The Venusian Gambit by Michael J. Martinez Read Free Book Online Page A

I shall carry on until you’ve taken care of this terrible business,” Anne said with an airy breeze, but then quickly reached over and gripped Weatherby’s arm slightly. “Do be careful,” she added with evident concern.
    “As always, my love,” he smiled. “Now go secure your stores. I shan’t be long.”
    Anne turned quickly for her makeshift laboratory, stored in the hold of a decrepit merchantman lashed to the outpost, and made for where his flagship was moored.
    And he was quite pleased to see that HMS Victory was well and ready to make sail, waiting solely upon her admiral. She was truly a magnificent ship—three decks and 104 guns, one of the largest in His Majesty’s service—and informally considered to be the flagship of England itself, though this was due in no small part to Nelson’s heroic passing upon her quarterdeck nearly three years ago.
    And Victory had been extensively refurbished since Trafalgar, so much so that it was hard to believe her keel was laid in 1759. She was old, certainly, but a fierce lioness if there ever was one.
    Her captain, John Clarke Searle, waited for Weatherby on the maindeck as he boarded. “We are prepared to set sail, my Lord Admiral,” Searle said. “Shall I give the order?”
    Weatherby nodded curtly as he took up his hat and handed his satchel of papers to his long-serving, long-suffering valet Gar’uk; the three-foot tall Venusian lizard-creature had been with him for nearly 15 years. Nobody knew for certain what the life-span of the Venusian people might be, but Weatherby could attest that Gar’uk did not seem to allow advancing age to slow him overmuch, despite a noticeably leathery look upon the scales around his beak, a droop under his eyes and a touch of hobble in his step. Of course, Weatherby could say the same of himself—except for the scales, of course.
    “Any word on the cause of the alarm, Captain?” Weatherby said as he and Searle made for the quarterdeck.
    “No, sir,” the captain replied. “All we know is the lookouts caught a signal rocket from one of our pickets. The governor sounded the general alarm at once.”
    Weatherby frowned slightly; the governor of Elizabeth Mercuris was one Roger Worthington, a man who achieved his role and title simply by being the son of his late predecessor, and was wholly unlikely to rise to even his father’s meager level of competence. “At least there was a signal, then, and the governor wasn’t simply suffering under a case of nervous delusion,” he quipped. “Make sail for the direction of the signal rocket. Signal the fleet to form up behind us.”
    “No need for signals, Admiral Weatherby!”
    Weatherby wheeled about to find his fleet alchemist, Dr. Andrew Finch, rushing up toward him. And it was hard to determine what surprised the admiral more—the sudden, loud and undisciplined approach, or the general look of unkempt exhaustion and wide-eyed fervor upon his old friend’s face.
    “My God, Finch, do try to be a better example for the men,” Weatherby chided softly. “You look like a perfect wreck.”
    Finch smiled, and his eyes grew wider. “What if, Tom…what if you could communicate with Paddy O’Brian right now, with but a thought, rather than use signal flags and telescopes to try to divine his messages?” he asked. “What if you could quickly, clearly express your commands to your captains as if they were standing right next to you?”
    Weatherby saw two seamen walk up behind Finch. One carried a small table, while the other held a oval mirror ringed with occult and alchemical etchings. “Finch…I must ask, have you returned to your old habits of late? Are you addled even now?”
    The alchemist looked confused a moment, but then waved the question away with his hand. “Tom, I’m being quite serious here. I’ve come across a method by which we may be able to allow you to communicate and coordinate all the ships under your command simply through the power of thought and