Can we get a map of which nation owns what in Africa?
How many POPs did you get to move to Namibia?
How many POPs did you get to move to Namibia?
-
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The reference to Harrison reminded me of Henry Adams' complaint of the level of boredom and sameness between the parties which had been produced around this time. We need a good scandal, perhaps the conspiracy I would so like to see confirmed.
I imagine Britain is annoyed not to have those diamonds but they have a nice chunk of strategic land anyway on the Cape, so there is no reason on their part to worry as much as they assuredly will.
I imagine Britain is annoyed not to have those diamonds but they have a nice chunk of strategic land anyway on the Cape, so there is no reason on their part to worry as much as they assuredly will.
Folks, I've just had the worst month of my life. I apologize for not posting or at least keeping you all up to date, but it just hasn't been possible. Now that I'm out of bed (some) I have a post that's just about ready. Look for it over the weekend.
I was hoping something like that wasn't the reason for your absence. I had rather hoped that there was a good (positive) reason.
But since that's not the case, I hope that - whatever hit you - you are on the way to recovery.
Best wishes and don't worry, we won't hold you to a weekend deadline.
I had rather hoped that there was a good (positive) reason.But since that's not the case, I hope that - whatever hit you - you are on the way to recovery.
Best wishes and don't worry, we won't hold you to a weekend deadline.
Stuyvesant - compare both of them to that last picture of Otto von Bismarck - they could all be brothers!
All the United States wishes for right now is peace. However...
Iain Wilson - I remain very properly respectful of Britain and keep a garrison in Namibia despite the attrition cost.
Vann the Red - President Hancock will give the Monroe Doctrine his full attention. The problem is, after so many years of words and no deeds, will the European powers pay attention?
Enewald - You'll have to wait a bit longer for another African map - in-game I'm at 1883 and the next map comes up in 1887 or so. Pops do move to Namibia, but not many - the life rating is horrible.
J. Passepartout - But then again, Henry Adams - being an Adams - couldn't be expected to approve of much of anything, anyway. It is a fact that the two parties have slim differences on the issues they are willing to discuss in public and fairly sharp but unstated differences on things like the Freedmen's Bureau and certifying former Confederates to vote.
von Sachsen - funny, that's what I did for two weeks. Hope you have an easier time of breathing than I had.
All the United States wishes for right now is peace. However...
Iain Wilson - I remain very properly respectful of Britain and keep a garrison in Namibia despite the attrition cost.
Vann the Red - President Hancock will give the Monroe Doctrine his full attention. The problem is, after so many years of words and no deeds, will the European powers pay attention?
Enewald - You'll have to wait a bit longer for another African map - in-game I'm at 1883 and the next map comes up in 1887 or so. Pops do move to Namibia, but not many - the life rating is horrible.
J. Passepartout - But then again, Henry Adams - being an Adams - couldn't be expected to approve of much of anything, anyway.
It is a fact that the two parties have slim differences on the issues they are willing to discuss in public and fairly sharp but unstated differences on things like the Freedmen's Bureau and certifying former Confederates to vote.von Sachsen - funny, that's what I did for two weeks. Hope you have an easier time of breathing than I had.
With Feric and his wife abroad, and with the divestiture of large portions of his industrial empire, Makhearne had found himself at something of a loose end. He was busy enough; there were always small parties at which he could drop a tantalizing tid-bit or two, hoping to provoke an industrialist to look into steel alloys, or a naval officer to investigate the technical challenges of gyroscopes. And there was his shadow empire of information-gatherers; as Ronsend had predicted, Makhearne found a lot of what he gathered and collated had a ready market in the newspapers and other businesses. Sweeping up the remnants of Frost’s old Confederate cell network of agents had been tedious but not challenging, and it was a challenge that his idle mind now craved.
The little satellites that had been circling the globe in 1836 were still in orbit almost half a century later, too small and stealthy to appear on the telescopes available to this era even if the astronomers had known exactly where to point them. But they had to be used with greater care than before; even now, intrepid souls were experimenting with all sorts of electrical phenomena including spark-gap transmissions. The existence of a patterened signal, clearly artificial and not naturally caused, would provoke an enormous outcry and perhaps even some sort of steampunk space program. Makhearne’s face twitched as he thought of the Verne moon cannon, then sobered as he realized the chemists of the day had already produced dynamite and were well on their way to more exotic compounds; liquid oxygen was not impossible for them, and with that the basics of rocketry were in reach. Best not to take chances where Frost or anyone else might be listening; that was why any radio message relayed through those satellites was heavily encrypted, and why he and Feric now kept their message traffic to a minimum.
Ronsend and his wife had taken a grand tour of the Orient with stopovers from Hong Kong to Australia, and had sent him occasional notes, most of little consequence. The last message had come as encrypted text via radio rather than by post, and was very short. “Donneval, Nemor contacted me in Singapore. Some success. May have news from home. Come now; urgent, will wait for you here.” There were advantages to idleness; he had rung immediately for the captain of the new Wanderer, a yacht as luxurious as any royal could boast but equipped with oil-fired boilers and one of Mr Parsons’ experimental steam turbines. Five days of frenetic activity saw himself, his staff and their equipment stowed and Wanderer steaming past Staten Island for the open sea. Her laconic Scots engineer pulled his whiskered face into a mask of dubious disapproval as the pistons of the cruising engines stilled and the low whine of the turbine rose. But as Wanderer accelerated past twenty knots, a speed beyond all but a handful of military vessels and one accomplished almost without noise or vibration, his doubt and astonishment gave way to whole-hearted approval. In the evening they overtook the Cunard liner ‘Hispania’, outbound for London, and breezed past her with ease. Makhearne studied the passengers lining the rails with binoculars in hand and wondered how long it would take before someone from Cunard paid a visit to Mr Parsons’ shop. Soon, he hoped – he owned a share of both. Perhaps he should suggest it himself.
It is six thousand miles from New York to Cape Town and another five thousand to Singapore, a nautical marathon not to be accomplished as a sprint. Wanderer did her best, logging more than twenty knots day and night with ease, but the voyage still required more than a month. And in all that time there had been no word from Ronsend other than a few laconic texts, ‘Message received see you in S explain all then’. There was nothing to do but loaf, read or play a few hands of cards. The yacht’s speed was too great for fishing and there were no sights upon the open ocean worthy of attention. They spent two days in Cape Town, a delay that drove Makhearne to distraction, though he conceded the necessity of touching shore. Supplies, fresh water and fuel were wanted, and the cable station at the Cape had a sheaf of business-related messages waiting for his arrival. Then they were away again; the Indian Ocean was indolent, the waves slack and the air windless, Wanderer plowing her way across as though cleaving molten glass. The sunsets were spectacular, the voyage otherwise almost without incident.
Singapore was bustling with the commerce of three worlds, its position on the long, narrow Malacca Strait making it the entryway to India and China as well as to the rich spice islands of the Dutch. Ronsend had supplied an address, and Makhearne went there straightaway as soon as the yacht was moored, though not without taking some precautions. When his scouts reported two European men and one woman in the bar, one man and woman blond and young and the other man swarthy and old, he positioned two of his men at the entrance and exit, and went in.
He exchanged a wary handshake with Nemor and a warmer one with Ronsend, and a cordial welcome with Ronsend’s wife. To Nemor he said, ‘No offense, old friend, but you don’t look well. Something wrong with your autodoc?’
Nemor shrugged. “I am old, Donneval – much older than you. And I have been laboring in areas that I do not understand so very well. My ‘doc tells me I should not have been carrying out these experiments. But I have, and if there is a price to be paid then it must be paid and that is all there is to it. I regret only that I have accomplished so little; I should like to die at home.”
Makhearne seated himself and drinks were brought. “I won’t consider discussing your health until you’ve been checked out by a second ‘doc. Mine’s aboard Wanderer, moored in the harbor. Be my guests this evening – the chef is superb, and the wine cellar is a match.”
“Still old Des Jardines slaving away in the galley?” Ronsend asked. “I shall remember his crepes so long as I live,” his wife Ann chimed in.
“Yes, Des Jardines is still in my employ. Grumpy because he has not had opportunities to show off his skills of late. Let me send a messenger now and all will be arranged.”
“That leaves us several hours to fill,” Ronsend remarked with a sideways look at Nemor.
Nemor pulled his mouth into a stubborn pout and said, “There isn’t much point in trying to describe the equipment I’ve built; you’ll have to see it, I think.”
“I have seen it, and it is fantastic. You wouldn’t believe what Nemor has been able to do with local materials and craftsmen,” Ronsend said.
“By disassembling Argonauta,” Nemor said, twisting his face into a moue of regret and pain.
“But you say you have made contact!” Makhearne leaned forward expectantly, then eased back when Nemor nodded, then shrugged. “Well, have you made contact or not?”
“The tide turns early in the morning hours,” Nemor replied. “Will your yacht be ready to sail then? Let us go out to my island, and you may see for yourself.”
And that was that; no question or entreaty would move him. Whatever was to be seen – or not – on that mysterious island, they would have to wait and see it with their own eyes.
Steam Yacht ‘Wanderer’ at anchor in the Potomac River
It hadn’t been quite as easy as Nemor had proposed. Wanderer needed minor repairs and a new load of stores, and Makhearne insisted her boilers and engines be opened, cleaned and inspected. Even though Singapore boasted extensive and superb repair facilities and ships’ chandleries, the volume of trade passing through was equal to that of Liverpool, so the facilities were tightly scheduled. Generous payments got them up to the head of the queues, but even the most lavish bribes could not make a shipyard turn down a regular customer like P&O for a one-time deal. Then there were the inevitable delays, and so it was more than a week before Wanderer’s bow lifted to the sea swell past Pulau Batam. Her plotted course was a wide arc around the islands off the Sumatran coast, dividing the channel between American Borneo and Dutch Java and Sumatra, partially to avoid navigational hazards but mostly to give a wide berth to the pirates that infested the region. Before the sun was down, Makhearne had ordered the yacht’s machine guns shipped at the bow and waist, and doubled the night watch. Aside from trusting to her speed to see them clear, there was little more they could do.
Sure enough, in the middle of the night the lookout in the foretop let out a yell and a wave of small boats swept out of the dark. The bow machine gun hammered, provoking yelps of surprise but no screams to show that anyone had been hit. Makhearne assumed the gunner was firing high, as most men do when shooting at night. From his nest of pillows on the bench by the ship’s wheel he raised up and slammed the engine telegraph full forward, giving the helm a crank to the left for good measure. Wanderer had been making an easy eight or nine knots on the reciprocating cruising engines, but the boilers had plenty of steam up and the turbine was ready for just such an emergency as this one. Before the boats could gaff her sides, Wanderer tucked her stern, raised her bow and ran right over the boat in front of her. The machine guns were all pounding now, and the screams from the collision mingled with others. Then someone – Ronsend? – trained a searchlight on the boats now hooked to the port side, pirates heaving themselves to their feet as the yacht powered her way across the waves with a sharp rolling motion. The port machine gun fired directly down into the first boat, whose crew went in every direction from overside to straight up to Wanderer’s deck. Nemor caught them there with a boat oar; the wooden *thunk* of oak on flesh percussively loud. Then he was kneeling by the rail, machete drawn, striking down once – twice – a third time and the dead weight of the last boat came free, the iron crystal blade having cut wood and metal of the gaffs alike. A moment more to cast off the empty boat and Makhearne brought Wanderer out of the steep, sickening roll onto an easier course. Then there were the unavoidable cleanup chores – wounds to dress, though thankfully none serious, and a thorough check to be made of the yacht’s forefoot, to see if the collision had started any leaks. Makhearne resolved to run on during the night on the turbine, pointing the yacht’s bow further southeast to give her plenty of deep water. Then with the dawn the weary night crew made for their beds, to get what sleep they could in the coming heat of the day.
Before they went down the companionway, Nemor pulled Makhearne aside. “Who was it set us up, do you think?”
Makhearne shrugged. “Could have been anyone – a yard hand, a worker at a chandler’s warehouse. This yacht would be a rich prize, and I’m sure they thought there were some fat ransom payments to be had.”
“You don’t think it was her?”
“No. She may know I’m out here, and may even know where. But to set up something like this, it would take longer than a week. I think the odds are better it was someone local.”
Nemor pondered that for a moment and seemed to relax. Then he pointed at a thread of smoke on the horizon. “That’s where we’re going.”
“A volcano!”
“Wasn’t when we went prospecting, you know – just an island with a big cave. Easy to open an entrance, fit it out. Started steaming about a decade back. Had to draw on the heat for the power I needed. Smoke’s gotten worse, though, or we’re closer than I thought.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
Nemor shrugged and laughed, a rough, hoarse sound like a rusty engine turning over. “Should be there mid-afternoon tomorrow, maybe sooner if you keep the pace up. Then I’ll show you.”
The little satellites that had been circling the globe in 1836 were still in orbit almost half a century later, too small and stealthy to appear on the telescopes available to this era even if the astronomers had known exactly where to point them. But they had to be used with greater care than before; even now, intrepid souls were experimenting with all sorts of electrical phenomena including spark-gap transmissions. The existence of a patterened signal, clearly artificial and not naturally caused, would provoke an enormous outcry and perhaps even some sort of steampunk space program. Makhearne’s face twitched as he thought of the Verne moon cannon, then sobered as he realized the chemists of the day had already produced dynamite and were well on their way to more exotic compounds; liquid oxygen was not impossible for them, and with that the basics of rocketry were in reach. Best not to take chances where Frost or anyone else might be listening; that was why any radio message relayed through those satellites was heavily encrypted, and why he and Feric now kept their message traffic to a minimum.
Ronsend and his wife had taken a grand tour of the Orient with stopovers from Hong Kong to Australia, and had sent him occasional notes, most of little consequence. The last message had come as encrypted text via radio rather than by post, and was very short. “Donneval, Nemor contacted me in Singapore. Some success. May have news from home. Come now; urgent, will wait for you here.” There were advantages to idleness; he had rung immediately for the captain of the new Wanderer, a yacht as luxurious as any royal could boast but equipped with oil-fired boilers and one of Mr Parsons’ experimental steam turbines. Five days of frenetic activity saw himself, his staff and their equipment stowed and Wanderer steaming past Staten Island for the open sea. Her laconic Scots engineer pulled his whiskered face into a mask of dubious disapproval as the pistons of the cruising engines stilled and the low whine of the turbine rose. But as Wanderer accelerated past twenty knots, a speed beyond all but a handful of military vessels and one accomplished almost without noise or vibration, his doubt and astonishment gave way to whole-hearted approval. In the evening they overtook the Cunard liner ‘Hispania’, outbound for London, and breezed past her with ease. Makhearne studied the passengers lining the rails with binoculars in hand and wondered how long it would take before someone from Cunard paid a visit to Mr Parsons’ shop. Soon, he hoped – he owned a share of both. Perhaps he should suggest it himself.
It is six thousand miles from New York to Cape Town and another five thousand to Singapore, a nautical marathon not to be accomplished as a sprint. Wanderer did her best, logging more than twenty knots day and night with ease, but the voyage still required more than a month. And in all that time there had been no word from Ronsend other than a few laconic texts, ‘Message received see you in S explain all then’. There was nothing to do but loaf, read or play a few hands of cards. The yacht’s speed was too great for fishing and there were no sights upon the open ocean worthy of attention. They spent two days in Cape Town, a delay that drove Makhearne to distraction, though he conceded the necessity of touching shore. Supplies, fresh water and fuel were wanted, and the cable station at the Cape had a sheaf of business-related messages waiting for his arrival. Then they were away again; the Indian Ocean was indolent, the waves slack and the air windless, Wanderer plowing her way across as though cleaving molten glass. The sunsets were spectacular, the voyage otherwise almost without incident.
Singapore was bustling with the commerce of three worlds, its position on the long, narrow Malacca Strait making it the entryway to India and China as well as to the rich spice islands of the Dutch. Ronsend had supplied an address, and Makhearne went there straightaway as soon as the yacht was moored, though not without taking some precautions. When his scouts reported two European men and one woman in the bar, one man and woman blond and young and the other man swarthy and old, he positioned two of his men at the entrance and exit, and went in.
He exchanged a wary handshake with Nemor and a warmer one with Ronsend, and a cordial welcome with Ronsend’s wife. To Nemor he said, ‘No offense, old friend, but you don’t look well. Something wrong with your autodoc?’
Nemor shrugged. “I am old, Donneval – much older than you. And I have been laboring in areas that I do not understand so very well. My ‘doc tells me I should not have been carrying out these experiments. But I have, and if there is a price to be paid then it must be paid and that is all there is to it. I regret only that I have accomplished so little; I should like to die at home.”
Makhearne seated himself and drinks were brought. “I won’t consider discussing your health until you’ve been checked out by a second ‘doc. Mine’s aboard Wanderer, moored in the harbor. Be my guests this evening – the chef is superb, and the wine cellar is a match.”
“Still old Des Jardines slaving away in the galley?” Ronsend asked. “I shall remember his crepes so long as I live,” his wife Ann chimed in.
“Yes, Des Jardines is still in my employ. Grumpy because he has not had opportunities to show off his skills of late. Let me send a messenger now and all will be arranged.”
“That leaves us several hours to fill,” Ronsend remarked with a sideways look at Nemor.
Nemor pulled his mouth into a stubborn pout and said, “There isn’t much point in trying to describe the equipment I’ve built; you’ll have to see it, I think.”
“I have seen it, and it is fantastic. You wouldn’t believe what Nemor has been able to do with local materials and craftsmen,” Ronsend said.
“By disassembling Argonauta,” Nemor said, twisting his face into a moue of regret and pain.
“But you say you have made contact!” Makhearne leaned forward expectantly, then eased back when Nemor nodded, then shrugged. “Well, have you made contact or not?”
“The tide turns early in the morning hours,” Nemor replied. “Will your yacht be ready to sail then? Let us go out to my island, and you may see for yourself.”
And that was that; no question or entreaty would move him. Whatever was to be seen – or not – on that mysterious island, they would have to wait and see it with their own eyes.
Steam Yacht ‘Wanderer’ at anchor in the Potomac River
It hadn’t been quite as easy as Nemor had proposed. Wanderer needed minor repairs and a new load of stores, and Makhearne insisted her boilers and engines be opened, cleaned and inspected. Even though Singapore boasted extensive and superb repair facilities and ships’ chandleries, the volume of trade passing through was equal to that of Liverpool, so the facilities were tightly scheduled. Generous payments got them up to the head of the queues, but even the most lavish bribes could not make a shipyard turn down a regular customer like P&O for a one-time deal. Then there were the inevitable delays, and so it was more than a week before Wanderer’s bow lifted to the sea swell past Pulau Batam. Her plotted course was a wide arc around the islands off the Sumatran coast, dividing the channel between American Borneo and Dutch Java and Sumatra, partially to avoid navigational hazards but mostly to give a wide berth to the pirates that infested the region. Before the sun was down, Makhearne had ordered the yacht’s machine guns shipped at the bow and waist, and doubled the night watch. Aside from trusting to her speed to see them clear, there was little more they could do.
Sure enough, in the middle of the night the lookout in the foretop let out a yell and a wave of small boats swept out of the dark. The bow machine gun hammered, provoking yelps of surprise but no screams to show that anyone had been hit. Makhearne assumed the gunner was firing high, as most men do when shooting at night. From his nest of pillows on the bench by the ship’s wheel he raised up and slammed the engine telegraph full forward, giving the helm a crank to the left for good measure. Wanderer had been making an easy eight or nine knots on the reciprocating cruising engines, but the boilers had plenty of steam up and the turbine was ready for just such an emergency as this one. Before the boats could gaff her sides, Wanderer tucked her stern, raised her bow and ran right over the boat in front of her. The machine guns were all pounding now, and the screams from the collision mingled with others. Then someone – Ronsend? – trained a searchlight on the boats now hooked to the port side, pirates heaving themselves to their feet as the yacht powered her way across the waves with a sharp rolling motion. The port machine gun fired directly down into the first boat, whose crew went in every direction from overside to straight up to Wanderer’s deck. Nemor caught them there with a boat oar; the wooden *thunk* of oak on flesh percussively loud. Then he was kneeling by the rail, machete drawn, striking down once – twice – a third time and the dead weight of the last boat came free, the iron crystal blade having cut wood and metal of the gaffs alike. A moment more to cast off the empty boat and Makhearne brought Wanderer out of the steep, sickening roll onto an easier course. Then there were the unavoidable cleanup chores – wounds to dress, though thankfully none serious, and a thorough check to be made of the yacht’s forefoot, to see if the collision had started any leaks. Makhearne resolved to run on during the night on the turbine, pointing the yacht’s bow further southeast to give her plenty of deep water. Then with the dawn the weary night crew made for their beds, to get what sleep they could in the coming heat of the day.
Before they went down the companionway, Nemor pulled Makhearne aside. “Who was it set us up, do you think?”
Makhearne shrugged. “Could have been anyone – a yard hand, a worker at a chandler’s warehouse. This yacht would be a rich prize, and I’m sure they thought there were some fat ransom payments to be had.”
“You don’t think it was her?”
“No. She may know I’m out here, and may even know where. But to set up something like this, it would take longer than a week. I think the odds are better it was someone local.”
Nemor pondered that for a moment and seemed to relax. Then he pointed at a thread of smoke on the horizon. “That’s where we’re going.”
“A volcano!”
“Wasn’t when we went prospecting, you know – just an island with a big cave. Easy to open an entrance, fit it out. Started steaming about a decade back. Had to draw on the heat for the power I needed. Smoke’s gotten worse, though, or we’re closer than I thought.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
Nemor shrugged and laughed, a rough, hoarse sound like a rusty engine turning over. “Should be there mid-afternoon tomorrow, maybe sooner if you keep the pace up. Then I’ll show you.”
Catching up again after a long absence, Director. Good to be following this again!
Can anyone say Krakatoa?
Nice passage D, looking forward to seeing where this goes.
Nice passage D, looking forward to seeing where this goes.
Wonderful to have you back, D. Excellent update. You have an amazing ability to make one feel is if he's in the time you write about.
Hope things are improving. I had a month like that a couple of summers ago. Wouldn't care to relive that.
Vann
Hope things are improving. I had a month like that a couple of summers ago. Wouldn't care to relive that.
Vann
Agh...cliff hanger.
<Checks thread author>
Nope, not a Joe Storey AAR...
Methinks now is the time for Nemor to perish...in a cataclysmic explosion, perhaps?
<Checks thread author>
Nope, not a Joe Storey AAR...
Methinks now is the time for Nemor to perish...in a cataclysmic explosion, perhaps?
Can anyone say Krakatoa?
Exactly my thoughts. Which goes to show I'm not a very original thinker.
Oh, and the time is right, too (you mentioned 1883 in your response to Enewald).So, what's faster: a twenty-knot steam yacht or a pyroclastic flow?
I liked the descriptions of Singapore (the sketch of the harbor operations in particular) and the attack by the pirates. The comment at the beginning about the satellites from 1836 still orbiting the world was a subtle way to remind me of the beginning of this tale - and how far along everyone and everything has come. It takes Makhearne a month to steam from New York City to Singapore, yes - but contrast that with the 1830s, when it was all stage coach and sails. I like how the modern world is taking shape (and how Makhearne is nudging it along).
Enewald - Probably between one and two million dollars - an immense sum in 1880's money - and at least $20,000 per month to operate. As they say, 'if you have to ask, you can't afford it.'
TheHyphenated1 - good to be writing again, and very good to hear from you.
merrick - indeed, though we are in a timeline where no-one knows that name. Certainly it has no meaning for Makhearne, Nemor and Ronsend.
Lord_D - I'm using my convalescence to push the writing ahead. Glad you think it is still worth reading!
Incognitia - Um, Krakatau is closer. Where it is going? Update coming up next.
Vann the Red - I've had a long list of setbacks and ailments, none of which have been fun. Still limited in mobility and easily tired.
TheExecuter - not intentionally a cliff-hanger, but this section is too long to put in one or two parts. Kill Captain Nemo? On the mysterious island? Whatever made you think of that?
Stuyvesant - what's faster, a steam yacht or a 200 megaton caldera explosion? But your point is taken - in the 1830's it might have taken six months to sail from the Americas to the East Indies.
Yes, the world is changing - telegraphy, experiments in radio, steam turbines, and so on. The pace of change is increasing, too.
TheHyphenated1 - good to be writing again, and very good to hear from you.
merrick - indeed, though we are in a timeline where no-one knows that name. Certainly it has no meaning for Makhearne, Nemor and Ronsend.
Lord_D - I'm using my convalescence to push the writing ahead. Glad you think it is still worth reading!
Incognitia - Um, Krakatau is closer. Where it is going? Update coming up next.
Vann the Red - I've had a long list of setbacks and ailments, none of which have been fun. Still limited in mobility and easily tired.
TheExecuter - not intentionally a cliff-hanger, but this section is too long to put in one or two parts. Kill Captain Nemo? On the mysterious island? Whatever made you think of that?
Stuyvesant - what's faster, a steam yacht or a 200 megaton caldera explosion? But your point is taken - in the 1830's it might have taken six months to sail from the Americas to the East Indies.
Yes, the world is changing - telegraphy, experiments in radio, steam turbines, and so on. The pace of change is increasing, too.
Lush vegetation broken by stretches of broken lava; blue skies that drizzled ash; a magnificent beach with a thread of molten lava visible in the high, far distance – these were the disjointed impressions going through Makhearne’s mind as they stepped ashore on Nemor’s mysterious island. Its location was another surprise; instead of being hidden away in an untraveled part of the sea the island was squarely between the giants of Sumatra and Java, in the middle of the heavily-traveled Sunda Strait. Though there were no villages on the island, and no permanent residents aside from Nemor and the remnants of his crew, there were plenty of fire pits and bits of debris to show it had been a popular stopping place for local fishermen. No-one was visiting today, however: the high, twisted cone would have given away the island’s volcanic origin even if the tip of the spire had not been drooling a long, orange thread of lava, even if quakes like Satan’s kettledrums had not rattled the ground. On occasion, rocks and boulders came crashing down out of the sky, having been hurled aloft by gassy eruptions in the central crater.
