20 Million Leagues Over the Sea

20 Million Leagues Over the Sea

K. T. Hunter

Book One of The Nemo Paradox

Published by Twin Cedars Enterprises at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 K. T. Hunter

ISBN 978-0-9888635-5-2 (Smashwords E-Book)

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

20 Million Leagues Over the Sea is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Wells, H. G. War of the Worlds. London: Heinemann, 1898.

Verne, Jules. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Paris: Hetzel, 1870.

Verne, Jules. The Mysterious Island. Paris: Hetzel, 1874.

Tennyson, Alfred. The Lady of Shalott. 1832.

Cover by The Cover Collection www.thecovercollection.com

Email: twincedarsenterprises@gmail.com

~~~~

Gemma

Have no fear, Miss Llewellyn, the captain said. I've done this before.

He touched a heavily gloved finger to the corner of his sharp green eyes, as if to tip an imaginary hat. He lowered it quickly to allow the white-coated technician to continue strapping him into the seat next to her.

Gemma Llewellyn had schooled her posture as much as she could to conceal her nervousness, but there was so much of it that she supposed her face was as pale as the technician's suit. That was fine. After all, a total lack of fear would draw too much attention. She hoped she seemed just nervous enough without tipping over into real hysteria.

The Terran Industrial Alliance has seen to it that we are as well-trained as possible for space travel, he continued. In fact, most of the crewmembers have experienced at least a half-dozen launches via the rail-gun system by this point. We've launched continuously for several years without a major incident--

"Bloody hell, I suppose the crash into Mount Cook last spring was only a minor incident, then, growled a voice in the row behind them. I suppose one must be at least a midshipman before having one's grey matter smeared across a mountainside is considered a major incident, eh?"

Gemma quirked an eyebrow at that. She had not heard a whisper about such a crash, from either the newspapers or the creeping vines of gossip that wound their way through halls of learning.

There is a lady present, Doctor Pugh!

The captain tried to turn in his padded seat to emphasize his point, but he was too tightly strapped in to do much more than wriggle. His tall, lean frame was well ensconced in the padded chair. Gemma thought he looked quite young to be a captain; he appeared to be not much older than her own four-and-twenty years. With his angular cheekbones, short chestnut hair, and pencil-thin mustache, he could blend in with any group of young university fellows.

Lady, my arse, Christophe, the voice replied with a snort. A lady would be home tending to her knitting, not strutting about in a pressure suit. Sophie the Steamfitter, indeed! He snorted again and fell silent.

Gemma looked down as her own attendant snugged up her straps. She pretended to focus on that young lady's tightly snooded hair. Mrs. Brightman had taught her that it was usually best to allow men their quibbling and not bother to argue against such statements. It was a waste of one's breath. The suit was a bit odd, but she supposed it would be just as awkward on anyone that had not already spent a great deal of time in orbit. She wondered what the Rational Dress Society would make of it.

They ought to save that rot for the bloody tentacle-heads, her attendant whispered as she pulled back and offered Gemma a sympathetic look. The charging coils for the rails should be close to full power now, Miss. They just loaded your trunk in the boot, too, so that ought to make this easier. Been up to the station twice meself. It's not so bad. Don't worry, love. You'll be on your way shortly.

She gestured for Gemma to lean forward, and another worker maneuvered the copper-clad helmet over her head. When they were done, Gemma nodded at the young woman as much as the helmet would allow. It wasn't the rail-gun that worried her.

Kindly restrict your remarks to the weather, Pugh, the man next to her said. His voice took on a muffled quality as his own helmet locked into place. And that's Captain Moreau to you.

Gemma felt a slight coolness from the sudden rush of air blowing into the helmet. She flashed the attendant an understanding smile. The woman's exasperated face would be the last she would see on Earth until their return...in over two years, if things went as planned. Gemma had thought that they would be surrounded by reporters shouting questions, especially since this was the last tender to the ship; but it was just the three of them and a few technicians. It was strange to have so little attention paid to an event that the entire world had anticipated for more than two decades. But it wasn't the mission's visibility that worried her, either.

As preparations continued around her, Gemma pondered Dr. Pugh. Since she had been a (quite literally) last-minute addition to this venture, this was her first encounter with members of the crew. She had spent the last few days just getting to the launch site in the middle of the Pacific Ocean; it had been a long journey by airship and steamer from Britain. Striking workers at some of the ports had caused more than one diversion. Gemma had wondered how Nellie Bly would have managed if she had met the same obstacles on her famous trek around the globe before the days of the Airship Network.

