for Commander Bedford, Nathanial knew. And then he would see her no more. He needed to find Arnaud. Nathanial stood back, and allowed Annabelle to take up Blayney’s attention.

“Miss Brooker, I can see you knows how to talk to a man of my position, something your brother could stand to learn.” He smiled at her and stood. “Doctor Fontaine is still out on Hygeia, and I’m afraid I cannot authorise a visit.”

“We have our own flyer,” Nathanial said. “We do not need authorisation. No one nation has claim to the belt, and I believe your authority only extends to the supervision of the miners and the administration of this base.”

“That’s as may be, Professor Brooker, but I doubt your flyer is equipped to navigate the asteroid belt. No.” Blayney shook his head. “Fontaine isn’t due back here for another week. You are, of course, welcome to wait here. We have little amenities, and are not set up for long visits, so you’ll have to use your own ship for anything you need.” He smiled at Nathanial, challenging him. “And if you are to remain here, then I insist you all pitch in.”

Nathanial glanced back at Folkard. It was clear that Blayney was attempting to call their bluff. “I’m suddenly reminded of our first trip to Lunar,” he said in a low voice.

“The bore drill,” Folkard said, with a sharp nod. “Yes. Fancy getting your hands dirty again, Professor?”

“Of course, you’d probably be better off waiting on Mars,” Blayney said. “I’m sure someone with your influence will find suitable lodgings there.”

Either Blayney really didn’t like him, or he just wanted them off Ceres. Nathanial wasn’t sure which, but he’d wager money on the latter. Returning to Mars would put another four weeks onto their journey. Time they did not have. “Well, I certainly am not averse to getting my hands dirty. And I daresay the captain here will do his share while we wait. What of you?” he asked Annabelle.

“I think I will be quite happy to look around the base,” she said, getting into the spirit of things, “what woman wouldn’t wish to be surrounded by such strong men?”

“Really, Ann-Marie, what would mother say?”

“I’m sure she would commend me.”

Nathanial turned from Annabelle to Blayney with a smug smile. “You see? We shall wait until Doctor Fontaine returns. And we would appreciate it if you could send a heliograph to, where did you say, 10 Hygeia?”

Blayney did not look impressed. “So, you knows the names of the asteroids. I guess that makes you one of us, does it?”

“My brother knows a great deal about a lot of things. You have scientists here, too, do you not?” Annabelle looked up at Nathanial, her face the picture of sibling pride. “I’m sure you would love to talk about Vulcan with them.”

Blayney folded his arms. “I’m sure he would. So happy to oblige you all,” he mumbled, clearly not happy with being outfoxed by a wealthy man and his spoilt sister.

6.

HE’D GOT THE idea watching the birds, and he’d watched the birds because the Bubalus used them as a food source.

Arnaud set out accompanied by a round of snickering. The Bubalus knew what he was doing and some shook their heads and rolled their eyes—part amusement, part disgust if he could judge. Oddly, they were unconcerned with the things he carried—a sack he’d fashioned from the remnants of the clothes that had been worn by the miners; one of the spearhead blades, and a long beak taken from the discarded bones of one of the parrots. The strange design of the birds’ beaks served a very specific purpose.

As well as constructing a sack from what remained of the ripped clothing—Arnaud tried not to think of how the men had been ripped apart as easily—he’d managed to salvage a couple of items for himself, ignoring or washing out any bloody marks. His survival kit now included a pair of boots that fit well enough, a warm jacket (only one rip) and even a miner’s cap. He’d tied two strips of fabric together to form a scarf and wrapped others around his hands as gloves. He’d been tempted to wrap his fingers, but found it too awkward. Today, he needed his hands bare for dexterity.

He hadn’t gone far when a round of coughing overtook him, bringing with it a bout of dizziness. When his head cleared, Arnaud was hunched over, gripping the side of a tree, blinking away tears—he couldn’t be certain whether he wept from the struggle, or frustration. All he wanted to do was to sink to his knees, curl up and sleep.

No. Not yet. He couldn’t afford to suffer another bad turn until he fetched enough food to sustain him for a while.

He set out, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. At least he knew exactly where he was going and his purpose.

The “snails” were easy to find. The trouble was getting them out of their shells. He’d first come across the molluscs because the Bubalus used them as bait to entrap the birds. The birds sought the snails because they were easy pickings. The long curved design of the beak meant the birds could reach into the cavity and pull the snail’s body out of its shell piece by piece.

At first Arnaud had winced at the thought, but nature was cruel sometimes by necessity, and he had found a neater, more humane method of extraction.

Having reached the area where he would find the most snails, Arnaud spent some time picking the right one. He’d found the smaller ones surprisingly tough, while the biggest had the most unpleasant texture in the mouth. About two by two feet in size was perfect.

“Pardonnez-moi. Je suis désolé ainsi.” Although the apology didn’t make much difference to the snail, and Arnaud had never been in a habit of expressing regret to his food before, somehow he couldn’t help it.

Rolling the shell so that he could rest it with the opening pointing slightly away at an angle, he used the beak as a tool. Taking a good grip, he then inserted it in against the outer rim of the shell. The beak was several inches in length, well over a foot. Arnaud had chosen the largest beak of an adult bird on purpose—perfect for the task, perfect for this size of mollusc. Once he’d inserted it as far as it would go, he slid it in a curve towards him while trying to ignore the easy way the beak cut through the flesh within. When he met resistance, he applied more pressure. For a second, his arm shook with the effort, and then he felt the now familiar jolt as he succeeded. In a matter of moments, he had pulled the body whole out of the shell.