“No-one in their right mind would be here, now,” Makhearne muttered. He reached forward and clasped Nemor’s shoulder, half-turning the older man and bringing the party to a halt on a trail that was no wider than single-file. “Look here, Nemor, we can’t stay here! This place is going to come down around our ears, and sooner than later. Let’s go steam around the islands for a week or so – we can come back then and see if the volcano has quieted down some.”
Nemor shook his head. “You don’t know these waters, Donneval. Krakatau is nothing – there are a hundred volcanic islands within a few day’s sail from here. The island is kicking up worse than when I left, yes – Feric can tell you it was calmer then. The volcano is going to vent a little, that’s all, and the flows are all on the other side of the island.”
“We need to go,” Makhearne insisted. Nemor just turned and kept walking; after an awkward moment, Makhearne trudged after him, swearing under his breath. The elevators were not far up the path, and were cleverly concealed. Nemor had explained that the cove where Wanderer lay at anchor was not near the underwater tunnel that led to Argonauta’s cave, and all the elevators connected to that cavern.
After the heat of the day and the thick, stifling, windless jungle along the trail, the cool, slightly clammy air in the elevator was a welcome, almost shocking, relief. They rode down in silence, and when the doors opened the interior of the cavern was at first too dim for their sun-dazzled eyes to make out any details. They emerged onto a shelf of rock, a natural overlook of the cavern below, and as their eyes adjusted they began to take in the details of the place. Directly below was a cove with no visible inlet, though a glow at the right-hand end suggested an opening into sunlit water in that direction. Argonauta lay against a stone wharf nearly beneath their feet, and despite her bulk the cove was large enough for two or even three ships her size. The cove was ringed with a walkway, with doors opening onto what Makhearne presumed were warehouses and workshops. Overhead the dark gray rock soared up to disappear behind a haze of lights. Directly overhead were two large cranes, whose cables disappeared into Argonauta’s open hull. Stepping to the rail and looking down, Makhearne could see that the sub was in no way ready for sea; open hatches in the deck sprouted bundles of cables that ran off down the walkway to disappear into large cabinets of equipment, and hull plates had been unriveted so that pieces of machinery could be removed. And past that…
Captain Nemor’s apparatus, spread across and into the rock at the far end of the Argonauta’s volcano lair
Nemor pulled his datapad from a coat pocket and pecked at it until work lights blossomed into life across the wall at the end of the cove. Spidery tendrils of girders and cables snaked across and plunged into the rock, the stark shadows making it difficult to resolve any details. As Nemor continued to work the pad, operating lights began to glow on the cabinets, firefly swarms of golds, reds and greens, and the sound of dynamos filled the cavern with a keening rumble. Still holding the pad, Nemor stepped off down the stairs to the walkway below, and perforce the rest of the party followed. “It may be some time before any contact is achieved,” he said. “Jusuf! Robert! Escort our guests to the dining hall and see that they may refresh themselves. I will call for you when you are needed.”
Several hours passed. The food had been simple but good – a seafood bisque and salads of unusual but tasty greens, but a full stomach in the cool air of the cave made them all sleepy. Makhearne was awakened from a deep and troubled sleep by a voice saying, “Honored one! A thousand pardons, honored one, but the Master wishes to speak with you!” The crewman had the sense not to have tried to shake the older man awake, and he waited patiently as Makhearne and the rest of the party gathered their wits and roused themselves. A quick check of his internal clock showed it was a little after 2pm.
Out in the main area of the cave he noticed that the water moved in oily, slopping swells, and the surface appeared to be dusted with powdered rock from the cavern roof, both signs that the seismic activity had not died down. The hum of dynamos, fans and other equipment was much louder now, and as they approached the equipment sprawled across the rock face he saw a slow, twining swirl of electrical sparks. As they got closer the air took on the acrid tang of ozone, the heat radiating from the rock face became palpable, and Makhearne began to wonder again if they should not abandon the project and return later. If was obvious that Nemor had built in no safety precautions whatsoever, and to be within arms reach of an active volcano…
His thoughts were derailed by a smiling Nemor, a man almost giddy with excitement and relief. “I’ve reached them. They want us to boost our signal so they can open a portal. We’re going home, Donneval! Going home!”
Makhearne and Ronsend scanned the message slips. Nemor’s machine was able to send coded pulses akin to telegraphic code, but could not support voice or pictures. “I don’t recognize any names – in fact there are almost no names listed here,” Makhearne said after a long moment of study. “Ask them to get Tamon Morrial. I have some questions to ask him.” Seconds later the reply clattered back: ‘Morrial not available. Many changes here. What do you need.’
They argued, then, Makhearne in favor of caution, Nemor wanting to boost the signal immediately, and Ronsend wavering and undecided. At last, Nemor broke the deadlock. “I’m going to go to full power, Donneval. There are no other time-binding civilizations – this cannot be anyone but our people!”
“Before you do,” Makhearne said, “arm your men and post them under cover.” Nemor attempted to argue but Makhearne bore him down. “They say there have been a lot of changes, and no-one we know is available. I don’t want to be dragged off to some bartop court-martial because of Kierianne’s doings.” That brought the older man up short, and he issued orders for the arms lockers to be opened.
Then the device was pushed to full power, generating a single tone instead of message pulses. After a few moments a hazy patch formed on the rock face, and Nemor began shutting down his equipment. The patch solidified and enlarged, opening until it became a tube apparently extending back into what had been solid rock. It began to glow, then like a picture coming into focus settled into a view of a corridor floored with something like linoleum, lit by overhead fluorescent lights, walls painted a pale institutional green. It was absolutely unexceptional as a corridor, except that the three Knights Temporal knew it looked nothing like any portal they had ever seen used.
A man walked down the corridor, trailed by a squad of soldiers. The one in the lead wore high, glossy black boots, a complicated-looking kilt or baggy pantaloons tucked into the boots, a beribboned tunic of khaki hue with a high, tight collar, and atop it all an absurdly high peaked cap. The soldiers wore the same khaki tunic with a sandy kilt, bare legs and heavy tan ankle-high boots; their caps were of the flat, foldable design the Scots called a Glengarry cap, without the trailing ribbons. Their movements were practiced and their arms looked to be well cared for; from the brief observation Makhearne thought they were likely bolt-action, single-fire weapons. If it dropped in the pot – which seemed likelier now than it had a few moments ago – then the semi-automatic weapons in the hands of Nemor’s men should prove an unpleasant surprise.
“Stop where you are,” Nemor rapped, and the men complied, though several soldiers fanned out to the sides of the officer. That gentleman raised both hands, smiled and rattled off some orders in a liquid tongue. Then he spoke in heavily-accented but understandable English. “My apologies. My men do not speak Anglic. I have told them to remain still. We shall talk, yes? I have come to take you home. On behalf of the Senate and People of Rome, I greet you.” Even as he talked his eyes roamed the cavern, widening when he saw the bulk of the submarine at the wharf.