Then it had been two days of very intense orientation on the Launch Coil and the ship itself. This would not have been possible before the Invasion, Mrs. Brightman had told her, as they had based the ship's design on plans found in the Martian cylinders and adapted the design to accommodate humans.

Except for the three of them, the crew and the Scientific Cohort were already on board. Since the TIA had built the ship in orbit -- it would not fly within an atmosphere -- very few people had seen more of it than drawings and schematics. The newspapers (also owned by the TIA) were rife with headlines that proclaimed the imminent and permanent defeat of the Invaders.

Dr. Pugh, whom she had never met, was the lead scientist for the expedition. She had only seen one photograph of him in the newspapers, standing next to his mentor, the celebrated naturalist Professor Aronnax, when he was much younger. She had no idea what he looked like now, and it would be several hours before she could look him in the face.

So, here was her superior, and he was insulting her even before their formal introduction. Mrs. Brightman would not approve. Behind the veil of the helmet, Gemma allowed her face to melt from the ladylike mask that it normally wore into a scowl. In about five hours, she would have to speak to him, ready or not. She wasn't looking forward to it.

One thing at a time, Mrs. Brightman had said.

Instead of worrying over the eventual confrontation ahead, she focused on the slight reflection of her own face in the back of the faceplate -- wide brown eyes framed with long lashes above cheeks dusted with freckles on a heart-shaped face.

The speaker in her helmet clicked on, and Captain Moreau's voice continued as if there had been no interruption. The tinny scratching of the transmission could not conceal his enthusiasm. He sounded as if he were back in London rather than right next to her.

Just remember your emergency procedures, Miss Llewellyn. Most likely, they will not be necessary, but I do find that having something to focus upon does make things easier. Do not worry! I will ensure your safety.

Dr. Pugh's voice clicked in on the speaker next to her other ear. Pretentious little prick, he said. Endangering the lives of people who have no business flying about in space. Get him to tell you about the shakedown cruise to the moon someday. I'm not sure why we need a geologist on this trip, anyway.

Dr. Pugh had finally mentioned the worrisome bit: the first TIA voyage to the moon. One heard many rumors about that maiden voyage, but who knew which bits were true?

But they insisted, he went on. "Oh, right, we've got to learn what we can while we're there, they said. Can't waste an opportunity to advance our knowledge of natural philosophy, they said. Poppycock! This is a ship of war, not a tea party! They are sending scientists to Mars to find better ways to kill Martians, not to convene symposia on the substrata of the Tharsis Bulge--"

The captain's voice pushed Dr. Pugh's to the background. Never mind Dr. Pugh. He's married to his work. He's been a leading light in natural philosophy since before the Invasion. Many people born in that generation are pretty set in their ways. Not like us, Miss. No, we that came of age after the Invasion have a fresher view of the universe. I, for one, am glad that we have some ladies aboard.

They went on in that vein as the technicians checked their harnesses one last time and then backed away. The top of the capsule lowered down upon them, and she felt a thump as it locked into place. Panels flickered to life and banished the temporary darkness. There were no portholes, so she could not see the great plantation of Tesla Chargers -- an odd hybrid of electrical coils and flywheel storage -- that surrounded the launch site. She had seen them from the airship as she had arrived here. They had been charging even then, preparing for a crew launch, and they had been a startling sight. She could imagine the tongues of lightning licking the sides of the towers, ready to hurl her away from the sheltering lap of Earth. The orientation instructor had told her that the launch system used so much power that it required its own generators; otherwise, each launch would have drained the surrounding towns of the very power that they had received in return for hosting the facility in the first place.

Even through her helmet, she could hear the whoosh of cabin pressurization. She had reviewed all of these procedures the day before, in a simulation engine, but this felt far rougher. However, it was hard to think on the wonder of it all with two people having two different one-sided conversations with her at the same time. Mrs. Brightman's school had taught Gemma a great many things, but it had not prepared her for this.

Perhaps you might lob some quartz at them, Pugh groused. Just give us a chance to coat it with some influenza first. Now wouldn't that be a useful weapon?

Pugh means well, the captain said into her other ear. Etiquette simply isn't his strong suit.