A grunt made him start, but he relaxed as swiftly when he saw Minos had followed him. Although the close attention was strange, he was always aware of the Bubalus watching. So far they had neither harmed him nor let him leave. Minos seemed the most easy-going, the most interested, so Arnaud had named him and taken to talking to him. Besides, without someone to talk to, and his studies, he would have felt too much like a shipwrecked mariner marooned in a land out of time.

Without waiting, Arnaud cut off the snail’s head so that its suffering was short-lived. The sound that now came from Minos was without doubt one of disgust.

“I do not blame you,” Arnaud said. He gazed at the pale slug that now lay dead outside of its shell. “It does look most…odd, non? I mean, no?”

He kept to English with the Bubalus as much as he could in the hope they might pick up enough of the language so that by the time a rescue party arrived—if one ever did—they might be understood. Maybe with perseverance, he could persuade them not to eat the next team.

Now working with a spearhead, he sliced the flesh thinly, carefully rolling each piece so he could transport the meat to complete the next stage of the process. While he did, he kept talking. “There are many strange things eaten in the…”—he hesitated, considering that the concept of a universe might be too big for a Bubalus—“…world. Some with a look much stranger than this. These…not so much.” Arnaud smiled up at Minos. “I could make a fortune with a little garlic.”

When Minos lowered his head and looked down at him from under a furrowed brow, Arnaud pointed to the rolls of meat he had prepared. “Escargot,” he said, and started laughing.

7.

DESPITE MISTER BLAYNEY’S insistence that the amenities of the base were not at their disposal, Annabelle had insisted on a visit to the canteen. She really wanted to taste this fresh meat Koivunen had told them about, and besides, as she reasoned with Nathanial, if he wished to learn more about Arnaud’s absence, where better than the canteen where the miners would be more relaxed and more open to casual conversation. Nathanial had acquiesced at that. Folkard chose not join them, however, he decided his time would be best served taking the Esmeralda 2 out among the asteroids, in the hope that he could get a heliograph message to the team on Hygeia. The sooner they had Arnaud, the sooner they could find the minerals the Heart claimed were on Ceres.

“It is a pity the new governor is not ready yet,” Nathanial was saying. “It would be of great assistance to the captain now. Navigating the asteroids requires precise measurements, or a smaller flyer than Esmeralda. Of course, if…” He stopped and looked at Annabelle, who was studiously ignoring him.

They sat at a table, “beef” stew in a tin bowl before Annabelle. She scooped some and offered the spoon to Nathanial. “You really ought to try this; it’s delicious!”

“Better than your hash?” he asked, his eyes scouting the room for a likely candidate for conversation.

“Best beef I’ve tasted in a long while.”

He took the spoon off her and peered closely at the meat on it. “But is it, though? How can they possibly get fresh beef out here? Perhaps a ruumet breehr?”

Annabelle was not sure she wanted to continue with the food if that was the case. She had travelled with a caravan on Mars, on the back of a ruumet breehr. They were powerful animals, and she had a lot of respect for them. To be eating one…

“Hallo!”

Annabelle looked from the spoon that had been handed back to her and over at the man that had attracted Nathanial’s attention. Dishevelled in his dirty clothes, the man was robust with a deeply lined face. The eyes beneath his spectacles showing a keen intelligence. Clearly not a miner, Annabelle reflected.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Nathanial said, and removed himself from the table before Annabelle could respond.

She shrugged. It did not matter; she was quite content with her own company. Not that she was alone for long. But how she wished she was. The Finnish man who had greeted them in the bay approached her. He bowed and sat opposite her without even the politeness one would expect upon approaching a lady who sat on her own. Annabelle chose to ignore the insult. The miners had been here for a long time, and such manners were bound to be in little supply.

“Mister Koivunen, a pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“It is what I can do for you,” he said, his accent thick, mangling his pronunciation. “Would you like to see more of Messor Base?”

Annabelle wanted to, and she certainly was finished with her stew, but touring the base with Koivunen was not the ideal situation. There was something about him she did not trust. At that moment she was saved by the return of Nathanial. She looked up at him gratefully.

“Ann…Marie,” he said, almost slipping up in his excitement, “Doctor Gully wishes to take me to see a chap called Orlondo Quintana, a palaeontologist who works with Arnaud.” He glanced at Koivunen, who had a look of disinterest about him. “Will you take care of my sister while I attend Mister Quintana?”

Koivunen gave one of his half-hearted bows. “Of course. It will be a pleasure,” he said, offering a smile that Annabelle really did not care for.

“Thank you.”

Annabelle barely had a chance to blink at Nathanial’s sudden departure before Koivunen was speaking to her.

“Where shall we start the tour? I hear the view from the south loading bay is beautiful. The bay is no longer used, so we will be alone. You will like this I think, yes?”

She wasn’t listening, instead her mind was working overtime. Things were becoming strained between her and Nathanial. He would never have left her behind before they had returned to Earth. The last time he had done so was on Peregrine, but even then he had done his best to find her again. This time…Annabelle was not so sure. He was much more interested in locating Arnaud.

“Miss Brooker?”

“Fine,” she said, and forced herself to her feet, “wherever you suggest, Mister Koivunen.”