Just then another tremor brought rock dust drifting down from the ceiling; that, as much as anything else that had happened, seemed to make the foreign officer uneasy. Makhearne looked at Nemor, who refused to meet his eyes, then at Ronsend. “That language is Vlach,” the younger man whispered.
“What?”
“Vlach – Romanian. I don’t recognize the uniforms, though.”
“That’s because no-one’s ever made contact with another time-binding civilization before,” Makhearne said absently. “Lucky us... Whoever these people are, they aren’t ours. Now the problem is to close the portal before more of them come through.”
“Please come down and let us talk,” the officer called.
“Give us a moment,” Nemor replied, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Donneval, take your party and go. I can’t break their lock by restarting my engines, and more of those people are going to come through any moment. I’m not surrendering, and they have to be slavering at the thought of getting to interrogate other people who know how to hop timelines. My men and I can hold them for a while, and when they get through… Argonauta has a Swedish Imperial warhead I’ve been keeping as a scuttling charge.”
“What’ll that do – bring down the cavern roof?”
“It’s about a 40 kiloton nuclear device. It’ll crack the shield and let seawater into the volcano magma chamber, in addition to what happens when a nuke goes off in that corridor. I think we’ll mess them up pretty well – but you and your people need to be far away.” He stilled Makhearne’s objections with a motion of his hand. “My men – my responsibility. Now go!”
As Makhearne, Ronsend and his wife ran for the stairs, they heard Nemor say, “We’ve decided you need to go back in that tube, turn it off and never come back.” Then there were shots, including some that rang off metal and stone uncomfortably close to the elevator shaft, the buzzing purr of Nemor’s Uzi’s and the hammering of rounds punching through the equipment cabinets. As the elevator door closed, Makhearne had a last second’s look at heaps of bodies in the portal tube.
“Once we hit the surface, Feric, take Ann and get her to the yacht as fast as you can go – carry her, if you must, but waste not a second. We don’t know if they’re able to open another portal. I’ll disable the elevator and follow you. Once you’re on the yacht, make sure all is ready for immediate departure.” A tremor rocked the elevator car against its supports and the lights flickered but stayed on. “If I’m not there within fifteen minutes, go.” Makhearne rode over Ronsend’s protests without stopping. “Nemor’s going to crack the shield and let the ocean into the magma chamber. I don’t know how big the explosion will be but I’m thinking megaton-range. Wanderer will need to be a long way away to be safe, so don’t argue with me.”
Krakatau vents lava from one of its three volcanic cones
The doors opened and a blast of heat rolled in. Choking on traces of gas and dust, Ronsend and his wife raced off down the path. Makearne spared a glance upward and was transfixed – as purely terrified as he had ever been in his life. The volcano was in full eruption, threads of lava drooling over the lip like vivid red and orange runnels of candle wax. Far off, the jungle was burning; overhead, the caldera was still blasting rock and ash into the sky. He swore a silent oath to Loki the Trickster, then opened the elevator panel and ripped out all the wiring he could manage. That done, and with his shirt already soaked through, he set off for the harbor.
The ground was vibrating continuously now, making the simple act of picking his feet up and putting them down again a delicate act of dance. Fortunately the path was straight and nearly smooth; unfortunately, the tremors had brought down trees across it. He was about half-way to the yacht, he thought, when his phone chimed. One nice thing about implants is that they can be answered without using hands, and since he was busy hoisting himself over a tree trunk that feature made it possible for him to pick up the call anyway. It was Nemor. “Some of them got out through an elevator, so keep your eyes open. They tried gas grenades but lobbed them into the water; the fans are coping.”
“It’s bad up here. The volcano is blowing lava.”
“We can hold out a little longer here. Get off – get away!”
He ran. Ahead he could see the glitter of water through the foliage, at his heel there was the telltale puff of dust from a missed shot. By reflex he redoubled his speed and hurtled around a curve, throwing himself over and down behind a downed tree. He heard excited voices, though he could not make out what they were saying. Vlach – Wallach – he mused, while his hands fumbled the machine pistol from his belt and took the safety off. Survivors of the old Empire, heirs to a new one? That ‘On behalf of the Senate and People of Rome,’ had been altogether too polished…
His pursuers had been in a hurry to keep up, and that meant they had to plunge ahead without wondering if he lay in ambush. His first burst of bullets brought two of the soldiers down and sent the rest diving for cover, but he did not stay to see what happened next. A mad scramble down a steep pitch brought him to the beach, where Wanderer lay closer to the shore than he remembered. Without breaking stride he was across the sand and headlong into the water, abandoning shoes and gun in mid-leap. A burr of bullets overhead meant someone was manning the yacht’s machine guns and told that his pursuers were willing to trade casualties for his capture. He struck out strongly, but the filthy air and the exertions of the run had sapped his strength. Before he could reach the yacht he saw the spume from the thrashing propellers, and felt as much as saw the rope land in the water alongside. Makhearne had only a moment to secure the rope under his arms before the combined power of engines and turbine lifted the ship and hurled it like a rocket out of the cove.
A few hard pulls brought him dripping to the deck, quivering from the hard-pounding machinery, and face to face with the captain. “The boiler’s on the red-line, sir – but the young master here said it was utmost urgent.”
“Quite right, Captain Moffett – we want all possible speed, now.”
“What course, sir?”
“Any – so long is it is a straight line away from that.” He hooked a thumb at the volcanic cone as he spoke and Moffett nodded before hurrying below to speak with the engineer. “Feric – below, in my kit I have a few pair of special sunglasses. Could you fetch them for me please – and perhaps something dry to wear?” Then he lifted his voice. “Everyone – the volcano may explode at any moment. When it does the light and sound are going to be impossibly bright and loud. You must not look back – you could be blinded. And when you see the bright light, close your eyes and cover your ears!”
They had another half hour of grace before his phone chimed again. “Donneval – this is it.”
“Everyone – Look forward! Close your eyes and cover your ears!” Slipping on the protective glasses, he turned to look. For just a second he thought he saw the mountain bulge… and then there was light, white as the heart of the sun, and the tall pillar of fire tipped its wide-brimmed hat above the wide, wide sea.
“No-one in their right mind would be here, now,” Makhearne muttered. He reached forward and clasped Nemor’s shoulder, half-turning the older man and bringing the party to a halt on a trail that was no wider than single-file. “Look here, Nemor, we can’t stay here! This place is going to come down around our ears, and sooner than later. Let’s go steam around the islands for a week or so – we can come back then and see if the volcano has quieted down some.”
Nemor shook his head. “You don’t know these waters, Donneval. Krakatau is nothing – there are a hundred volcanic islands within a few day’s sail from here. The island is kicking up worse than when I left, yes – Feric can tell you it was calmer then. The volcano is going to vent a little, that’s all, and the flows are all on the other side of the island.”
“We need to go,” Makhearne insisted. Nemor just turned and kept walking; after an awkward moment, Makhearne trudged after him, swearing under his breath. The elevators were not far up the path, and were cleverly concealed. Nemor had explained that the cove where Wanderer lay at anchor was not near the underwater tunnel that led to Argonauta’s cave, and all the elevators connected to that cavern.
After the heat of the day and the thick, stifling, windless jungle along the trail, the cool, slightly clammy air in the elevator was a welcome, almost shocking, relief. They rode down in silence, and when the doors opened the interior of the cavern was at first too dim for their sun-dazzled eyes to make out any details. They emerged onto a shelf of rock, a natural overlook of the cavern below, and as their eyes adjusted they began to take in the details of the place. Directly below was a cove with no visible inlet, though a glow at the right-hand end suggested an opening into sunlit water in that direction. Argonauta lay against a stone wharf nearly beneath their feet, and despite her bulk the cove was large enough for two or even three ships her size. The cove was ringed with a walkway, with doors opening onto what Makhearne presumed were warehouses and workshops. Overhead the dark gray rock soared up to disappear behind a haze of lights. Directly overhead were two large cranes, whose cables disappeared into Argonauta’s open hull. Stepping to the rail and looking down, Makhearne could see that the sub was in no way ready for sea; open hatches in the deck sprouted bundles of cables that ran off down the walkway to disappear into large cabinets of equipment, and hull plates had been unriveted so that pieces of machinery could be removed. And past that…
Captain Nemor’s apparatus, spread across and into the rock at the far end of the Argonauta’s volcano lair
Nemor pulled his datapad from a coat pocket and pecked at it until work lights blossomed into life across the wall at the end of the cove. Spidery tendrils of girders and cables snaked across and plunged into the rock, the stark shadows making it difficult to resolve any details. As Nemor continued to work the pad, operating lights began to glow on the cabinets, firefly swarms of golds, reds and greens, and the sound of dynamos filled the cavern with a keening rumble. Still holding the pad, Nemor stepped off down the stairs to the walkway below, and perforce the rest of the party followed. “It may be some time before any contact is achieved,” he said. “Jusuf! Robert! Escort our guests to the dining hall and see that they may refresh themselves. I will call for you when you are needed.”
Several hours passed. The food had been simple but good – a seafood bisque and salads of unusual but tasty greens, but a full stomach in the cool air of the cave made them all sleepy. Makhearne was awakened from a deep and troubled sleep by a voice saying, “Honored one! A thousand pardons, honored one, but the Master wishes to speak with you!” The crewman had the sense not to have tried to shake the older man awake, and he waited patiently as Makhearne and the rest of the party gathered their wits and roused themselves. A quick check of his internal clock showed it was a little after 2pm.
Out in the main area of the cave he noticed that the water moved in oily, slopping swells, and the surface appeared to be dusted with powdered rock from the cavern roof, both signs that the seismic activity had not died down. The hum of dynamos, fans and other equipment was much louder now, and as they approached the equipment sprawled across the rock face he saw a slow, twining swirl of electrical sparks. As they got closer the air took on the acrid tang of ozone, the heat radiating from the rock face became palpable, and Makhearne began to wonder again if they should not abandon the project and return later. If was obvious that Nemor had built in no safety precautions whatsoever, and to be within arms reach of an active volcano…
His thoughts were derailed by a smiling Nemor, a man almost giddy with excitement and relief. “I’ve reached them. They want us to boost our signal so they can open a portal. We’re going home, Donneval! Going home!”
Makhearne and Ronsend scanned the message slips. Nemor’s machine was able to send coded pulses akin to telegraphic code, but could not support voice or pictures. “I don’t recognize any names – in fact there are almost no names listed here,” Makhearne said after a long moment of study. “Ask them to get Tamon Morrial. I have some questions to ask him.” Seconds later the reply clattered back: ‘Morrial not available. Many changes here. What do you need.’
They argued, then, Makhearne in favor of caution, Nemor wanting to boost the signal immediately, and Ronsend wavering and undecided. At last, Nemor broke the deadlock. “I’m going to go to full power, Donneval. There are no other time-binding civilizations – this cannot be anyone but our people!”
“Before you do,” Makhearne said, “arm your men and post them under cover.” Nemor attempted to argue but Makhearne bore him down. “They say there have been a lot of changes, and no-one we know is available. I don’t want to be dragged off to some bartop court-martial because of Kierianne’s doings.” That brought the older man up short, and he issued orders for the arms lockers to be opened.
Then the device was pushed to full power, generating a single tone instead of message pulses. After a few moments a hazy patch formed on the rock face, and Nemor began shutting down his equipment. The patch solidified and enlarged, opening until it became a tube apparently extending back into what had been solid rock. It began to glow, then like a picture coming into focus settled into a view of a corridor floored with something like linoleum, lit by overhead fluorescent lights, walls painted a pale institutional green. It was absolutely unexceptional as a corridor, except that the three Knights Temporal knew it looked nothing like any portal they had ever seen used.
A man walked down the corridor, trailed by a squad of soldiers. The one in the lead wore high, glossy black boots, a complicated-looking kilt or baggy pantaloons tucked into the boots, a beribboned tunic of khaki hue with a high, tight collar, and atop it all an absurdly high peaked cap. The soldiers wore the same khaki tunic with a sandy kilt, bare legs and heavy tan ankle-high boots; their caps were of the flat, foldable design the Scots called a Glengarry cap, without the trailing ribbons. Their movements were practiced and their arms looked to be well cared for; from the brief observation Makhearne thought they were likely bolt-action, single-fire weapons. If it dropped in the pot – which seemed likelier now than it had a few moments ago – then the semi-automatic weapons in the hands of Nemor’s men should prove an unpleasant surprise.
“Stop where you are,” Nemor rapped, and the men complied, though several soldiers fanned out to the sides of the officer. That gentleman raised both hands, smiled and rattled off some orders in a liquid tongue. Then he spoke in heavily-accented but understandable English. “My apologies. My men do not speak Anglic. I have told them to remain still. We shall talk, yes? I have come to take you home. On behalf of the Senate and People of Rome, I greet you.” Even as he talked his eyes roamed the cavern, widening when he saw the bulk of the submarine at the wharf.
Just then another tremor brought rock dust drifting down from the ceiling; that, as much as anything else that had happened, seemed to make the foreign officer uneasy. Makhearne looked at Nemor, who refused to meet his eyes, then at Ronsend. “That language is Vlach,” the younger man whispered.
“What?”
“Vlach – Romanian. I don’t recognize the uniforms, though.”
“That’s because no-one’s ever made contact with another time-binding civilization before,” Makhearne said absently. “Lucky us... Whoever these people are, they aren’t ours. Now the problem is to close the portal before more of them come through.”
“Please come down and let us talk,” the officer called.
“Give us a moment,” Nemor replied, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Donneval, take your party and go. I can’t break their lock by restarting my engines, and more of those people are going to come through any moment. I’m not surrendering, and they have to be slavering at the thought of getting to interrogate other people who know how to hop timelines. My men and I can hold them for a while, and when they get through… Argonauta has a Swedish Imperial warhead I’ve been keeping as a scuttling charge.”
“What’ll that do – bring down the cavern roof?”
“It’s about a 40 kiloton nuclear device. It’ll crack the shield and let seawater into the volcano magma chamber, in addition to what happens when a nuke goes off in that corridor. I think we’ll mess them up pretty well – but you and your people need to be far away.” He stilled Makhearne’s objections with a motion of his hand. “My men – my responsibility. Now go!”
As Makhearne, Ronsend and his wife ran for the stairs, they heard Nemor say, “We’ve decided you need to go back in that tube, turn it off and never come back.” Then there were shots, including some that rang off metal and stone uncomfortably close to the elevator shaft, the buzzing purr of Nemor’s Uzi’s and the hammering of rounds punching through the equipment cabinets. As the elevator door closed, Makhearne had a last second’s look at heaps of bodies in the portal tube.
“Once we hit the surface, Feric, take Ann and get her to the yacht as fast as you can go – carry her, if you must, but waste not a second. We don’t know if they’re able to open another portal. I’ll disable the elevator and follow you. Once you’re on the yacht, make sure all is ready for immediate departure.” A tremor rocked the elevator car against its supports and the lights flickered but stayed on. “If I’m not there within fifteen minutes, go.” Makhearne rode over Ronsend’s protests without stopping. “Nemor’s going to crack the shield and let the ocean into the magma chamber. I don’t know how big the explosion will be but I’m thinking megaton-range. Wanderer will need to be a long way away to be safe, so don’t argue with me.”
Krakatau vents lava from one of its three volcanic cones
The doors opened and a blast of heat rolled in. Choking on traces of gas and dust, Ronsend and his wife raced off down the path. Makearne spared a glance upward and was transfixed – as purely terrified as he had ever been in his life. The volcano was in full eruption, threads of lava drooling over the lip like vivid red and orange runnels of candle wax. Far off, the jungle was burning; overhead, the caldera was still blasting rock and ash into the sky. He swore a silent oath to Loki the Trickster, then opened the elevator panel and ripped out all the wiring he could manage. That done, and with his shirt already soaked through, he set off for the harbor.
The ground was vibrating continuously now, making the simple act of picking his feet up and putting them down again a delicate act of dance. Fortunately the path was straight and nearly smooth; unfortunately, the tremors had brought down trees across it. He was about half-way to the yacht, he thought, when his phone chimed. One nice thing about implants is that they can be answered without using hands, and since he was busy hoisting himself over a tree trunk that feature made it possible for him to pick up the call anyway. It was Nemor. “Some of them got out through an elevator, so keep your eyes open. They tried gas grenades but lobbed them into the water; the fans are coping.”
“It’s bad up here. The volcano is blowing lava.”
“We can hold out a little longer here. Get off – get away!”
He ran. Ahead he could see the glitter of water through the foliage, at his heel there was the telltale puff of dust from a missed shot. By reflex he redoubled his speed and hurtled around a curve, throwing himself over and down behind a downed tree. He heard excited voices, though he could not make out what they were saying. Vlach – Wallach – he mused, while his hands fumbled the machine pistol from his belt and took the safety off. Survivors of the old Empire, heirs to a new one? That ‘On behalf of the Senate and People of Rome,’ had been altogether too polished…
His pursuers had been in a hurry to keep up, and that meant they had to plunge ahead without wondering if he lay in ambush. His first burst of bullets brought two of the soldiers down and sent the rest diving for cover, but he did not stay to see what happened next. A mad scramble down a steep pitch brought him to the beach, where Wanderer lay closer to the shore than he remembered. Without breaking stride he was across the sand and headlong into the water, abandoning shoes and gun in mid-leap. A burr of bullets overhead meant someone was manning the yacht’s machine guns and told that his pursuers were willing to trade casualties for his capture. He struck out strongly, but the filthy air and the exertions of the run had sapped his strength. Before he could reach the yacht he saw the spume from the thrashing propellers, and felt as much as saw the rope land in the water alongside. Makhearne had only a moment to secure the rope under his arms before the combined power of engines and turbine lifted the ship and hurled it like a rocket out of the cove.
A few hard pulls brought him dripping to the deck, quivering from the hard-pounding machinery, and face to face with the captain. “The boiler’s on the red-line, sir – but the young master here said it was utmost urgent.”
“Quite right, Captain Moffett – we want all possible speed, now.”
“What course, sir?”
“Any – so long is it is a straight line away from that.” He hooked a thumb at the volcanic cone as he spoke and Moffett nodded before hurrying below to speak with the engineer. “Feric – below, in my kit I have a few pair of special sunglasses. Could you fetch them for me please – and perhaps something dry to wear?” Then he lifted his voice. “Everyone – the volcano may explode at any moment. When it does the light and sound are going to be impossibly bright and loud. You must not look back – you could be blinded. And when you see the bright light, close your eyes and cover your ears!”
They had another half hour of grace before his phone chimed again. “Donneval – this is it.”
“Everyone – Look forward! Close your eyes and cover your ears!” Slipping on the protective glasses, he turned to look. For just a second he thought he saw the mountain bulge… and then there was light, white as the heart of the sun, and the tall pillar of fire tipped its wide-brimmed hat above the wide, wide sea.
Wow...it's revelation and mystery, wrapped in a beautiful little package!
A new civilisation travelling the timelines, who at least claim to be Roman descendants, but dress like Imperial era Scots, and speak as though Romanian...
A tantalising glimpse of a chance to link beyond the current timeline, lost as the Argonauta is destroyed...
And a vast volcanic explosion, fuelled by an - Imperial Swedish? - nuclear warhead. Perhaps telling us about a touch of Makhearne and Ronsend's home world?
Excellent update, D!
A new civilisation travelling the timelines, who at least claim to be Roman descendants, but dress like Imperial era Scots, and speak as though Romanian...
A tantalising glimpse of a chance to link beyond the current timeline, lost as the Argonauta is destroyed...
And a vast volcanic explosion, fuelled by an - Imperial Swedish? - nuclear warhead. Perhaps telling us about a touch of Makhearne and Ronsend's home world?
Excellent update, D!