What are you supposed to do for the forty days it'll take to get there? the scientist continued. They don't even have Martian rock samples for you to study yet. We're the first--

Mercifully, a third voice joined the chorus: "Good afternoon, lady and gents, your attention please. This is your launch director. Welcome to the last tender to the TIAS Thunder Child's Fury on this, the 23rd of August, nineteen hundred and twenty-four. The capsule is now sealed, pressured, and ready for flight. The weather is optimal. Estimated travel time to Shackleton Station is six hours from launch. For the moment, sit back, relax, and continue breathing in the oxygen so we can get all that nitrogen out of your systems."

Yes, young lady, you'll want to do that, Dr. Pugh said. I've had a touch of the bends before. Definitely something you want to avoid.

The launch director broke in again. We are sealing the outer door of the tube. Commencing vacuum shake test in thirty seconds, mark.

At least they are getting the worst part over at the start, Gemma thought. A hard jolt rattled her teeth, harder than it had during the brief training. The wrenching and rolling was harder and more bone jarring than she remembered, but it did not last long.

Air returning to the chamber. Prepare for lift, ten seconds, the launch director said.

Gemma heard a loud whistle and then felt a far gentler movement as the capsule moved into one of the lifts. She fought the helpless feeling that flooded her as she was tilted onto her back. The lift was turning the capsule towards the sky.

Right, the launch director said. Look sharp, now. Shuttle launch in five...

Oh, dear, sputtered Pugh.

Four.

What now? demanded the captain.

Three.

That sixth cup of tea just kicked in.

Two.

Well, you'll just have to--

One. Take it away!

She felt a tremendous push from behind and fought down the wild panic that tried to escape as it became more difficult to breathe. After another single hard shudder, the captain's voice broke in on her reverie. He spoke with little effort, as if the extra force of gravity on him meant nothing more than a feather pressing upon his sternum.

Congratulations, Miss Llewellyn, you are the first female scientist to cross the sound barrier! And here's the switch to the climbing cable. It is the pinnacle of human ingenuity, is it not?

The announcer broke in again: "Turning you over to Cable Control, now. Good luck! Terra vigila!"

I mean, Dr. Pugh continued as if he'd not just been interrupted by a launch, just because we picked up the toys that some aliens left behind, do we have to change everything?

Gemma was sure she could tolerate another five hours of this -- she could tolerate just about anything for a short amount of time -- but she was not sure about two whole years. The only response she could give Pugh now would have been impertinent, and any response to the captain would have been flirtation. She was not ready for that.

Sweat trickled down her spine while they were climbing, climbing, climbing. The rails on which they traveled were a true marvel. They rose above the waves only during a launch. An electric current snapped it to attention when it was in use. When it was electrified, it was the largest structure ever made by humans. Otherwise, it slumbered on the water like a gargantuan iron dragon until it was shocked into life again. Its collapsibility made it easier to maintain and more resistant to the massive seasonal storms that rolled through this region of the world. Since this was the last shuttle for the Mars Mission, Gemma wondered how long it would sleep before the next launch. If they were successful, perhaps they would use it again to go to Venus. If not -- oh, that did not bear thinking on. She focused her thoughts on the inside of the shuttle, instead.

After a long stretch of cable climbing, the launch director broke in again. Prepare for cable release ... there! You are now in free fall. And with that, any downward pull that Gemma felt disappeared. The light breakfast that still lingered in her stomach threatened to emerge, but she managed to keep it down.

For the next hour, she endured the two men arguing their respective positions. The captain excused the scientist, and the scientist delivered an exhaustive lecture on the dangers of space; he informed her about how it wasn't a safe place for anyone, let alone a lady of any quality. He went on about how the world needed more women that could breed the numbers lost during the Invasion and fewer that could sweat pipes. That is, when he wasn't complaining about his bladder.

We're so far behind in sheer numbers, I wonder if we'll ever catch up, he mused.

She wondered if he had done his own bit for King and country, then, and if he had delivered the same lecture whilst in the act.

She had endured much, much worse on previous expeditions. At the same time, while physics was the pilot on this part of her journey, she did have control over one thing. She pressed a button on the arm of her padded seat. It was large enough to accommodate her thickly gloved finger.

Gentlemen, Gemma said, your advice is duly noted and appreciated. However, I do believe it is time for this lady to get some beauty rest.

With that, she pressed another button, the one that silenced all transmissions except those from the launch commander. She breathed happily into the blessed silence that followed.

