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FANTASY:

Storming Venus

Written by John Lambshead
Illustration by Garrett W.Vance

"Pickle," Sarah said quietly to herself. "What a beastly, silly, pottage of a pickle."

Sarah was in a jam, the worst jam of her life. This did not surprise her as she knew things would only get worse. She gazed around the medieval cell. Blazing torches illuminated the bare stone walls with flickering, red illumination. It looked like one of the outer circles of Hell.

"You will be quiet, witch."

A Lay Sister glowered at her from the corner. The woman was a chaperone, not for Sarah but for her questioner. The Sister made sure that Sarah did not work her feminine wiles on the Exorcist. Sarah herself thought there was little chance of that. Father Carson was one of those middle-aged bachelors who preferred the company of muscular, young curates.

Sarah had no way of measuring the passage of time. She suspected that the Exorcists were playing games with her day length. She was thirsty, hungry, and sleep deprived. Sarah was also spiritually imprisoned. The room was bound in sacred symbols and powerful prayers that blocked her talent. This discomforted her far more than mere physical deprivation.

Sarah's thoughts kept turning to the events that had precipitated her imprisonment. The memories were so vivid and so horrifying that she relived them in sudden flashes that struck like a thunderbolt. Goblins crowded her cell with their sad brown eyes and ripping claws. Mr Smythe's head rolled across the floor for the dozenth time, his dead eyes staring at her accusingly. Smythe's face twisted with hatred until it had Crowly's features.

"Witch!" it said, in Crowly's voice.

Crowly's head faded like the Cheshire Cat until only the mouth remained, still whispering at her.

A hand tapped her on the shoulder. Its owner gave her a cheeky grin.

"Space for a little 'n," Captain Fitzwilliam said. He picked her up and threw her into the tiny life raft. The baleful red-brown light of Lucifer filled the room.

"Have you turned your face to God, woman? Are you ready to confess your sins and seek forgiveness?" Father Carson asked. He spat the word "woman" like a curse.

Sarah opened her eyes with a jerk. She had been daydreaming and had not seen Carson return. Pull yourself together or you will say something that will hang you, she told herself. You have my personal guarantee of protection, Fitzwilliam had said, but men say many things to a girl that they wish to bed. They didn't mean any of them. She wondered where he was now.

"There is yet time to shrive your soul and face your judgement with repentance," Carson said.

Sarah started to pant. She willed herself to be calm. She timed her breaths carefully: inhale, hold, exhale then count to three and start again. She placed her hands in her lap palms up and lowered her head. She hoped this display of lady-like demureness would infuriate the Exorcist. The man enjoyed bullying women and she was damned if she would gratify his perversion. She was probably damned whatever she did.

"Consider well, witch. Confess and the Church will grant you absolution and ye may yet enter the Kingdom of Heaven." Carson strode up and down, jabbing the air to emphasise his points. "Otherwise, you will be put to the question at an Ecclesiastical Court. You will be found guilty, you will be excommunicated, you will be executed and you will be buried in unconsecrated ground. Do you want your soul to rot in Hell for eternity?"

"I am innocent of the charge so I have no fear of Hell," Sarah said.

That was true; Hell held no fears. She was afraid of many things, fear of failure, fear of humiliation, fear of being found out, but not Hell. Sarah was a regular visitor to Satan's realms if you believed the Church. The real world scared her far more than Hell.

"Do you know how many pilots in your position are found innocent after I have prosecuted them, hmm?" Father Carson asked.

"No doubt you are going to tell me," she replied, playing her allotted role in the theatre.

He pushed his face into hers. His breath reeked of port and cheese. It took a heroic effort on her part not to recoil.

"None!" Carson said, answering his own question with obvious satisfaction.

He sprayed spittle on Sarah's cheeks when he spat out the word.

"No doubt you are a Spiritualist like all pilots so you do not believe in God's punishment but perhaps you will fear mine. I intend to press for the maximum punishment under the law if you do not confess. Do you know what that means?" Carson asked.

Sarah knew; rogue pilots were normally just executed but there were old punishments that had never been repealed in Ecclesiastical Law. She licked her lips. Carson noticed the small gesture and smiled broadly.

"You fear the flames," Carson said, gloatingly. "Confess and I will save you from burning."

It was tempting but she just did not believe him. Blind terror nibbled away at her mind. She thrust the fear down into the darkness from whence it came but it still jeered and jabbered from the shadows of her soul.

"Miss Brown, what a pleasure to see you again. I hope you don't mind my observing that you look peaky. Life portside does not seem to agree with you," Fitzwilliam said.

She was hallucinating again.

Carson jerked his face back affording Sarah a view of a tall, slender, man. He wore the dress-whites of an officer in Her Majesty's Royal Navy with a casual elegance.

"Are you all right, Sarah," Fitzwilliam said in a softer voice after observing her confusion. "I came as soon as I heard of your arrest."

"Captain Fitzwilliam," she said, faintly. "Is that really you?"

He bowed, touching his hat in the modern style, "None other, your servant, ma'am."

"What? Who let you in?" Father Carson asked.

"And you are?" Fitzwilliam asked, drawling out the words in the accent of the English upper classes. He looked at Carson the way an entomologist might observe a new species of beetle that was cursed with an unfortunate morphology.

"Father Carson, Chief Exorcist for the Lunar Diocese," Carson said, thrusting his chin out. "And these are my chambers. Get out or I'll have you arrested as well."

"I do not care for your attitude," Fitzwilliam said. "Please remember that you are in the presence of a lady and try to conduct yourself like a gentleman."

Fitzwilliam's tone implied that he thought it likely that Carson would fail. The exorcist's face turned a choleric red. His mouth worked but nothing other than a splutter emerged. Sarah wondered optimistically whether he might yet have a stroke.

"You will release Miss Brown into my custody," Fitzwilliam said.

Sarah held her breath.

"She is to stand trial for witchcraft. I have a witness," Carson replied.

"Ah yes, Lieutenant Crowly," Captain Fitzwilliam said. "Regrettably, he will be unable to give evidence."

"Why not?" Carson asked.

"I killed him last Thursday in a duel. A rather pretty shot right between the eyes," Fitzwilliam replied. "I suppose you could always try to contact him through a medium."

Fitzwilliam winked at Sarah.

"A naval officer is not allowed to call out a superior," Carson said.

"Indeed not," Fitzwilliam said, "or promotion would be rather too easy. However, I challenged him. We had words concerning him disobeying my orders and leaving a brother officer to die."

"Sister officer," Sarah said, correcting him.

Fitzwilliam inclined his head towards her in acknowledgement.

"You may have shut Crowly's mouth but I still have his sworn testimony. The witch will burn. The Navy has no jurisdiction over me," Carson said.

"Ah yes, the matter of jurisdiction," said Fitzwilliam. "You no doubt are familiar with the seal of the Archbishopric of Canterbury."

He handed Carson a document. The Exorcist gazed at it soundlessly. His mouth worked angrily but nothing emerged.

Sarah recalled that the captain was a scion of one of England's ruling families, and that the Bishop of Bath and Wells was a Fitzwilliam.

"Uncle Ignateus?" she asked, weakly.

"Indeed," Fitzwilliam replied.

"Crowly warned me that she had bewitched you," Carson finally said. "He told me that you might try to save this Whore of Babylon."

"Have a care, sir," Fitzwilliam said, his voice quiet. "You will apologise."

"I meant no harm," Carson said, grudgingly, "I retract any comment that you feel calls your honour into question."

"My honour, sir?" Fitzwilliam asked, his lip curling. "You misunderstand. I care nothing for your opinion about my honour. You have grievously slandered a lady and that is intolerable. You will apologise to Miss Brown—now."

Fitzwilliam cracked the last word out, making Sarah jump.

"Apologise—to her! Don't you know that these sluts lie with daemons? She's just a London street girl swept up by the Spiritualists for training as a witch. All these Southwark girls are whores and the daughters of whores."

Fitzwilliam's said nothing but the languid aristocratic persona vanished to be replaced by something feral, hungry and dangerous. The captain was from the blood line of the iron-hard Normans that had followed The Conqueror to win a kingdom.

Carson stepped back as if struck. The priest looked terrified and not without reason.

Sarah looked hard at the captain and saw death in Fitzwilliam's cold, grey-blue eyes. He was spoiling for a fight. He wanted to kill. She had never seen him so angry. He had deliberately goaded the exorcist into an unguarded outburst. Her mind raced. She could not allow Fitzwilliam to kill a servant of the church on her account. It would cause a terrible scandal that could severely impede his career.

"It really doesn't matter," Sarah said. Both men ignored her. Sarah just hated it when men did that.

"I said. . . ." she began.

"Hush, pilot," Fitzwilliam said, without taking his eyes off Carson.

Sarah bridled. Who did Fitzwilliam think he was? A rational part of her mind pointed out that he thought he was her superior officer and that he was also the man who could save her life.

Carson dropped his eyes from Fitzwilliam's steady gaze.

"I am very sorry, Miss Brown," Carson said, forcing the words out. "I withdraw my harsh words."

He would not look at Sarah.

"Thank you for your generous apology," Sarah said.

Fitzwilliam smiled, the bored aristocratic persona slipping back over him like a comfortable cloak.

Sarah took little pleasure in the priest's humiliation. She was very tired of boy's games. They apparently weren't going to burn her. That was what mattered.

Fitzwilliam had to help her to her feet despite the low Lunar gravity. She started to shake before she reached the door. She couldn't get her breath. Please don't let me have a panic attack, she prayed, not now. She had control of her body when she had no hope but now it let her down. It just was not fair.

Fitzwilliam had to half carry her out of the cell. Carson watched with glittering, hate-filled eyes.

"Where are we going?" she asked, for the sake of conversation. Actually, she didn't care where they were going. Anywhere else would be an improvement. She desperately tried to control her breathing.

"Venus," Fitzwilliam replied, "the Goddess of love and fertility."

* * *

"You want me to do what?" Sarah asked, genuinely shocked. "Have you gone stark raving mad?"

"Come, Miss Brown," Fitzwilliam replied. "I am told the act is physically possible."

"Really?" Sarah asked, "Well, I've never done it and I don't know anyone who has."

"I have every confidence in you, pilot. Think positively. You will be the talk of the Pilot's Academy," said Fitzwilliam.

"No doubt! The earth will definitely move for both of us if I get it wrong. Do you know how thin the atmosphere around a planet is—I mean—how thin is the atmosphere around a planet?" Sarah asked.

Sarah bit her lip. She was reverting to type under pressure. She would be talking in her native South London accent next. She must be more careful.

"Fifty to seventy miles, depending on the planet and what you class as atmosphere," Fitzwilliam replied.

Sarah glared at him.

"The question was rhetorical," she said, crushingly.

She was secretly rather pleased with herself. Rhetorical was a good, educated word. She must try to work a quote from Plato into her conversation next.

"Why can't I pilot you to a position in orbit?" Sarah asked.

"We, the Navy that is, want a little look around a Prussian colonial station on Venus but do not want to unduly trouble the square-heads by asking for an invitation. Problem is—they keep an aethership in orbit over their colony on Ishtar Terra to monitor visitors. We hope to avoid detection and concomitant diplomatically awkward questions by metastasing straight into the Venerean cloud banks. The Prussians labour under the misconception that we don't know about the existence of their station and we don't want them to know that we know."

Sarah physically shook her head in an effort to expel the verbiage and get back to the core point.

"Do you know what happens if I make the tiniest error and try to leave metastasis within the Venerean seas or crust?" Sarah asked.

Fitzwilliam opened his mouth.

"Don't lecture me. That was another rhetorical question," she said.

"I suppose I could err on the side of caution and go for the upper edge of the cloud belt," Sarah said, drumming her fingers on the table top. "The worst that that is likely to happen then is that I emerge too high above the atmosphere and we get spotted by the Prussian guard-ship."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Fitzwilliam said. "Our, um, transport is not airtight. You must put it right into the atmosphere or we will asphyxiate in the aether."

"Wonderful," Sarah said. She sipped her tea to give herself time to consider. It was one of the fungal infusions grown by the servants of The Queen Below as part of the Selenite Treaty with the British Empire. She let the soothing, aromatic liquid run over her tongue.

"Why is this so important?" she asked. "Why risk our lives in this way just for a snoop around a Prussian colony?"

"That information is restricted," Fitzwilliam replied. "I suppose that there is no use pointing out that pilots don't need to know the 'whys' provided they take the Navy where we want to go?"

Sarah looked at him without replying.

"No, I thought not." Fitzwilliam sighed. "I must satisfy your womanly curiosity or you will not step up to the crease. Well, well, that is no doubt the price one pays for employing the skills of the fairer sex."

Sarah felt her face flushing. He was the most arrogant and irritating man she had ever met.

"Do you remember the Squids?" Fitzwilliam asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"The invasion of England by tentacled space monsters is hardly likely to slip one's mind," said Sarah, drily. She wondered where the conversation was going. "I was only a child at the time and the army stopped them before they reached London but I remember the flood of refugees."

"The army didn't stop them," Fitzwilliam interrupted. "That was a fabrication released by the Home Office to prevent panic. The truth is that the pongos could barely slow down the Squid advance. Their fighting machines worked on galvanic principles that our scientists cannot comprehend let alone defeat."

"But they were stopped?" Sarah asked, puzzled.

"Oh yes, but not by force of arms. Have you heard of Dr Moreaux?" Fitzwilliam asked.

"Dr Moreaux? Isn't he the mad French quack imprisoned after that vivisection scandal on Martinique?" Sarah asked.

"That's the cove. The man is brilliant if somewhat eccentric. He is probably the world's greatest expert on the channelling of Odic Force. We recovered some fresh Squids for Dr Moreaux to examine from a capsule that landed awkwardly. He developed a strain of disease that was lethal to Squids but only resulted in mild fever in human beings and animals," Fitzwilliam replied.

"The Martian flu epidemic," Sarah said. "The government said that it was carried to Earth by the squids."

"That explanation was deemed necessary . . ." Fitzwilliam said.

"To prevent panic," Sarah said, raising her eyebrows.

"Quite so. Moreaux had a technician called Kilstett who came from Alsace-Lorraine, the German speaking region of France. The man was privy to Moreaux's arts and methods. He apparently harboured pan-Germanic nationalist sympathies and was an agent of the Prussian Secret Police. Kilstett has gone missing along with some of Moreaux's disease cultures. The Naval Intelligence Department has tracked him to a secret laboratory hidden in the swamps on the edge of Ishtar Terra."

"So what if the Prussians have samples of Squid plague. How does this discomfort us?" Sarah asked. "They can't do anything with it but kill Squids."

"I wish it were that simple. You will recall that it was the German Von Reichenbach who discovered the principles of manipulating Odic Force. Admittedly it was the French who mostly benefitted when they broke up his secret society in Württemberg but the Prussians have been catching up. We fear they may be trying to develop new diseases as a weapon." Fitzwilliam said.

"Against who?" Sarah asked.

Fitzwilliam smiled. Sarah realised that she had muddled "who" and "whom."

"Oh, I imagine that the Preußische Geheimpolizei have all sorts of potential targets in mind," Fitzwilliam said. "They will probably start by testing it on the Newts as part of their extermination policy for the Venerean natives. If that goes well then a few plagues among the Jews and Slavs in their eastern provinces will do wonders for Retzel's Lebensraum Programme. After that, who knows?" Fitzwilliam shrugged.

Sarah sipped her tea. It occurred to her that she was only out of the Church's custody on license. She could be sent straight back to Carson's tender mercies if Fitzwilliam withdrew his support. No doubt he was holding the threat in reserve in case she refused to volunteer. She worked herself up into a stew of righteous indignation and prepared to tell the blackmailing swine to sling his hook.

He preempted her by leaning forward and taking her hand.

"You must not feel pressured to agree. You can turn me down with all honour and my family will look after you until that ridiculous charge is withdrawn."

He looked her in the eye with a steady gaze.

"I would not ask you to be my pilot, Sarah, if this was not so important and if I were not convinced you could succeed. You are the best pilot that I have ever sailed with."

"With which I have sailed," she automatically corrected him.

Sarah felt ashamed. Fitzwilliam was the most manipulative, arrogant, self-centred, smug man she had ever met. The girls at the Academy would have classed him as NSIT but he was undoubtedly a gentleman. He had saved her life above Lucifer at no little risk to his own—and proved that he was "not safe in lifeboats," never mind taxicabs.

"You're smiling. Why the smirk?" he asked, suspiciously.

"No reason," she replied, shaking her head. "I'll do it although there are far more experienced pilots in the Navy."

"I thought you would," Fitzwilliam said, complacently. "Women are mercurial and emotional creatures but I was sure I could persuade you."

Cocksure bastard, Sarah thought. She "accidentally" knocked her cup over. Tea splashed across the table and onto his immaculate uniform.

"Oh dear, how clumsy of me," Sarah said, smugly.

"Not at all, pilot, you have been through an experience that would tax a man let alone a fragile member of the weaker sex. Another cup of tea, I think, to steady your nerves," Fitzwilliam said, signalling to a waitress.

The man was insufferable.

* * *

Sarah was not happy, not happy at all. She was strapped into a low bucket seat in the narrower end of a small egg-shaped capsule. Fitzwilliam occupied a raised seat immediately behind so she sat between his legs. It was intimately uncomfortable. Fitzwilliam slid a canopy inlaid with glass forward over their heads and clamped it down with a thump. The capsule smelt like a cricket pavilion, the air was rich with the scent of wood, glue, linseed oil and an aromatic spice that she could not identify.

"Well, what do you think of our Exceptional Operations Infiltration Conveyance, Miss Brown? Isn't she amazing?" Fitzwilliam asked.

"It's made of plywood," Sarah replied.

"Strong, light, Martian flight-wood to be exact, Miss Brown," Fitzwilliam said, proudly. "These capsules were originally designed to be dropped from an airship but this advanced version is equipped for metastasis. The lever by your right hand controls the release of Noetic Radiation. Q Branch modified her especially for our enterprise."

"Q Branch?" Sarah asked.

"The Quartermaster Branch of the NID," Fitzwilliam replied.

"I enquire merely from idle curiosity but how many pilots have successfully taken one of these through metastasis," she asked.

"You will be the first," Fitzwilliam replied, cheerfully.

"Wonderful, another first," Sarah said.

"I knew you would be pleased," Fitzwilliam said.

He adjusted a number of Bakelite rotary control controls and flicked a switch up and down a few times. Every so often he checked a gauge above his head but it apparently refused to cooperate.

Sarah tapped her fingers repetitively against the wood in what she hoped was an irritating manner. Fitzwilliam cursed softly and gave the gauge a sharp rap with his knuckles. The needle sprung to life and flickered.

Fitzwilliam strapped himself down, at the same time taking the opportunity to surreptitiously loosen his revolver in its holster. She pretended not to notice. It was bad form to acknowledge that it was his duty to kill her if the séance went disastrously wrong.

"When you are ready, pilot," Fitzwilliam said.

She grasped the lever by her chair and released it by pressing the button on the end. The violet glow of Noetic Radiation diffused through the capsule. The real world became a little hazy.

"Captain Hind," Sarah said, concentrating on a portrait of her spirit guide in her mind.

A figure flickered into existence outside the capsule. It coalesced into a cavalier in high riding boots. As usual Hind was wildly overdressed in blue and red silks.

"Captain Hind," Sarah said, in confirmation.

"Your servant, ma'am," Hind said, sweeping off his feathered hat and showing a leg.

Hind peered into the capsule. "I see you are still dragging that chinless wonder around with you. What do you see in the fellow?"

Sarah could not help but giggle a little. Fitzwilliam would not be able to see Hind but he could hear the highwayman. Hind's words would seem to come out of Sarah's mouth in a masculine voice.

"I need your help once more, Captain Hind," Sarah said, using the words of prayer to a spirit guide.

"Of course, child," Hind said.

"If you have quite finished your little witticism, pilot, we can . . ." Fitzwilliam said.

Hind put his hand through the canopy glass as if it had no more solidity than air. Sarah reached for him and world around her froze and was silent. She no longer heard the background whir of the fans that drew fresh air from the fungal gardens Below. Hind lifted her through the canopy. Sarah knew her body was still strapped into her seat. She closed her eyes so that she should not see herself. It was a superstition among pilots that you might not be able to return if you saw your own body. A warm breeze played over her face, rippling her clothes and hair.

Sarah was content. She felt completely relaxed and carefree. She hung in nothing and nothingness flowed through her, washing away her anxieties and her fears. Her personality dissolved like a spoonful of sugar in hot tea. Non-existence was so tranquil, so wonderful, that the temptation to linger was overwhelming. That was why Fitzwilliam had a revolver close at hand. Her empty body could become a receptacle for something else if her personality disintegrated.

Hind gave a tug on her arm and the moment passed. Sarah was Sarah again. She fell into the spirit world, stumbling slightly as she became corporate.

There was a hint of autumn in the air. The wind rustling the leaves was cold, raising goose pimples on her bare shoulders and arms. Her Arcadian linen dress might have graced a Greek goddess but it was hardly suitable for English moorland. She noticed that Hind was dressed in a substantial jacket and breeches.

"Why do you always dress me in such flimsy clothes?" Sarah asked, shivering.

Hind grinned and pulled her close. Embracing her he said, "What need'st thou have more covering than a man?"

His body was a warm shield against the seasonal chill and she felt secure. The temptation to yield to the comfort of his arms was strong but she had her duty. Reluctantly, she pushed him away. She concentrated on a prayer of transformation and changed her clothes into a lady's walking-out dress with a smart tweed jacket.

"What a piece of work is a man," Sarah said, matching his Donne with her Shakespeare. "Work first, recreation afterwards."

She smiled and reached up to touch his lips with her finger to show it was a promise.

"Andrew has set me a pretty task," she said.

"I do wish you would not use lower deck colloquialisms," Hind said. Andrew was what naval ratings called the Royal Navy. Nobody knew why.

Sarah was quietly amused. The highwayman was an utter snob as only a man could be who started his career as a lowly butcher. Hind had fought for the Royalist cause, the King himself promoting him to the rank of captain at the Battle of Worcester. Hind had come close to assassinating Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell on the Huntingdon Road.

Hind was unsurprised when she explained their unusual destination. Sarah suspected that her spirit medium could eavesdrop on her in the natural world. He often demonstrated intimate knowledge of her activities.

Sarah rode pillion behind Hind on his black stallion. Hind had never bothered to name the horse. He was surprisingly unsentimental about animals. Sarah gripped Hind more closely around the waist, wriggling a little to relieve the ache in her buttocks. He mistook the gesture so she found it necessary to remove his hand from her knee.

The Spiritualists believed that spirit guides were the souls of individuals who had progressed to such perfection that they could mentor mankind. The Church took the view that the Holy Ghost was the only spirit mankind required and that all others were Satan's daemons.

Sarah had never received much in the way of spiritual guidance from Hind so she retained certain doubts about him as a mentor but he was far too much a man for her to ever consider him daemonic.

They followed a gravelled path marked with white posts. Routes in the spirit world were created and reinforced by use. Many ships had travelled between the Moon and Venus in the last few decades so the way was clearly delineated. The path might eventually solidify into a road. They passed a little box-like shrine with a pointed roof—the wood warped, the paint peeling. Desiccated flowers hung limply from a holder. Sarah enthasised, reaching out to the shrine with her mind.

The curved metal wall twisted and split like tinfoil. A blast of wind threw her towards the gap. She slammed against a projecting spear of jagged metal that ripped her dress and flesh. Her clothes froze on her skin and her throat burned. Only bloody froth bubbled from her mouth when she tried to scream. The terrible cold penetrated bone-deep and she died.

Sarah gasped and panted. She couldn't breathe. She told herself that it was only hyperventilation but her body was out of control. Panic gripped her. Hind swung his leg over the horse's head and dropped down onto the ground in a single practiced move. He lifted her down and held her tight.

"It's all right girl, everything's all right. Slow now, breathe with me," said Hind.

Slowly, she got her rebellious body under control.

"I haven't had a panic attack like that for a while," Sarah said, when she could talk.

"What did you do?" Hind asked with resignation.

"Do?" Sarah replied, innocently. She made the mistake of glancing at the shrine.

"Women!" Hind said. "Will you never learn to curb that curiosity? What was it this time?"

"A pilot died here in one of the early aetherspheres," Sarah said. "She left a memory behind."

Sarah picked some fresh flowers and put them in the little silver holder. Black corrosion faded at her touch and the metal sparkled in the sunlight. The panels straightened and shone white with fresh paint when Sarah ran her hand over the wood.

"Sleep quietly, sister, wherever you are," Sarah said. She touched a finger to her lips and to the shrine, invoking the pilot's gesture for lucky voyages.

The path wound through a forest of sycamores and oak. Light streamed between the waving leaves projecting dappled patterns. Brown shapes moved silently in the shadows. Sarah got a glimpse of a head with antlers and a long pointed nose. It could have been a stag rearing onto its back legs but for furry hands parting the undergrowth. She looked away, resisting the urge to probe.

Hind pulled his blunderbuss from the saddle boot and placed it across his knees. The brown shapes faded back until there was only shadow.

The trees thinned until they rode in full sunlight. Their surroundings morphed imperceptibly into a desiccated landscape of browned grass, stunted trees and bare white rock until there was no trace of English meadowland. The white posts were replaced by a low, tumbledown, dry-stone wall.

The air heated under a blazing sun and smelt of dry dust and the sharp-sweet tang of orange groves. Hind abandoned his cavalier's finery for a loose-fitting cotton blouse and breeches.

Sarah felt increasingly uncomfortable. She remembered Miss Rolly who instructed girls at the Pilot's Academy in The Deportment of a Lady. Girls from families of quality were excused attendance and called the lessons "Oiks Class."

"Remember," Miss Rolly had said. "Only horses sweat, gentlemen perspire and ladies glow."

A drop of glow ran down her nose. Her clothes were entirely unsuitable for the climate but what was a girl to do?

Hind pulled on the reins to stop the horse, which wandered over to the wall to sample the brown grass. He swung his leg over the horses head and folded his arms, looking at her.

"I suppose that you would go on wearing that outfit until you fainted from heatstroke?" Hind asked.

"It's all right for a man," Sarah replied, defensively. "No one cares much how you dress. I have to maintain certain standards."

"By King Cole's codpiece," Hind said, "I swear that is the most ridiculous thing that I have ever heard."

He clicked his fingers and she was back in the Grecian tunic. She observed that the hem was rather high, displaying rather more leg than Miss Rolly would have recommended. She tried modifying the spell but Hind had locked it in some way that she could not easily unpick. She rested on her dignity and sulked. Unfortunately, he did not seem to notice and talked to her as they rode.

They did not stop again until they reached a ruined classic temple. The concrete platform was mostly intact but not a single one of the fluted Doric columns stood higher than a few feet. There was surprisingly little rubble, as if the temple had been mined for stone.

A soldier emerged from the shade of a tree. He sprang down off the temple platform, his feet raising little clouds of dust from the dry ground. He held a spear with a leaf blade in his right hand. A blue oval shield was propped on his left shoulder. It was decorated with a stylised picture of a red fox-like animal. His bowl-shaped iron helmet had large metal side flaps that came down to the chin. He wore a tan-coloured thigh length tunic, brown breeches and sandals that laced up to the knee.

"Who is he?" Sarah asked.

"A Roman soldier," Hind replied.

"He doesn't look like any pictures of Roman legionnaires that I have ever seen," Sarah said, doubtfully.

"He's an Auxiliary Palatine from the late Empire," said Hind. "Elite mobile troops like . . ."

"The Brigade of Guards?" Sarah asked.

"I was thinking more of the East India Company's Ghurkhas," Hind replied, drily. "The Palatine were not much for ceremonial duties but there was no one to beat them in a fight."

"Why is he here?" Sarah asked.

Hind handed her the reigns and dropped off his horse. "Stop asking stupid questions, girl. Stay on the horse and ride away if things go badly. Do not try to interfere."

Sarah focussed her thoughts and created a loaded pistol.

"That won't work. Just for once, Sarah, do what I tell you," Hind said, wearily.

The Palatine advanced on Hind without a word. He held his spear in an overhead grip. Hind drew his heavy cavalry sabre and rested it on his shoulder. He moved sideways, drawing the duel away from Sarah.

The Palatine took three running steps and hurled his spear at Hind's chest. The highwayman pivoted and slapped the missile away with the flat of his sabre. The Palatine drew a long straight sword from a scabbard on his left hip and rushed Hind.

The Palatine aimed an overhead blow that Hind deflected. Without hesitation, the Palatine thrust his shield catching the highwayman in the chest with the iron boss. Hind fell backwards away from the blow. He continued the roll into a somersault, landing back on his feet.

Hind fended off a barrage of attacks. He turned a deflection into a counterattack, which the Palatine caught on his shield, but the highwayman was driven back, losing ground in a circle until the Palatine had his back to Sarah.

The duelling men tired fast in the hot sun and their movements slowed and became less poised. Hind stepped inside the Palatine's defence and aimed a savage sabre cut at his opponent's neck in all out attack.

It almost worked. Hind's timing was only slightly off. His sabre clipped the edge of the Palatine's helmet with a rasp of metal on metal. The momentum of the cut pulled Hind off balance. The Palatine thrust with sword point. Hind twisted to avoid a killing hit but the Palatine's sword slid across his torso. Crimson blood stained Hind's ripped blouse.

The Palatine stepped back and grinned, the first emotion that he had displayed. He began another series of attacks that forced Hind into purely defensive moves. The highwayman's strength ebbed with his blood. The Palatine simply had to pressure him to win.

Sarah pulled the hammer on her pistol back to full-cock. She sighted carefully down the sixteen-inch octagonal barrel. She was an indifferent shot and Hind would be livid if she hit him by mistake. Sarah held her breath and pulled the trigger, resisting the urge to shut her eyes. The flintlock fell, igniting the priming powder with a flash. There was a short pause before the main charge fired in a long fizzing burn. The pistol's barrel fell off and the hot ball shot backwards into Sarah's lap.

Hind's trained cavalry horse twitched its ears but was otherwise unmoved. Sarah was not so fortunate. She lost her balance and fell. Her feet entangled in the harness and she hung upside down. The stallion tuned and examined her with a quizzical eye.

The duellists goggled at her. Sarah realised that she was somewhat on show. Hind had observed her charms on previous occasions so he recovered first. He slashed the mesmerised Palatine's left arm. The man's shield dropped exposing his body. Hind struck again, his sabre cutting deep into the Palatine's shoulder. The soldier dropped his sword and fell to his knees. Hind hit him in the face with the sabre hilt and the Palatine fell backwards.

Hind stamped on the palatine's chest and cut his throat to the bone with a backward slash. The Palatine disintegrated into coloured dust that swirled and mixed, before settling slowly and disappearing onto the sun-baked earth.

Hind walked slowly back to his horse and extracted a flask from his saddle. He took a long slow drink.

"Do you think that I might trouble you to release me?" Sarah asked.

"I thought I told you not to interfere," Hind replied. "I also thought I told you that a pistol would not work. We were bound by the Roman's rules when I accepted his challenge. You may recall that the ancients did not use firearms."

He examined her dispassionately. "I must confess you found a novel way of distracting my opponent."

"A gentleman would not look," Sarah said, hotly. Unfortunately her attempt to stand on dignity was rather undermined by her situation.

Hind disentangled Sarah and lifted her off the horse.

"Why did the Palatine attack us?" Sarah asked.

"Always more questions," Hind replied. "He was a bound spirit, a guardian. Someone does not want travellers to get this close to Venus through the other side. Be very careful, Sarah."

"I will," Sarah replied.

She kissed him and walked towards the temple. Her mind reached out and the spirit world faded. She tried to find the exact spot to disconnect but it was so very difficult. The slightest movement in the spirit world changed her position in reality wildly.

Sarah bit her lip, blinking back tears. This really was not fair. She was a good pilot but Fitzwilliam asked the impossible. She remembered that other pilot's fate. Death was not so bad. She almost welcomed a short period of pain if it was followed by endless peace.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She tried to feel the thin sliver of Venerean air with her mind. There was . . . something. Sarah dived towards it while reciting the Prayer of Disconnection. The real world hit her like the slap of a giant hand. Metastasis was never normally this bad. She twisted in agony.

* * *

". . . start," said Fitzwilliam.

The capsule kicked and shuddered. Sarah heard the bright snap of splintering wood. She felt as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. Fitzwilliam dry-heaved. Coruscate light flooded the capsule making every tiny mote of dust sparkle like burning iron filings. She screwed up her eyes and sneezed. Her stomach twisted as they dropped and she had to fight hard not to emulate Fitzwilliam.

Wind howled past the capsule. Bright white vapour whipped past faster and faster. She had done it! She had piloted them into the Venerean clouds. The transition into air was much worse than she had anticipated. She wondered if they were in the right place. Actually, she did not much care. It was enough to be alive. Turbulence knocked them from side to side like a cat playing with a ball.

The capsule tilted until it plunged nose down. A dark shadow loomed suddenly through the shining fog. Sarah barely had time to scream before impact. The capsule broke through with a jolt.

"What in hell was that?" she asked, yelling to be heard above the wind.

"Venerean cloud creature," Fitzwilliam replied. "Don't worry, they are insubstantial, like jelly fish, only, ah, without the jelly."

"Well that is about as clear as a London peasouper," Sarah said. "All the same, would it not be a good idea to turn on our cavorite panels and slow down a bit?"

"Can't do that," Fitzwilliam replied.

"Why not?" Sarah asked.

"We haven't any," Fitzwilliam replied. "The capsule does not have room for enough galvanic cells to power cavorite. We barely had enough cells to create the radiation for metastasis."

Sarah counted to five very slowly before speaking.

"I hope you do not find the question impertinent, Captain, but have you given any thought to landing," Sarah asked, "or is Q Branch still working on that aspect of this vehicle's design?"

"Not at all, pilot. This machine is a product of the finest minds Cambridge has to offer. We have a much more sophisticated device at our disposal than anti-gravity. I am just waiting until we clear the cloud-base so I can see where we are."

Right on cue, the capsule burst free of the thick Venerean clouds that protected the world from the full power of the sun. The capsule smashed through the temperature inversion with a thump that was much worse than hitting the cloud creature. Sarah was flung forward against her belt.

They fell smoothly in the clear air towards a green-grey sea. Sarah was slightly disappointed. She had expected sparkling blue water as shown in posters for holidays in the South of France. The nearest Sarah had ever got to the South of France was hop picking as a child with her mother on their annual visit to Kent. They went to Margate one day but it rained. Of course, Venus could not have blue seas because it had a white sky. Real life rarely lived up to the posters.

Fitzwilliam checked their location with a telescope.

"You have put us rather too close to the Prussian station," Fitzwilliam finally said.

"How unfortunate," Sarah said. "I will try to do worse next time."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, pilot. I will let us fall a little lower before braking in case the Prussians have a lookout."

They fell in silence for some seconds. Sarah had resolved not to speak first but the sea was coming up awfully fast.

"About this braking business?" she asked.

"All in hand, pilot," Fitzwilliam replied. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

Sarah seethed.

"Stand by to be amazed," Fitzwilliam said.

He reached over Sarah's head and turned a catch that opened a panel to reveal a wooden bar. Fitzwilliam grasped the bar and gave a tug.

"Is something supposed to happen?" Sarah asked, giving him a sweet smile, "or has my pretty little head misunderstood."

Fitzwilliam flushed. "New equipment is often a little temperamental."

He undid his safety belt so he could grab the bar in both hands and heave. It still failed to move. Sarah snickered in a low tone just loud enough for Fitzwilliam to hear. She glanced back at the sea. It was so close that she could make out every single wave. Her carefully constructed air of sophisticated insouciance collapsed. Their predicament was not at all funny.

"Do something, you nitwit!" she screamed. "We're going to die."

"I'm trying, woman, but you're not helping by becoming hysterical."

Fitzwilliam thrust his sword behind the bar. He threw his full weight against the leverage. The bar groaned and swung down with a sudden crack. The capsule braked in a series of savage jerks that threw Fitzwilliam onto her.

"Air anchors," Fitzwilliam said, by way of explanation, "Hold tight, here comes the mainsail."

The capsule leapt upwards to the accompaniment of the sound of tearing wood. Fitzwilliam weighed down on her like Jupitian gravity. Glass cracked and the canopy ripped off in the airstream. A howling wind whipped her hair into her eyes. She grabbed hold of Fitzwilliam's belt to stop him falling out.

"Don't worry; I've got you," she said.

"Yah, but who's got you?" Fitzwilliam asked, pointing downwards.

The floor underneath Sarah's chair was gone. She gave a squeak of fear; she was way past screaming. Her seat was still attached to wooden ribs that ran the length of the capsule. Fitzwilliam eased himself back into his chair. The ribs holding Sarah chair flexed with every movement as the capsule swayed backwards and forwards. The sea was beneath her so the capsule must be horizontal.

Sarah could see straight up through the hole where the canopy used to be. A large canvas sail bellowed above. They were flying!

"That is truly remarkable," Sarah said, momentarily forgetting her fear.

"I said you would be impressed," Fitzwilliam said, that smug tone entering his voice.

He took a firm two-handed grip on the bar and twisted. Sheets deformed the sail and the capsule turned onto a new heading. It rocked unsteadily like a hammock. Sarah gripped the sides so tightly that her hands hurt.

"Excuse me, Miss Brown, I shall have to check our course," Fitzwilliam said, putting one hand on her shoulder to pull himself up to use his telescope. Sarah's chair supports groaned under the strain. Something snapped and she dropped an inch.

"I would be obliged if you would expedite matters," Sarah said, icily.

That was better. Obliged was a good word. Expedite was an even better one and she had got just the right tone of disapproval at his familiarity in touching her.

"Sorry, pilot, but we have no compass so I have to navigate by eye," Fitzwilliam said. "Venus has no magnetic field before you ask. We are close to land now so be a good girl and let me work in peace."

He made a slight course correction. Sarah shut her mouth. He had anticipated her follow up question perfectly but she was damned if she would admit that. What made his patronising attitude all the more unbearable was that it was quite unthinking. It would have been more tolerable if he intended to be insulting.

Sarah seethed and looked down at the sea. The capsule's shadow raced across the waves. A second shadow appeared behind the first. Sarah studied it trying to work out why they threw two shadows. The shadows moved closer together until they almost merged. She twisted her head around to look above and behind.

A large dragon-like creature flew just off to one side and slightly above the sail. It looked like a furless bat but its wing-membranes stretched from the forelimbs back to the rear of its body, leaving its legs free. It held an elongate head high on a long thin neck.

Sara poked Fitzwilliam in the ribs.

"What is it now, Miss Brown?" he asked, impatiently.

"We have a companion," she replied, pointing.

The dragon slowly overtook until it cruised alongside. It tuned its head sideways. A long rearward vane on the back of its head exactly balanced the wind-pressure on its beak. Cold yellow eyes fixed on Sarah with an unblinking glare.

"Don't worry, they eat fish," said Fitzwilliam, reassuringly.

"Then why is it taking such an interest in us?" Sarah asked, unconvinced.

"It's probably just curious," Fitzwilliam replied.

The dragon tilted its wings and soared upwards. It soon fell behind them.

"See," Fitzwilliam said, "nothing to worry your pretty little head about."

He gave her a fatherly pat on her hair. Sarah resisted the urge to bite.

Sarah was still unconvinced and kept a wary eye on the dragon. It continued to gain height with long slow wing strokes until it was so high that it was difficult to make out against the illuminated clouds. She lost track of the creature.

The dragon plummeted back into sight. It dived fast with its wings half folded. Sarah considered alerting Fitzwilliam but was reluctant to be patted on the head again. She decided to await events.

She was pleased with her decision when it became clear that the dragon would fall well behind the capsule. It was directly below when Sarah next caught sight of it through the hole in the floor. It slashed its speed by extending wings that were the size of the capsule's mainsail until it matched their speed. The dragon flapped its wings vigorously and climbed fast.

"Ah, Captain Fitzwilliam," she said, pulling on his arm. "I really think you need so see this."

The dragon zoomed right up to the capsule and rolled over. It reached for them with its back legs. Long claws punched through their plywood hull. The capsule spiralled down in tight circles, its mainsail unequal to carrying the additional weight of the dragon. The creature emitted a triumphant screech that had the tonal quality of fingernails dragged across a blackboard.

"Nelson's knickers," Fitzwilliam said.

He flattened Sarah again by leaning over her to aim his revolver through the gap in the floor. The captain fired four quick shots between her legs. One of the rounds left a hole in her skirt. The dragon screeched and let go. It dropped away and tried to right itself. Its left wing half collapsed. One of Fitzwilliam's shots had crippled a forelimb. The dragon fluttered down into the sea like a giant moth.

"That was something of a shock. Well done for spotting that, pilot," said Fitzwilliam, readjusting the capsule's course.

"My pretty little head is not without its uses," she said, cattily.

"I never doubted that, Miss Brown," Fitzwilliam said.

"I thought you said it was a fish eater so why did it attack us?" Sarah asked.

"I don't think it was an attack as such," Fitzwilliam replied. "I think it mistook us for another of its kind."

For a moment Sarah could not follow his meaning but light dawned when she remembered the courtship ritual of sea eagles. The male chased the female who played hard to get until he could grab her from underneath to bring them both to earth. That was the way of life. Males chased females until she decided that he was worthy.

She twisted around to look Fitzwilliam in the eye and put on her most wide-eyed innocent expression.

"I don't understand," she said. "What was it trying to do?"

"Ah, well, that is, um, animal behaviour, bees and birds and all that, nature, don't you know."

"No," she replied.

"Why don't you relax while you can and get some sleep? We have lost too much height so the capsule will land further away from the Prussian station than I planned. We will have a longer hike than I intended," Fitzwilliam said, changing the subject.

Sarah was delighted to see that Captain Fitzwilliam was actually blushing. "Gotcha!" she thought.

She tried to sleep but was wide awake with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. She had to admit that plain fear was also an element. Sarah had never actually set foot on another world apart from the Moon, which hardly counted. Now she was going to stand on Venus.

Sarah watched the dragon in the water. It seemed to float well enough. She felt a touch of guilt. It was a magnificent creature and Fitzwilliam had destroyed it so carelessly. Surely the man could have just scared it off or at least given it a quick death with a headshot? She hoped that they did not have to land in the sea. The water was probably warm enough but she hated swimming. The dragon was also an ungainly swimmer but it splashed along like a grotesque duckling so maybe it would survive long enough for its wing to heal.

Vast jaws with teeth like sabres erupted from the sea. They closed on either side of the dragon and submerged with a splash that threw water ten or fifteen feet into the air. When the foam cleared there was nothing to show that the dragon had ever existed.

The capsule glided on, gradually losing height with every yard gained. Sarah kept quiet and let Fitzwilliam operate the controls in peace.

"Hang on, Miss Brown. I think we can just make the shoreline," Fitzwilliam said.

"We'd better," Sarah said.

"What?" Fitzwilliam asked.

"Nothing," Sarah replied, keeping a wary eye on the large dark shadow under the water that had paced the capsule for the last half mile.

"Hold tight," Fitzwilliam said. "Here we go."

He pulled the bar backwards with a jerk and the capsule swung upwards. The sail collapsed and they dropped like a shot pheasant. Sarah opened her mouth to scream. They crashed with a loud plop that sounded like a fly-swat slapping a bowl of custard. Green slime splashed Sarah from head to toe. It tasted of rotten eggs.

* * *

"Look, I have apologised," said Fitzwilliam. "It is not as if I did it on purpose."

"You deliberately aimed for bog," Sarah said.

"Well, yah, but I could not risk a hard landing with the capsule in such poor condition. Half the floor was gone."

"I am aware of that," Sarah said, keeping her temper with some difficulty. "What was left acted like a giant scoop."

"It was fortunate that you had a change of clothes packed," Fitzwilliam said, "or you would have had to press on in your petticoats. That would have given the Prussians something to think about, what?"

Sarah glared at him but he flatly refused to be intimidated, paying her back with the boyish grin that he deployed like a secret weapon. Her annoyance drained away like water into desert sand. She returned his grin though it was much against her better judgement.

"Ah, a smile at last, Miss Brown, I shall consider myself forgiven," Fitzwilliam said.

Sarah and Captain Fitzwilliam trudged along ridges made of broken shell and shingle that were only a few yards wide and a few feet above sea level. It had been quite pleasant at first, rather like a trip to the seaside, but an organic pong overcame the sea air as they moved up the shore. The shingle dragged at Sarah's feet. It sapped her strength so that each step was a little more difficult. She fixed her eyes on the line of orangey-brown vegetation that marked the upper shoreline. It was only about a quarter of a mile away as the dragon flew but must be at least twice as far on foot along the winding ridges.

Fitzwilliam had insisted on carrying all their gear himself so she would be unencumbered. For once she found his masculine patronage acceptable. He strode in front of her pointing out features of interest, this was clearly not his first visit to Venus. His lean muscled body was impervious to fatigue. He had one of those tight bottoms that suited a uniform.

"Get a grip, girl," she thought. "You'll be admiring him soon."

The shingle ridges enclosed shallow lagoons teeming with life. Multi-legged creatures like foot-long scorpions stood their ground, waving their claws at her. They panicked and racing into the water at the last moment when she was right on top of them.

Large orange and yellow "lily pads" cruised in all directions, accompanied by clouds of flies. The insects kept their distance from Sarah, much to her relief. Something about her repelled them.

Constant splashes and ripples in the lagoons marked where Venerean life fought the struggle for existence. It was on early voyages of exploration to Venus and Mars that Mister Darwin developed his theory of planetary evolution that had so upset The Church.

Sarah wiped the "glow" off her brow. She wanted desperately to stop and rest but she was reluctant to show weakness in front of Fitzwilliam. He noticed her fatigue despite her efforts to mask it and looked at her with genuine sympathy.

"I'm sorry to put a lady through such an ordeal, Miss Brown. I had intended to land closer to dry land," Fitzwilliam gestured at the upper shoreline, "but my poor decision to lose so much height cost us flight distance."

"You could not have predicted a love-sick dragon would take a shine to our conveyance," Sarah said.

"Why am I defending this man," she thought, even as her sense of fair play forced the words out.

"I should have predicted that some difficulty might arise and made my plans accordingly. You have an uncommonly generous nature, Miss Brown," Fitzwilliam said.

Sarah could not help feeling pleased, even though she knew how manipulative Fitzwilliam could be when dealing with a lady's affections.

"I would stop and allow you to rest but it would not be safe to tarry on the shore," Fitzwilliam said. "We must press on with all speed."

"Why?" Sarah asked. "And why does Venus have a shore when there are no tides, well, no tides to speak of, without a moon? I suppose there are solar tides but they can't be big enough to be dangerous."

She stopped and huffed. Fitzwilliam was grinning at her and shaking his head.

"I know that you are feeling better when you start to question my orders," he said. "Having a pilot under one's command is a bit like being married only without the concomitant advantages of the companionship of the fairer sex."

To her horror, Sarah felt her cheeks burn. Fitzwilliam's smile broadened, the bastard!

"But, to satisfy your womanly curiosity, Venus has more than one hundred and fifty volcanoes bigger than anything found on Earth and seas that cover four-fifths of its surface."

"Oh!" Sarah replied, quickening her step. She should have realised sooner that Venus might not have tides but it would boast frequent and spectacular tidal waves.

* * *

Sarah expended the last of her strength climbing the slope onto dry land. She did not complain openly but was delighted when Fitzwilliam called a halt to take stock of their surroundings. They sat with their back against low trees with red-brown trunks and orange foliage. A welcome cool sea-breeze moaned gently though the vegetation. Sarah drank deeply from a canteen. The water was warm and stale with a faint hint of leather and it tasted wonderful. She found it difficult to stop once she started drinking.

Flying creatures fluttered around the trees flashing wings brightly coloured in emerald-green and turquoise. Sarah studied one that alighted nearby on an orange leaf. Its wings changed colour from green to blue as they caught the light at different angles. Sarah thought of it as a butterfly although it had far too many legs. It extended a needle-like probe to feed from the plant.

Sarah and Fitzwilliam sat on a ridge that extended around each side to form a fara. Faras were geological features unique to Venus. They usually took the form of a high-walled crater enclosing a flat marshland broken up by ponds, lakes and masses of tangled bushes and low trees. They were thought by the Royal Society to have been formed by past geological activity but no one knew for certain.

"Is this currently summer or winter?" Sarah asked, fanning herself with her straw boater.

Fitzwilliam shrugged. "It hardly matters. Venus has almost no axial tilt and a circular orbit."

"I suppose it is not much cooler at night?" Sarah asked.

"Not much cooler or darker but night is when it rains—and rains and rains and rains," Fitzwilliam replied.

He stood up and examined the left bank of the fara with his telescope. Sarah joined him. Shading her eyes, she could just see puffs of steam. A steam whistle shrieked, disturbing a flock of small dragons that launched themselves from a stand of trees.

"That sounds like a train?" Sarah asked, uncertainly.

"Typical of the Prussians," Fitzwilliam said. "They build narrow gauge railways wherever they go. Maybe they were denied toy train sets as little boys. "

Fitzwilliam led them down into the fara, skirting the worst of the marsh. The air in the crater hung still and heavy so Sarah was soon glowing again. The smell of rotting vegetable matter was so strong that she could almost taste it.

"Could we not have stayed up on the crater edge where it is cooler," Sarah asked, annoyed to hear a hint of whine in her voice.

"We would be too visible," Fitzwilliam replied. "I have to assume that the Prussians have lookouts. I apologise, Miss Brown. It must be hard going for a member of the weaker sex."

Sarah stuck her nose in the air and attacked the hike with renewed vigour. She shot a quick glance at Fitzwilliam. Was there a hint of a smirk on his lips? She had not allowed herself to be manipulated again, had she?

They crossed patches of mud coated with a yellow crust that could have been fungal or mineral. Every footfall caused the mud to wobble, releasing acrid brimstone fumes that seared her nose. Large bubbles formed in the mud. They broke with a disgusting-sounding plop.

The disturbed mud heaved with miniature life. Scale-covered creatures the size of a small rabbit scuttled about on about on four spindly legs with flat oversized feet. They chased after each patch of disturbed sediment, thrusting long snouts into the mud. Two contested a particularly choice location. Each tried to intimidate the other by dipping and tossing their heads to flash turquoise sacks on their throat. Sarah assumed that they were both males.

"I expected to see some sign of native hunting parties," said Fitzwilliam. "I suppose the Prussians have scared them off."

The Prussians were notoriously brutal to their native subjects and were not above shooting whole populations out of hand.

Tiny rivulets meandered towards the centre of the fara. Butterflies stopped to drink, flying off in swarms when Sarah walked through them so that she was enclosed in an iridescent blizzard of flashing blue and green. So this is Venus, she thought, an adolescent planet that pleased and horrified in equal measure.

Sarah stopped by a large pond that was surrounded by yellow ferns that attracted clouds of butterflies and other flying invertebrates. Small dragons swooped low over the water, catching food on the wing.

Something shot from behind the ferns and grabbed a dragon in mid flight. It hovered in the air using six diaphanous lavender wings that beat an irregular pattern. It was perhaps three yards long but very slimly built. It held the dragon firmly in two lateral pincer-like mouthparts. The giant dragonfly examined Sarah through compound eyes the size of tennis balls. It backed away across the water while watching her intently in case she made a grab for its kill.

A tongue snapped like a whip. It ensnared the dragonfly and dragged it down into wide jaws at the front of a blunt green-grey head. The amphibian carnivore swallowed the dragonfly and its catch in two or three bites. The carnivores eyes bulged with each gulp. It flicked a large tail into sinusoidal curves and swam away, submerging with barely a ripple.

"That is the other reason for not travelling at night," Fitzwilliam said. "The rain allows the amphibians to come out of the water to hunt on land without risk of desiccation. Venus hardly lives up to its image as the goddess of love."

"Where you have fecundity you will have death in equal measure," Sarah said. "You think of Venus as she was constrained in the male-dominated classical civilisations. The goddess has older names like Inanna, Ishtar, Isis, Kali and Hecate. She was not just the goddess of love and fertility but of war, magic and life itself."

"Indeed," Fitzwilliam said. "Perhaps you are right, Miss Brown."

The vegetation thickened as they climbed the crater wall, moving diagonally along it towards the Prussian station. They followed game paths to avoid bushes that were protected by spikes and barbs. The background smell changed as they climbed. The foetid rot of swamps was replaced by the odour of wet plants and aromatic scents. It reminded Sarah of the fresh tang of a garden after a heavy rainfall.

Fitzwilliam stopped so abruptly that Sarah bumped into him.

"What . . . ?" she started to ask.

"Be quiet," Fitzwilliam hissed.

Sarah bridled and opened her mouth to reprimand Fitzwilliam for his rudeness. She glimpsed a shape over Fitzwilliam's shoulder and clamped her jaws shut. Something moved easily in the thick undergrowth, crushing what it did not push aside. She could not completely make out the shape of the beast but it was bulky and long with elephantine legs. Sarah and Fitzwilliam backed slowly back down the game path in silence and retreated until they found an alternative route.

"I thought you were about to start arguing with me," Fitzwilliam said.

"Of course not," Sarah replied loftily. "You are my superior officer so I assumed you had good reason for your ill manners."

Fitzwilliam's sardonic grin indicated that he did not believe a word.

"You mean you saw the saurian and thought better of it." Fitzwilliam said

"Was it one of the big predators?" Sarah asked.

"Do you know what animal is the most dangerous in Africa?" Fitzwilliam asked, answering a question with a question.

"Lions and tigers," Sarah replied, hazarding a guess. Zoology had not been on the curriculum at the Academy.

"Tigers are Indian," Fitzwilliam said, patronisingly. "The most dangerous animal in Africa is the hippo. Carnivores attack when hungry but big herbivores attack because they are bad-tempered sons of bitches, if you will pardon my French. That was a large plant eater."

The vegetation ended quite abruptly and the station was right in front of them in an area obviously recently cleared by fire. The fecund Venerean vegetation was already growing back through the blackened debris. It reached waist height in places so afforded them some degree of cover. Fitzwilliam pulled Sarah down beside him behind one of the new growths. He examined the station carefully but there was no sign of life.

It was larger than she had imagined, two stories high, and made from burnt ochre-coloured wood. Sarah assumed that that the Prussians had brought the planks down from the highlands of Ishtar Terra on their miniature railway as she had seen no suitable trees in the fara. What was odd was that there were no windows. Sarah had imagined something like a villa but the station was more like a warehouse.

"Why no stockade? Why no sentries?" Fitzwilliam asked, rhetorically. "This is far too easy. Maybe you should stay here, Miss Brown, while I have a closer look."

"No," Sarah said. "I'm coming with you."

"That's mutiny," Fitzwilliam said, conversationally. "I could have you shot for mutiny in the face of the enemy."

"I am not staying here," Sarah said, firmly.

"Women!" Fitzwilliam said, echoing Hind. "Come on then but keep down and stay behind me."

Rounding an orange bush, they came upon a semi-preserved head of a native atop a pole. Sarah studied it in horrified fascination. This was the first Venerean that she had seen. The head was slightly larger than a man's with a long snout filled with conical teeth. It was decorated with a ribbed crest that was collapsed like a lady's fan. The scaly skin reminded Sarah of a bird's leg. The head must have been up for some time as the eyes had collapsed inwards with desiccation. Similar gruesome totem poles marked a line to the left and right, presumably surrounding the station.

"So now we know how what happened to the local natives," said Fitzwilliam, mildly.

Sarah's had an attack of nausea. The world faded and distorted. She could hear the sound of a slowly turning wheel. Its axle needed greasing as it squeaked on every revolution. She pulled herself together as this was no time to have a fit of the vapours. The totem was horrible but strangely fascinating in a revolting sort of way. It called to her so she reached out.

"Don't do that," Fitzwilliam said, grabbing her wrist. "There are no flies."

"What?" Sarah asked, shaking her head.

"No flies," Fitzwilliam said.

"They don't like our smell," Sarah said, confused.

"But why are there no flies or scavengers on the head?" Fitzwilliam asked. "Let's try a little experiment."

Fitzwilliam carefully captured a butterfly in his cupped hands. He tossed it towards the totem pole. It fluttered impotently, unable to fly properly as Fitzwilliam had damaged its wings. Sarah considered reprimanding him for his clumsiness. The butterfly flared with yellow witch-fire as it passed the pole.

"The steward on my family's estate experimented with galvanically charged wire to keep sheep out of the kitchen garden," said Fitzwilliam. "It didn't work that well and mother's spaniels kept getting shocks so we soon went back to using fences but the principle is sound, don't you think?"

Sarah sensed an unrelenting hunger from the totem.

"It sucks you in," Sarah said, shuddering. "It wants to kill."

Sarah enthasised the totem. A storm of turbulence in the aether thinned the wall dividing the spirit world from that of the living. She felt fear, pain and hatred.

"There's black magic here," Sarah said.

"I thought pilots insisted that there was no such thing as magic," said Fitzwilliam, teasingly.

"Stop playing games," Sarah said, angrily. "You knew what we would encounter. That's why you wanted me to pilot you."

"I did not know," Fitzwilliam said, carefully, "but the NID had suspicions and you have demonstrated a fair competence in neutralising negative Odic flux."

He used the academic term for black magic, presumably to pacify her.

"I need to get closer to the station. I can't do much from here. Somehow we have to get through that barrier."

Sarah licked her lips. She knew what she had to do but this could all go terribly wrong. She doubted her ability. She recited the Spiritualist prayer of calming and felt a little better. She reminded herself that if she failed she would be dead. She took comfort that then she would be beyond blame.

"I wonder what would happen if I smashed up one of the totems by shooting the head?" Fitzwilliam asked, drawing his revolver. "The spaniels at home learned to earth the galvanic fence by knocking down the wooden posts."

"No!" Sarah said. "You might create a hole and let something out."

Fitzwilliam gave her an old-fashioned look but holstered his gun without argument.

"I need to go into a trance," Sarah said. "You will be sure to shoot me in the head if I don't wake up or become something else?"

"You may rely on me do what is necessary," Fitzwilliam replied, his voice flat and unemotional. "I expect you to be very careful in return."

She nodded and closed her eyes. It would be very easy to slip into the spirit world here but she still prayed for Captain Hind's help. She suspected she would need him to face whatever was on the other side. A strong arm encircled her waist and lifting her through.

* * *

She was in a hot and humid jungle. Palm trees nodded in a sea wind that smelt of salt. She could hear the distant rhythmic booming of surf. A bird cawed sardonically as if sneering at her. A thud made her jump. A coconut rolled gently down the sandy soil to rest at her feet.

"Coconuts are about the most dangerous threat on the islands after fever," Hind said, gloomily. "Many a man has had his brains dashed out by a coconut."

"I don't intend to be here long enough to catch a fever," Sarah replied. "We'll just have to risk the coconuts."

Sarah studied the barrier while she spoke.

Posts topped with newts' heads stretched to each side. They existed in both worlds simultaneously but here in the spirit world she could see the boiling sheet of fire that ran between and above them. Red and orange flames shot up, hissing like raindrops on a hot plate. Black shadows danced in the flames making obscene gestures at her. The slow axle squeak of a giant wheel sounded.

Sarah was at a loss how to proceed. She was not a witch despite the Church's suspicions. Magic was a taboo subject at the Pilots Academy as the Navy did not officially acknowledge its existence. The girls gossiped among themselves about illicit practices and some of their more radical tutors offered advice but she was not a witch. She clung to that thought.

Magic was essentially about having the willpower and the creativity to shape the spirit world. That was how the Spiritualist prayers and rituals used by pilots worked. It was not the words themselves that mattered but the focussing of will and intent to control odic force. This energy permeated all living things and was akin to other forces such as galvanic, heat or magnetism. Pilots utilised positive Odic flux to control neotic radiation and take aetherships through metastasis. Venus and Mars, let alone the stars, would be out of reach without pilot's skills. That was why pilots were tolerated by the Church, albeit under close stricture.

The barrier stank of negative flux. She approached it in the hope that a closer look would lead to some inspiration. The shadows congregated in the flames nearest her. One thrust an arm of writhing flame at her. Sarah slowed the shadow down by thickening time into treacle and but the attack was so very fast.

Hind pulled her to safety, ignoring her treacle prayer. Sarah could feel burning rage from the shadow at being denied.

"It's a good thing your spells don't work on me or you would have been roasted like a winter chestnut," Hind said.

Sarah considered the barrier. The spiked heads bound the newts' spirits into the flames as shadows. She wondered about the function of the wooden poles. Maybe they really did keep the barrier from being earthed? She knelt down to check and discovered that the flames did not touch the ground. The gap was only a few inches but it was there. Fitzwilliam really was rather clever.

Sarah prayed for strength. She prayed to Astarte as Queen of Heaven. She implored Asherah, using the prayer offered by the Bronze Age Maryannu to the shining Morning Star. Her prayers were answered. She felt the touch of the Goddess' hand burning on her shoulder. She prayed to the Goddess to intercede on her behalf with the God in his avatar as Posedawone, who was worshipped as the Earthshaker at Mycenae Rich in Gold.

Sarah felt more than heard the grinding of stone. A wave of earth rippled towards the barrier. The barrier flared bright yellow and white then the collapsed into with a flash that left purple after images on Sarah's vision. Newt heads lay charred and broken on the ground.

Sarah could see a large wooden structure now it was no longer hidden by the flames. It was a water wheel of the sort that still powered mills in the more rural parts of the British Isles, except that there was no mill. The wheel turned slowly in mid air, its axle squeaking with each revolution despite having nothing to rub against.

"Is that something that you are likely to do often?" Hind asked, brushing something unidentifiable off his jacket.

"Hmmm?" Sarah watched the wheel in fascination.

"If so, you might give me some warning," Hind said.

"I wonder what keeps that wheel up?" Sarah asked. "Things can get pretty weird on the other side but water wheels still usually involve water."

"Why do you always have to go looking for trouble?" Hind asked.

Sarah was too interested to listen. There was no reason why a mill wheel in the spirit world should be attached to a mill but objects tended to follow a certain natural logic. Her curiosity was piqued so she put her hand out.

"Sarah," Hind asked. "Is that wise?"

"It's just a water wheel. What harm can it cause?" Sarah asked.

Hind just groaned in reply and muttered something about Oliver Cromwell's genitals. He had a tendency to be clucky and over protective where she was concerned so Sarah ignored his misgivings.

She touched the wood and her mind dropped into a dark pit of despair. Newts armed with stabbing spears ran in a circle along a fixed track from which they could not deviate. Each newt cut at the back of the newt in front to make it go faster so that the striker could try to escape the cuts from the newt behind. Each cut inflicted savage pain that spurred the victim forward. The newts were locked in an eternal cycle of misery.

Black Odic flux flowed from each new wound, spiralling into the centre of the circle to create a vortex of black magic that drained into the living world. The wheel generated continuous power for black magic similar to the way engineers generated galvanic flux. Sarah had never thought that anything could be so ingeniously evil. It had to be stopped.

Sarah felt a prickle on the back of her neck as if a sentient malevolence watched her from behind. She jerked her hand away and the pit of despair vanished. The water wheel was just a wooden structure again.

"You could not leave well alone, could you?" Hind asked. "What did you do?"

"What?" Sarah replied.

Hind pointed.

Flesh grew out of the necks of the newt heads like sausage meat pushed out of a grinder. It pulsed and spurted bloodlessly, intestines and blood vessels writhing. The meat formed torsos, arms and legs until Sarah and Hind were ringed by newts that had also grown stabbing spears. Their heads were still wizened and burnt but the empty eye sockets shone with a sickly green light.

The newts closed in, walking on their hind legs with a shuffling gait. They held their tails high and swung them from side to side for balance. Sarah would have been fascinated if she had not been so terrified.

Hind uttered an oath that Sarah chose not to understand and drew his pistols from shoulder belts. Sarah slipped one from a loop inside her dress. Hind discharged both his firearms so quickly that it sounded like a single shot. A newt went over backward with its head pulped by a ball. A second dropped without a sound with a smashed pelvis but it continued to crawl towards them using its arms. Sarah fired and missed.

"The wheel is the key," she said. "That is their source of power. Hold the newts off while I disable it."

She dropped the pistol. She had sounded confident for Hind's benefit but she really had no idea what to do. How do you disable a water wheel that must be four yards high? She considered fire but that would be too slow. The wheel rotated inexorably.

Hind's pistols went off again behind her followed by the rasp of his sabre leaving its scabbard. She looked over her shoulder. Hind charged the newts to take the attack to his slow-moving foe. A phrase from Sarah's naval strategy lectures passed through her mind—defeat in detail. Speed could negate numbers. She thrust the thought down. The mind retreated into inane trivia when faced with an immediate and seemingly insoluble problem.

Hind cut the head of one newt and slashed another across the belly on the back swing. The headless body dropped but the other newt ignored his terrible wound. He still stabbed at the highwayman despite his intestines falling out in loops.

The highwayman was in a fight for their lives, well, her life. Come on Sarah, there must be a way, she thought. The grinding squeak of the rotating wheel mocked her impotence. Her butterfly mind noted that axle would wear out if someone did not grease it soon and where would the miller be then?

That was it. She did not need to destroy the wheel. She just had to stop it rotating and you stopped a wheel by jamming the axle. Sarah drew her knife and prayed again to Astarte. It was tempting fate to try the patience of the Goddess too often but she was sure Astarte would smile upon her efforts to remove this evil blemish from her Morning Star.

Sarah held the knife above her head in both hands and prayed. Lightning erupted from the clear blue sky and struck the blade. Sarah's hands were miraculously unhurt by the white-hot knife. Thunder detonated in a long roll drowning out the squeaking wheel.

Sarah stabbed the projecting end of the wooden axle with all her strength. The glowing blade plunged deep until she smelt burning wood. The axle shattered into splinters with a crack like a drover's whip. Sarah heard the roar of a great wind and the spirit world folded in on her like a crushed egg box.

* * *

"Sarah, Sarah."

The voice kept calling to her when she wanted to sleep. It could not be time to go to fetch water from the pump yet? Why was it always her turn in the morning? Why couldn't her brothers help?

"Sarah, Sarah."

The voice wouldn't leave her alone? She opened her eyes in annoyance. It was not her mother but Fitzwilliam.

"You gave me quite a fright, Miss Brown. You stopped breathing and I couldn't find a pulse."

"You were supposed to shoot me if that happened," Sarah said, accusingly. "You promised."

"I promised to take appropriate action, which I deemed in this case to be resuscitation," Fitzwilliam said, testily.

"Oh!" Sarah said, wondering what he meant by resuscitation. She decided that she did not want to know. It was bound to be highly embarrassing.

"Did I knock the barrier down?" she asked.

She knew damn well she had but the question served to deflect him.

"You might say so," Fitzwilliam said, dryly.

He put an arm around her shoulders and raised her up. The Prussian Station looked as if it had been shelled by a battleship. Various parts had collapsed and black smoke poured from the debris.

"Oh!" Sarah said, again.

"Oh!" Fitzwilliam mimicked her. "Is that all you have to say for yourself? Really, Miss Brown, perhaps I should have simply dropped you on Berlin and saved myself all this tedious crawling around in swamps."

Sarah glared at him. She realised he was teasing her but somehow he always knew how to get under her skin.

"They were using foul magic to power their barrier. They must have drawn on the same flux inside the building as well. It serves them jolly well right," Sarah said, vehemently.

A nasty thought struck her.

"Did the techniques of Doctor Moreaux that the Empire used to spread disease among the Squids involve negative odic flux?" Sarah asked.

Fitzwilliam shrugged and looked away. That was an answer of a sort.

"This is too good an opportunity to miss. Stay here while I go inside and have a little look around in the confusion," Fitzwilliam said.

"Not on your life," Sarah said, rising to her feet. "I am going with you."

Fitzwilliam sighed. "Do you ever obey orders, Miss Brown?"

"I am not being marooned here on my own if you get yourself killed," she said, stubbornly.

"Very well, but stay close behind and try not to blow up anything else," Fitzwilliam said.

Fitzwilliam had a revolver in his right hand and a sword in his left when they gained entry to the station through a hole. Racks of plants were stacked well above head height filling the large high-ceilinged room. Bright, white Venerean sunlight flooded through skylights creating a greenhouse. Sarah wandered around the racks enjoying the scents until she found the body.

"Captain Fitzwilliam," Sarah said, backing away.

Fitzwilliam examined the badly mauled corpse.

"He's wearing a Prussian police uniform. That confirms our information that it is the Preußische Geheimpolizei rather than the Prussian military that run the station. Hello, what's this?" Fitzwilliam asked.

He picked up a strange looking pistol from beside the body.

"One of George Luger's P-08 automatic pistols," Fitzwilliam said. "How typically Prussian it is to favour design over practicality."

"Unlike our flying egg," Sarah said, to herself.

"What?" Fitzwilliam asked.

"Nothing," Sarah replied.

Fitzwilliam fiddled with the pistol.

"The toggle-lock mechanism's failed. The breech-lock is jammed on a cartridge."

Fitzwilliam pulled something on the back of the pistol and a spent cartridge fell out. He handed the gun to Sarah.

"You pull the trigger and it fires. It's supposed to reload itself but it will almost certainly jam on the first shot. The recoil from these little 7.65 rounds is not powerful enough to work the over-complicated mechanism. I suggest you just point it at someone in an emergency and try to look dangerous."

Fitzwilliam strode off before Sarah could think of a suitable reply—infuriating man. He walked boldly between the racks of plants, dangling a pistol lightly from his right hand. Sarah could not help but think that they should be sneaking along from rack to rack.

She heard the double crack of a gun fired somewhere in the complex. A scream cut off abruptly. Fitzwilliam started whistling a jaunty tune. He was probably trying to reassure her but she wished he would just shut up.

Sarah had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. She heard a wheezy cough and looked up. A green crocodile-head decorated with red striped vanes looked down at her from the other side of a rack. Yellow eyes examined her as dispassionately as a hawk studying a vole. A human leg hung out of the corner of its mouth. She noted that the leg still wore a highly polished black boot. How Prussian, she thought, while trying not to giggle.

The monster put its head on one side while it studied Sarah like a giant bird. She edged slowly away. She assumed that saurians were attracted by movement, like snakes or toads.

The monster suddenly threw its head back and swallowed the leg whole, making Sarah jump. Her movement triggered an immediate attack reflex. The saurian's head struck like a giant snake, scattering plants and pots in a cascade. Massive curved teeth snapped within inches of her face so close that she could smell the rotting meat jammed between them.

The Saurian crashed into the racks, tearing steel and shattering bolts. It heaved and stamped, trying to get through the obstacle.

"Oh my God, what have you done now?" Fitzwilliam asked.

"Me!" Sarah replied. "It's hardly my fault."

"Save your breath for running," Fitzwilliam said, dragging Sarah along the aisle by her hand.

The saurian announced its victory over the plant rack with a bellow of triumph. Sarah heard the thump of pursuing feet and could not help but look behind even though she knew she should just put her head down and run.

The saurian charged at a frightening pace. It ran with its body slung horizontally between two long legs shaped like turkey drumsticks. It gained on them with every impressive stride. Sarah tripped over something and fell flat on her back. The saurian gave another triumphant bellow. Its yellow eyes fixed on her like gun sights. Its clawed front legs reached out.

Fitzwilliam cursed and leapt over Sarah, placing his body between hers and those sabre-like teeth.

"Come on you overgrown chicken—if you think you're hard enough," Fitzwilliam said, drawing his sword and waving it in the saurian's face.

The Royal Navy had a certain reputation for reckless bravery against the odds but Sarah thought him as mad as a box of frogs.

The saurian stopped and reared up, attracted by the shiny metal object. Fitzwilliam fired three times into its underbelly. He might as well as thrown tennis balls at the monster. It snapped at the sword and Fitzwilliam drove the weapon home into its mouth. The monster shook its head, twisting the sword from Fitzwilliam's hand. It bit down, driving the sword-point deep into its upper jaw. The saurian pulled at its mouth with its front claws like an horrific parody of a pet rabbit cleaning its whiskers.

Fitzwilliam took careful aim and fired up at the head. The saurian dropped like an Exceptional Operations Infiltration Conveyance. It hit the ground right with a thump like a monstrous steam hammer. Sarah tried to scream but all that emerged was a pathetic squeak.

"Don't tell me that you have twisted your ankle like the heroine in a threepenny melodrama" said Fitzwilliam, coldly.

"There is nothing wrong with either of my ankles or anything else," Sarah said.

Fitzwilliam offered her his hand. She was tempted to snub him but she was rather shaken by events so she graciously accepted his assistance. The irritating man barely hid a grin as he helped her to her feet.

"Indeed not, Miss Brown. Everything has always seemed entirely ship shape and Bristol fashion to me," Fitzwilliam said,

"What do you make of this?" Fitzwilliam said, changing the subject before she could formulate a suitable comment about his uncouth forwardness.

He pointed to a newt's head sewn on just behind the saurian's skull, like a rose cultivar grafted onto a rootstock. A neat hole between the eyes showed where Fitzwilliam's shot had hit. The exit hole left by the heavy revolver bullet was a good deal more ragged.

"I suppose the traitorous technician, Kilstett I think you called him, has been experimenting with Dr Moreaux's vivisection techniques," Sarah said.

"Obviously," Fitzwilliam said, patiently, as if talking to a small child. "I meant this."

He indicated a colourful tuft of plant material near the Newt's ear. Sarah noticed the material was twisted around a copper wire projecting from a hole drilled into the skull. She touched the talismanic object and enthasised. She detected a memory of sour magic like the smell left in one's larder by a bad kipper that persisted no matter how hard you scrubbed with carbolic soap.

"I see," Sarah said, quietly.

"What do you see?" Fitzwilliam asked.

"The Prussians controlled the saurian through the newt's head. Saurians are too stupid to enthral so they had to use the newt as an intermediary." Sarah looked at Fitzwilliam with greater respect. "It was clever of you to work all that out under pressure and recognise the newt's head as the monster's Achilles heel."

"Clever, be dammed." Fitzwilliam said, with a rueful smile. "I was aiming for the saurian's right eye and missed."

Sarah laughed.

"I cut the power off when I destroyed the water wheel so the saurian must have reverted to its natural instincts," Sarah replied. "That is why it ate the policeman."

"And a water wheel fits into this, where?" Fitzwilliam asked, puzzled.

Sarah tried to collect her thoughts and explain.

"Never mind," Fitzwilliam said. "Tell me later. The point is that we might meet more saurians running wild."

"Or other things," Sarah replied.

"That's the cat's pyjamas," Fitzwilliam said. He swore softly under his breath. "Come on."

They moved deeper into the station without being further challenged. Things scuttled into cover ahead of them.

"Probably just rats," Fitzwilliam said, the third or fourth time it happened.

"Rats, no doubt of it," Sarah replied, with no conviction whatsoever.

Another Prussian corpse sat with its back against a wall in a room full of medical equipment. It had the over-body sting from a four-foot long, multi-legged scorpion embedded in its torso. A sword skewered the scorpion to the wooden floor. Man and beast were locked together in a ghastly tableau, like an exhibit in a waxworks horror show.

The scorpion also had a newt's head grafted to its back. Sarah touched the talisman on the head and enthasised. The scorpion twitched reflexively, the gland in the sting pumping toxin into the Prussian. The "dead" Prussian moaned in pain. Sarah jumped back in shock, strangling a scream. She could have kicked herself. She was supposed to be a Royal Navy Pilot not some tremulous damsel. She gave Fitzwilliam a sideways glance but he did not seem to have noticed.

Fitzwilliam drew the Prussian's sword from the scorpion and cut off the grafted newt head. He kicked the scorpion's body away, pulling the sting from the Prussian. The man whimpered and muttered something in German. Sarah only had a little French, as was appropriate for a lady's education, so could not understand. Fitzwilliam knelt down and talked to the man in his own language.

"Kilstett's laboratory is this way," Fitzwilliam said, pointing.

The Prussian's face and fingers were swollen and turning purple. The man drew short, wheezy breaths.

"Can't we do something to help him?" Sarah asked.

"Of course," Fitzwilliam replied, cutting the man's throat.

"Oh!" Sarah said, putting her hand to her mouth.

"Don't look so shocked, Miss Brown. He's Prussian secret police. He would kill you or worse without a qualm," said Fitzwilliam.

"I know," Sarah said. "I was just startled, that's all."

Fitzwilliam led the way down a long corridor. The captain abandoned his pretence of insouciance. He moved stealthily investigating every doorway that they passed. They found only storage rooms filled with boxes. Sickly-sweet black smoke drifted through the air. Sarah gagged.

Sarah heard a faint clattering sound behind one door and plucked Fitzwilliam's sleeve. She put her finger to her mouth and gestured. He lifted her out of the way without so much as a "by your leave." Sarah glared at him. Ignoring her, he gently turned the handle and pushed the door open.

A telegraph operator was perched on a stool at a desk like a rook. He tapped out a message in a rapid staccato while reading from a note pad. Sarah had been taught the basic principles of morse code at the Academy but a professional operator was far too fast for her to follow. Fitzwilliam crossed the room in three quick strides. He struck the man hard across the skull with his revolver barrel. The operator flopped face down onto his desk. Fitzwilliam snatched up the note paper and scanned it.

"Damn, he has alerted Police Headquarters on Ishtar that the station has a problem," said Fitzwilliam.

"Couldn't you send another message telling them that the emergency is over," Sarah said.

"No, that would not be a good idea," Fitzwilliam said. "You can identify an operator by his fist so they would smell a rat right away."

"His fist?" Sarah asked.

"His hand, his style," Fitzwilliam replied, impatiently. "Come on."

Fitzwilliam strode through the station forcing Sarah to trot to keep up. It was so undignified.

"Can't you slow down?" Sarah asked.

"We are out of time, Miss Brown," Fitzwilliam snarled.

Rounding a corner, they bumped into three policemen. Fitzwilliam shot the first one before he could react. He slashed his borrowed sword across the second's torso. The man screamed and fell. The third turned to run but Fitzwilliam shot him in the back before he made three paces. The wounded Prussian tried to rise despite blood pouring from his chest. Fitzwilliam struck him on the crown with the sword's pommel.

The door at the end of the corridor hung partly off its hinges. It was badly scorched but Sarah could make out the word Verboten. Fitzwilliam cautiously pushed the door ajar to examine the interior. Running footsteps and a shout announced the arrival of more Prussians. Sarah spun round, raised her luger and took aim.

"Out of my way," Fitzwilliam threw her bodily through the doorway before she could fire. The door bounced off a stop and slammed shut behind her.

The backlash from the destruction of the water wheel had wrecked the room. It bore the scars of a series of explosions. Her shoes crunched on broken glass from shattered skylights. Wooden cabinets still burnt fiercely in one corner. Smoke poured along the roof until it exited through the nearest hole. Smashed up scientific glassware littered wooden cabinets and bench surfaces and fuming liquids dripped onto the floor. They filled the air with a cloying mix of sweet-smelling and acrid fumes.

The explosive detonation of pistols in an enclosed space sounded out in the corridor. She pointed her borrowed luger at the door. Another exchange of shots sounded followed by the metallic clash of swords—then silence.

The door eased open a few inches but stuck. Sarah took a tighter grip on her pistol, taking up the slack on the trigger. A boot connected hard with the other side of the door pushing it further back on the damaged hinge. Another kick and the door crashed down.

Fitzwilliam stepped across it. His face was white. Blood dripped down his left arm, which hung slackly at his side.

"You look terrible," Sarah said.

Fitzwilliam took one look in Sarah's direction and raised his pistol.

An arm clad in a white surgeon's coat went around her throat pulling her back against a man's chest. He seized her gun hand, forcing it up until the luger's barrel pressed into her cheek. The man put his forefinger on hers. One hard push and she would shoot her own face off.

"Let her go, Kilstett, or I'll kill you," Fitzwilliam said.

"I do not so think," Kilstett replied.

Sarah was surprised at his command of English then realised he would have worked in England with Moreaux.

"You will hardly risk the life of the charming English lady by shooting at me, not you, an English gentleman," Kilstett said, with a sneer.

"Miss Brown is an officer in the Royal Navy," Fitzwilliam said. "She is prepared to sacrifice her life for her duty if required."

Thanks very much but you might have asked me first, thought Sarah. She would probably have agreed but it was always nice to be consulted before being volunteered for certain death.

"You dare not shoot, stupid English pig. I open my hand and everyone dies," Kilstett said, confidently.

Sarah had failed to notice the conical glass flask gripped in the hand at the end of the arm that crushed her windpipe. She felt that she could be excused the omission under the circumstances.

"The fire destroyed most of my work," Kilstett said, tilting his head towards the burning cabinets. "Only this one flask remains of my brainchild. I call it the Gabriel Plague after the Angel of Death. It kills everyone, you comprehend, passing from person to person like a bushfire. The vaccines were in the cabinet that you set on fire with your witchery.

"I think the Gabriel Plague would depopulate the solar system if set free. What good will all your Navy's aetherships be then, Englishman?"

"You're lying," Fitzwilliam said. "All I see is a flask."

"But can you take that chance?" Kistett asked.

Sarah enthasised, reaching out towards the flask. She tasted the bitter flavour of negative flux magic. She could "see" little, wriggling daemons.

"He's telling the truth," she said.

Slowly, Fitzwilliam knelt and placed his revolver on the floor.

Sarah remembered something about the pistol held to her face. