Chapter One

The Errant Guest

1.

EVERY GIRL HAS nerves upon her wedding day, but before the day was out the nerves of Annabelle Somerset would be decidedly more fraught than that of the average bride. She was making her way through the streets of Greenwich, and to her left the Thames bustled with sludge and merchant ships. The air had cleared since last night, she noticed, and the day might almost have threatened some of that elusive English sunshine later in the afternoon. This cheered her, and she allowed herself a moment of joyous, schoolgirl glee that she was heading to the church in which she would be wed, Our Layde, Star of the Sea.

Oh, she knew all that old bosh about the bride arriving last. But Annabelle Somerset was a modern woman—the natural upshot of her life of adventure on other planets, in the piston-oil black between worlds, and the battle scars that lingered in her body and her mind. This was her day, and hers alone, and she demanded distraction. She had waited seven long hard months for it, and so she resolved to rise before any other lady had even had their bodice pressed and head to the church to see how the day was beginning.

Perhaps from a hidden nook in the transept, just to be discreet.

And so, having arrived, she ensconced herself thus before the first sparrow had sung. Soon, she heard gentle murmurs begin and the heavy clank of the huge door’s cast-iron catch lifted up and down, hard heels treading softly over stone floors in reverence for the silence. Annabelle suddenly realised she had not thought this through. The nook had seemed perfect at first but as the guests and friends began to enter she felt she’d had to shuffle back piecemeal to avoid being seen, and had now shuffled back so far she couldn’t see a blasted thing. What’s more, more and more people were arriving every moment.

She shrank back as much as she could and tried to think. What to do? Just go out there, yell ta-daaa! and get the whole sorry shambles over and done with? Maybe there was a way yet that she could sneak herself out. But she found herself bundling up more and biting her lip when she heard the crisp, loud smack of men’s fine leather shoes striding straight towards where she was hiding.

Bugger, she thought, and tried to think of a line she could use to brazen her way out of this. She took a deep breath and held her head high, the footsteps two metres, a metre away….

Around the corner from the nave came Nathaniel Stone, and when he saw Annabelle standing there with her jaw thrust impudently out he stopped in his tracks and stared.

“Annabelle,” he whispered.

“Now before you defend all this stuffed-shirt British wedding nonsense, which you will, and perhaps that may do me some good, I’d just like to make a few things clear. To whit… Nathaniel, why are you staring?”

“Annabelle,” he said, shaken from his stupor and beaming widely. “You look radiant.” Perhaps not for the first time that day, but certainly not the last, Annabelle Somerset felt herself blushing, and the pink tinge to her cheeks seemed all the softer and more delicate when compared to the pristine whiteness of her dress. A wide belt in light brown leather was wound around her waist, held by a large gold double buckle with a watch chain looped from one end. She had worried about her prosthetic leg and the problems it may cause—she had tried numerous dresses at the dressmakers and ended up tearing some of the wretched things. So the front of her skirt had been adjusted accordingly, and a suitably demure slit came up the front (tripped with fine lace just to be on the safe side). One shoulder was bare, the other covered with a delicate ruffled fabric that caught the light. Her hair was in ringlets and adorned with pearls.

“I’d be happy just to stand here for the rest of the day, dear Annabelle, and admire the beauty that I’ve seen you become.” Nathaniel grinned. “But I believe you’ve got a wedding to attend.”

“Yes, Nathaniel, but the problem is I’m already there.”

“Hmm,” he muttered. “So you are. Two ticks.”

Nathaniel popped his head back towards the nave and scanned the pews, taking in the faces. He noticed Captain Folkard at the back. He was standing with his hands clasped behind him, upright and resplendent in his full naval regalia; despite his insistence that now their mineral collecting mission was over he wished to resign his commission, the Admiralty had persuaded him otherwise. He was still one of their finest captains, and they had need of him. There was a man next to him, shorter than Folkard but wiry, secretive, and Nathaniel noticed he was dressed more for a funeral than a wedding. Head to toe in black, of all things. He was whispering in Folkard’s ear, and when Folkard looked like he might glance Nathaniel’s way, Nathaniel bobbed his head back and returned to Miss Somerset.

“Folkard’s arrived,” he said. “He’s brought his cloak and daggers. Arnaud’s there, and I heard Commander Bedford is to arrive any minute… All his family’s here, I recognise his father from the squint. Hang on.” Nathaniel stopped, struck by a thought he feared to voice. “If you’re here, where’s your uncle? Where’s Cyrus?”

Annabelle sighed. It seemed that seven months ago her uncle’s mind had settled once again, but after her most recent stop-over at Earth, some two months back, Uncle Cyrus’ increasingly erratic behaviour had resurfaced; a deep and debilitating worry, but now, after being back on Earth for a couple of weeks, it had hardened into a sort of anger. Her parents dead, who else but her only living relative was to give her away? She had feared this and tried to forget it, but the inevitability of the disappointment had caught up with her at last.

“Oh, Nathaniel,” she breathed, the inflection of it filled with the potential of tears. She held out her hands and he let her come to his shoulder, the soft, velvet safety of a life-long friend. Her mind bobbed to the past, forgotten things, tragedies on the great American plains… She thought of Venus, Luna, of Mars and the Phobos, how she had lost her leg to a gunshot. And all the time, Nathaniel, who had dragged her over extra-terrestrial deserts and guarded her surely through nightmarish times, had been there.

“Wait a moment,” she snapped, bolting up, and there was no trace of tears in her voice now. “You can do it!”

“What? Well… Really?”

“Of course! Why, now that I come to think of it, I wouldn’t want anyone else!”

“But… Your uncle, he may just be delayed, and on a day like today, where might haste and imprudence lead us?”

“I do not wish to hear my uncle mentioned again today, and I’d be forever grateful if that sentiment could be communicated to the rest of the guests. The shadow of his madness will not linger on my wedding day.” She looked into Nathaniel’s face and placed her palm upon his cheek. “A brighter and more constant light must lead me down the aisle.”

Nathaniel frowned.

“The only problem being, Miss Somerset—and I realise that that may be the last occasion I ever get to address you as that—is that you are already down it.”

“Well,” grinned Annabelle, “I’ve never been one for convention.”

The hubbub in the nave seemed to subside momentarily and the clank of the door sounded finally. There were hushed congratulations and a decorous smattering of applause, and soon the hubbub had returned, this time infused with a current of anticipation. Nathaniel bobbed his head out again and there, inevitably, was the groom. Annabelle peered discretely from behind Nathaniel. George, dressed in the sharp-lined livery of a career naval man. He was shaking hands warmly with Folkard, the two sharing a moment to reminisce. George looked coy.

“Excellent,” hissed Nathaniel. “That’s bought us some time.”

With all of the attention directed to the groom at the front of the church, Nathaniel tiptoed across to the organist. Annabelle, distracted by the absurdity of it all, idly wondered if the poor fellow had to put up with these sorts of shenanigans often. Nathaniel reached his destination mostly unseen, and had a quick word in the man’s ear.

Moments later he was back with Annabelle.

“He says he’ll do it.”

“Really? However did you manage that?”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “I know my way around the men of the cloth.”

And so, with the organist duly instructed and the guests beginning to settle, George Bedford slowly and solemnly made his way towards the altar. Nathaniel, no doubt estimating his speed, the distance…mentally computed the perfect time to go, which was, in fact, right now, nodded across at the organist while taking Annabelle’s arm, and started walking.

When George saw her step from the transept ahead of him, only a scoundrel would have admitted seeing the groom stumble momentarily in awe at the first sight of his bride. And yet he did not miss a beat, and neither did she, and as the organ resounded with the bridal march the two met at the centre of the alter together, and took each other’s hands.

2.

AT THE RECEPTION, which was held in the Admiralty’s grand ballroom (and grand it was, belonging as it did to the finest Navy of the inner planets), Nathaniel was enduring some ribbing at his expense. Unversed in the matrimonial ceremony he had mostly had to follow the priest’s hissed instructions. His repeated failure to accurately do so had caused Annabelle an unfortunately uncontrollable bout of mirth, and Bedford stepping in to help did not, in fact, help. But when they managed to compose themselves the whole thing went off without a hitch, and the memories of that morning had instantly become cherished. Those same memories were now being regaled, at Nathaniel’s expense, notwithstanding the assistance of champagne.

“And didn’t you tread on the poor fellow’s foot, at one point?” asked the newly-married Mister Bedford, leaning back into his chair.

“I don’t think so. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest.”

“Oh, Nathaniel,” smirked Annabelle. “It was memorable, at least.”

“Quite.”

“Don’t pout, Nathaniel. It’s unattractive.” She glanced over at Arnaud, another trusted friend, who was lazily badgering the maître d’ for more champagne.

The wedding feast had been and gone. Almost by mutual assent each guest had settled into their chair, perhaps surreptitiously unfastened a waistcoat button or two, taking a moment to recover from the day and revel in plenitude.

This pleasant malaise, however, did not seem to affect Captain Jacob Folkard. He nimbly wound his way towards the group at the top table.

“Jacob!” hollered Bedford. “Care for some champagne?”

Folkard might have had a reputation of earned respect and results gained when commanding a vessel, but Nathaniel had come to know him more for his wit and warmth. These endearing qualities were always evident when he gave orders to his crew, though they were hidden—when one came to know him as the wedding party did, these foibles became the key to his character. And so it was that everyone noticed something was amiss when those selfsame virtues were all but absent in Folkard’s face and demeanour on this, the happiest of wedding days.

“Thank you, George, but no. May I congratulate you once more on a triumphant day? Not without its surprises, but I would expect nothing less from you, Mrs Bedford.”

“You’re too kind, Captain. Won’t you at least join us?”

“Not right now. Nathaniel, might I show you something?”

Nathaniel, mildly drunk and therefore momentarily nonplussed by being the centre of attention once more, drained the last of his champagne and stood, it had to be said, rather unsteadily. “Of course.”

As Folkard led Nathaniel through the throng of revellers, cutting a swathe between flute chinks and chatter, Nathaniel peered over his shoulder and noticed Bedford, Annabelle and Arnaud exchange an ominous glance.

3.

FOLKARD LED NATHANIEL to the atrium, striding ahead, straight-backed. He suddenly veered to the left to push through a door, and Nathaniel found himself half-jogging to keep up as they traversed a corridor lined with pot plants on plaster columns. Before he could even attempt to protest Nathaniel found himself following through a smaller—though no less ornate—atrium, and out into a well-kept, walled garden where he was finally allowed to catch his breath. Folkard was silent as he did so.

“You made a fine stand-in, Professor,” he said eventually. “It was a joy to see you up there. I feel your brother would have been proud of you.”

“Yes, well,” muttered Nathaniel, appreciating the sentiment, reminded of his and Folkard’s previous antagonism over Edwin’s death. It was good that both men had finally been able to bury the hatchet over that unfortunate event. “You weren’t the only one to find it amusing.”

“I meant that sincerely, Nathaniel. It was just all so…fitting.”

“Unlike your friend in black.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, Stone. But it was—and remains—necessary.” Folkard crossed to a small gate beyond the rose garden and placed his hands on the top. He seemed to grimace, and Nathaniel looked down to see his knuckles go white as ice.

“Captain? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry to have to do this. Today of all days… But you must understand, it had to be you. You’re the least involved.”

“Captain, please. You’re talking in riddles.”

Nathaniel searched for Folkard’s eyes, which were darting and restless. The captain, over the course of their adventures, had demonstrated peculiar mental and telepathic talents. These were inexorably tied to Luna, and the brooding alien relic known as the Heart that ran through the moon’s very belly—the relic that had caused the madness of Annabelle’s uncle, Cyrus Grant, and the grotesque deformation of the insane Russian scientist Vladimir Tereshkov. Madness and the moon, even in this enlightened age, seemed to remain cosy bedfellows.

“It falls to me, Nathaniel,” he said slowly, “to destroy this day.”

“Now steady on…”

“Listen. Keep your peace and be quiet, man! Just listen.”

And so, stunned, Nathaniel listened.

“I don’t hear anything,” he said, unconsciously lowering his voice to whisper.

Folkard hissed. “Precisely…” Having said that, he stood bolt upright and began to pace, his volume returning to normal and startling Nathaniel. “And yet,” he continued. “It is such a bright September day in a choice and, many say, a pleasant part of town.”

Nathaniel listened again, and his face fell.

“Where’s the sound of lovers?” asked Folkard. “Or mothers with their children and fathers with their sons? Commerce. Trade. Noise. Where is it?” Shocked by the shout, Nathaniel heard it: Nothing. London at a deathly, unnatural standstill. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

“There has been an attack on sovereign soil and an attempt on the life of Her Majesty,” Folkard said flatly. “Perhaps we should go inside.”