Moreau. The name tickled a memory at the back of her mind, but she couldn't quite place it. That bothered her; in her line of work, memory was her most valuable tool. He didn't seem French, and he certainly didn't sound like he had been anywhere near Paris.

She dozed for a while, unsure if they had ever stopped their one-sided debates. All of a sudden, she fell forward with a jerk. The shuttle had stopped floating freely. She felt a slight wobble and a distinct forward pull.

Ah, said the captain. Somehow, he had found an override. That would be the landing tether. They are towing us into the station bay. Almost there, now.

A few moments later, the cabin lights extinguished, and the hatch opened. A waiting crew unstrapped them and assisted them out of the small capsule. Gemma was so stiff that it was almost impossible to walk down the short ramp to the main deck without assistance. She turned to look back at Dr. Pugh, but all she could see was a very tall white jumpsuit and a helmet that was stubborn in its refusal to unclamp from its collar. The technician ushered her forward into a dressing room and left her to the ministrations of another lady waiting there.

She was very relieved to exit the awkward suit. It was a bit of a struggle even with assistance. They finally managed it after much hopping and grasping and pulling and not a little cursing on Gemma's part. Mrs. Brightman would not have approved of the cursing, but she was many miles away on the planet below and could not hear. After uttering every swear word she knew (and making up a few in the process), she was free of it. In the small cubicle where she changed, she found a washbasin and soap. The water was not as warm as she would have liked, but a wash after so many hours of sweat was refreshing. The young lady presented her with a long charcoal-gray skirt and brown button-up blouse. She had to demonstrate how the skirt worked; apparently, in space even dressing required extensive training. Flaps and buttons allowed one to be wearing a skirt or wide-legged pants, depending on what one needed at that moment.

There are times, the technician said, with her own skirt buttoned into pants, where the trousers will be more modest than the skirt. Trust me.

The blouse itself was a double-breasted jacket in a drab workaday brown material that was warm and heavy but not stiff. Copper buttons marched in a double line down its front. From its mandarin collar down to the hem just below her waist, its design had function in mind, not fashion. Buttons on the upper arm allowed the wearer to shorten the sleeves or attach sleeve protectors as needed. She had seen both techniques in laboratories in the past. A small badge sewn onto the left arm shouted that she was a member of the SCIENTIFIC COHORT.

A curious patch sat upon the right arm. In the shape of a shield, it bore a picture of a tiny steamship churning its way towards the Red Planet. The white poles of the globe shone in the harsh light of the station. Across the top of the patch was the name of her new home: Thunder Child's Fury. The bottom simply declared the ubiquitous war cry of Terra Vigila!

She brushed the patch with her left hand and adjusted the top of the blouse. She tucked her locket in and buttoned up. She left her braid alone, as they did not have time for re-dressing her great mound of hair just now.

Gemma released a resigned sigh. She did not mind the unfashionable plainness of the outfit, not really. She didn't even mind the lack of a corset or a bustle. This outfit had the stamp of the Rational Dress Society all over it. In fact, the RDS had been attempting to change the prevailing wardrobe recommended by the TIA's Ministry of Culture for years. Perhaps the RDS had finally had their way somewhere in the universe. Still, she would feel more comfortable once she was back in her own clothes. Two years in this dress would be intolerable. She was adaptable, but not that adaptable.

She found Dr. Pugh and the captain waiting for her outside of the changing rooms. This time they were debating the relative merits and dangers of the rising Socialist movement. She looked up at Pugh, who was of a size with the captain; they both towered over her. They, too, had swapped the bulky jumpsuits for similar double-breasted jackets with matching trousers. But where Moreau was a bright blue jay, Dr. Pugh was a dull turkey. Dr. Pugh's coat was the same boring brown as her own, but the captain's uniform was a midnight blue with shining silver buttons and white trim lining the high collar.

We meet again, Miss Llewellyn, the Captain said. I hope the clothing isn't too plain for your liking. I'm afraid we're mostly business up here in the sky. May I present Dr. Elias Pugh? Dr. Pugh, Miss Gemma Llewellyn, our new geologist.

Dr. Pugh nodded and grunted at her by way of greeting. His sparse gray hair was long enough to gather into a ponytail; such tiny flashes of rebellion were a sort of style amongst his deliberately unstylish brotherhood. His eyes were bloodshot and weary. He turned his gaze to Moreau without a word to her.

Why are we wasting time standing here? Shouldn't we go ahead and board?

I'm afraid that we must delay our embarkation for a bit, the captain replied. I've been informed that they are conducting tests on the Oberths at the moment. It is not safe to cross the gangway right now. We have a little time to spare. He smiled at Gemma. Would you like to see the ship from the outside?

Watch him, Mrs. Brightman had ordered. Whatever else you do, watch him. Keep his attention.

Yes, I would, Gemma replied.

I've seen it before, muttered Dr. Pugh. But I would like to see our geologist's reaction to the view.

Captain Moreau led them down a long hallway. The walls, doors, and floors were blindingly bright. Gemma was amazed at how very clean everything was. It was far removed from the grime and mud of ancient London. The air was laden with the smell of metal, India rubber, and another chemical odour that she could not identify. The ambiance wasn't exactly fresh from the country, but it had no soot to choke upon, either.

She took time along the way to examine Dr. Pugh in more detail. He was certainly much older than in the photograph she had seen. While Moreau practically glided down the hallway, Pugh loped like a limp giraffe, poking his head ahead of him as the rest of him rushed to catch up. His hands were knobby and covered with the scars one got from years of exploring the uses of a scalpel. His lab shirt stank of formaldehyde. She was used to scientific aromas, so she did not wrinkle her nose as much as others might have. He glanced her way on occasion, but he said nothing.

Moreau was full of energy as he chatted about the station. Pugh lowered his eyelids and silently mimicked the younger man's speech when he wasn't looking. Moreau waved off the older man's sullenness as if he were humouring his slightly senile grandfather.

They entered a room on the station's outer rim. Light shone up from the baseboards along the walls. The dull thuds of their footsteps echoed as they approached the far side of the chamber. Gemma could barely see the others' faces in the semi-darkness.

Miss Llewellyn, the captain said, "may I present to you, the apex of human achievement, the TIAS Thunder Child's Fury."

Moreau pulled a lever on the adjacent wall. The deck plates hummed as a section of the wall rolled back and revealed the dark space beyond.

Gemma gasped. The ship was even larger than she had imagined. The schematics had not prepared her for this; they were just drawings and figures on paper. This beast was alive and floating below her like some magnificent creature of the sea. Enormous nozzles stretched out from either end of the ship, extending its length. It resembled a gargantuan crab ready to crawl sideways across the sky.

Why do we have nozzles on both ends? she asked. I understand why they would be aft, but--

But why forward? For braking. We have to slow down at some point, so we can get into Mars' orbit. We'll start using those on Braking Day, partway through the trip. We figured that would be simpler than turning the ship around mid-sail.

She blinked at him.

It's just like a sailing vessel, where one cannot just stop the ship like one stops a motor car. We're spilling wind from the sails, except we're doing it with the direction of thrust. The captain continued his story as she stared out the viewport. She's a real beaut, isn't she? Victory Class. She's the first.

The only, muttered Pugh.

A sea of rivets dotted its skin in straight lines of steel barnacles, broken every so often by intersecting circles of smaller nozzles. According to the schematics she had seen, these were the maneuvering thrusters, used to nudge the ship into new directions. The top of the ship was longer than the Gatwick Racetrack. The airships that she had flown in were enormous, but this behemoth dwarfed even them. It was a metallic monster suspended against waves of stars. It felt odd to see it just hanging in space, with neither ground nor water to support it. Just seeing it made her forget for a moment why they were here in this high and lonely place.

There was a slight glow to her left. She supposed that was the engine test that the captain had mentioned.

Apex of human achievement? Dr. Pugh snorted. Hardly. Apex of thievery, more like. We made it the old-fashioned way. We stole it.

We made use of the spoils of war! Captain Moreau replied. They invaded us. It was ours by rights.

Bah. Theft!

Reverse Engineering!

How is it that we are not falling back to Earth? Gemma interrupted.

Dr. Pugh snorted at the question and mumbled something about the current state of women in the natural philosophies.

The captain's voice swelled with pride as he answered. Believe it or not, Miss Llewellyn, we are falling! We are moving fast enough sideways at the same time that we end up staying in place. It feels like we are standing still, but we are moving at an incredible rate of speed. We feel the pull of Earth beneath us as she seeks to pull us back into her embrace. That keeps the station from drifting away. The movement keeps us in place and prevents our falling. It is a perfect balance. He gave her a long searching look, and then he turned his gaze to the ship below them. We are in orbit, my lady. Even when we are standing completely still, we are moving faster than humans have ever moved before. We are so high in the sky that we should be floating inside the station. Do you know how it is that you can stand on the floor?

More purloined technology, Dr. Pugh growled. We know how to build it, but we don't understand the physics that makes it work.

The captain waved him off. Gravity plates. They are on the ship, too.

Thank the good Lord for that, Dr. Pugh replied. If the ladies' skirts went flying up during tea, the Cultural Officer would be quite put out.

The wireless transistors in our suit helmets were all ours, the captain countered. We managed to shrink those down all on our own. He smiled down at Gemma. So, what do you think?

She is ... unbelievable, Gemma stammered. Her voice was a hair above a whisper as she watched the glow of the test fade away. "Astounding. I believe she's larger than the Titanic!"

Ah, that lady's been plying the seas for twelve years, now, Dr. Pugh said. This one could hold several of those old girls. She's over five hundred meters long, but most of that is for the Oberths. Do you know how she got her name, young lady?

Everyone knew the ship's history by now, especially those orphaned by the Great Invasion. It had changed the lives of everyone on Earth. Some things are so horrible that, once glimpsed, they cannot be unseen. The Invasion had been that horrible.

It had changed everything.

The Launch Coil, Shackleton Station, and the ship had all been born out of one horrible, all-consuming need: vengeance.

In 1901, the last year of the long reign of Queen Victoria, they fell from the sky. The astronomers observing the flashes of gas on their nearest planetary neighbor had no idea what fire was about to rain down upon the Earth. Tentacled monsters in hollow cylinders had plummeted down onto all the continents. The creatures, all brain and no heart, had wrecked the countryside around London, destroying Woking, Leatherhead, and a hundred other villages. Other nations, from the European Continent to Africa to the Americas, had reported similar devastation across their territories.

The Invaders had left widows, orphans, and suddenly childless parents in their wake. They had smashed homes with their tripods and burnt entire forests with their heat rays. They had captured mothers, grandfathers, and little babies and drained them to the last drop of their blood.

The steamship Thunder Child had been one of the first vessels to fight back against the aliens. Her crew had sacrificed themselves as they destroyed one of the Martian machines that threatened a nearby vessel.

After a month of wanton destruction across the globe, the aliens perished where they stood, struck down by common pestilence. Many had called their deliverance the Wrath of God.

Gemma wasn't sure what to call it.

The Invasion had put a cork in a powder keg of Earth's own making. Tempers had flared across Europe for years before the aliens had landed. The Hague Convention of 1899 had attempted to restrain the storm many had sensed was approaching. The appearance of the Martians not long afterwards had calmed the winds, but only for a little while as the nations recovered and rebuilt. Crowned heads realized that new technologies not bound by the Convention had fallen into their laps. A hastily convened Second Hague Convention, the Invasion Conference, was called in 1902 by peace proponents around the world, including prominent industrialists and philanthropists that had managed to weather the Invasion. Scientists and peaceniks had called for research into the alien technology for the benefit of all; war hawks had demanded the ability to defend their people against future Invasions, from within or without. The new Treaty had forged a compromise when it founded the Terran Industrial Alliance.

Greater than a conglomerate, but not quite a superstate, the TIA had won from the Convention unprecedented rights and powers to act on a global scale. This included everything up to and including the right to declare war upon the Martians on behalf of the Treaty signatories.

The new organization had confiscated all the Martian technology it could salvage in order to research it and re-engineer it for human use. They allowed bits of it to trickle out at a time, ostensibly preserving the bulk of it for when the world could use such treasures amongst themselves in a peaceful fashion, like good little children.

Even as the TIA pushed the state of industry ahead with the Martian treasures, they fought to keep people's minds on the world that they had lost. The Ministry of Culture, a branch of the TIA that had a consulate in every capital, had frozen certain customs and sensibilities in place and time, but with the force of commerce (and the Convention's blessing) rather than that of law.

Fashion, which would normally ebb and flow with the times, was at a standstill. Hats, parasols and other accoutrements that might have died out over the years on their own became costume de rigeur. TIA member corporations owned every facet of public life, from the House of Worth down to the last Jacquard loom, every publishing house and newspaper, and most laboratories that studied everything from biology to astronomy. They decided what was worn and what was seen. Newer fashions (lower waistlines, higher hemlines) attempted to surface from time to time, but most of those efforts were either home-brewed or disappeared from the market quickly as their designers were quietly bought out.

In the meantime, the machines had been torn apart, examined to the last millimeter, and rebuilt to carry humans to the Red Planet. The resulting ship had been named the Thunder Child's Fury in memory of those who had first fought the Invaders. The official war cry of Terra Vigila! -- Earth, Awaken! -- marched across her hull.

A passenger on the ship rescued by the Thunder Child had survived to record all that he had witnessed in a journal known simply as the Invasion Chronicle. It had, as the Invasion Conference had decreed, become part of every schoolchild's education in every nation and every language.

That included the very private education of Gemma Llewellyn. Petunia Brightman had found her in the ashes of the Woking massacre, next to her parents' bodies. Gemma, just an infant at the time, had no memory of them. No other family members had appeared to claim her. The schoolmistress, in her kindness, had taken her in along with many other Invasion Orphans. She had given them a home, an education, and a purpose. Brightman's institution was more than just a school or an orphanage; it was home.

Gemma trembled as she turned the story over and over inside her mind. History stretched out before her in this metal monster; here was her chance to avenge her world, her unknown parents, and the loss of so many lives. She was aware that the two men were staring at her, awaiting an answer, but she kept her thoughts locked in her heart. She simply stared at the ship, trying to drink it all in.

Captain Moreau broke the long silence. "We carry part of the original Thunder Child with us, you know. They recovered some of the wreckage from the bottom of the Thames some time ago. They melted down the hull and used that in constructing the bits that were not part of the original Martian cylinders. Her bell is our ship's bell, cleaned, gleamed, and ready for war. We carry the heart of our predecessor with us."

They turned at the sound of footsteps behind them. A crewman appeared in the entryway to the observation deck.

Pardon the interruption, Captain, he said with a salute. The Oberth tests are complete, and it is safe to use the gangway now. You may board at your leisure.

The captain saluted back. Thank you, Ensign. Dr. Pugh, Miss Llewellyn, would you please follow me?

He led them down the corridor and took the lift to a lower deck. The upper deck had been nearly empty, but this one was aflutter with activity. Crewmen had lined up on the station side of the door during the tests; now they pushed wagons filled with provisions through the cavernous boarding area, which bristled with the blue uniforms of the crew.

The crewman that had come to fetch the captain preceded them through the door.

Captain on deck! he called out.

Everyone froze in a tableau of salutes.

As you were, the captain said with a return salute. Even as the mass of people began moving again, the small party was able to navigate freely as the crew made way. Moreau was a good head taller than most of the men around him, so it was easy to follow him in the crowd, which funneled down to a single line of people and carts on the gangway.

The caravan passed through a pair of thick doors and entered a small windowless tunnel. Its floor did not feel entirely stable, and the walls looked as if they could collapse like an accordion at any moment. In an odd way, Gemma felt slightly lighter as she walked through it, almost as if she were wading through water. She felt heavier as they reached the other side.

Ah, they still haven't fixed the manufactured gravity here, Dr. Pugh grumbled. And we're still entering through the cargo bay. They really were in a hurry to make the launch window, weren't they?

The other side was even busier than the station. Rows of crates and boxes marched on either side of her down the long sides of the cargo bay.

I am sorry, Miss Llewellyn, the captain said. Some of the shine left his eyes as they looked around. They didn't have time to complete the formal entryways. We had a substantial refit after the shakedown cruise, and some things had to wait in order for us to make the launch window, as the good Dr. Pugh stated. However, later versions of the Victory Class should have a formal reception area.

She nodded. Secretly, she was grateful for this peek behind the scenes, for this chance to see the inner workings of the Fury. Absent were the overwhelming aromas of tar, sea salt, and mildew that had been her constant companions since London, though the tang of hot, sweaty men was universal. A pungent undertone of barnyard crept beneath the scents of oil, rubber, and that strange fragrance that had followed her across the tunnel, lost somewhere between a seared chunk of beef and hot metal. Crates of every conceivable size lined the walls as far as she could see, and the buzz of barked orders to move this or shove that out of the way was a welcome cacophony after the stale quiet of the station.

I must be tired, she thought. I hear hens clucking in the distance.

Ah, Captain! a man's voice. Jolly good to see you again.

They turned to see a man that might have stepped off the painted cover of Vanity Fair. His uniform insignia was so shiny that he practically blinded Gemma. She could smell the pomade in his hair -- Murray's Superior -- from five feet away. A pince-nez perched on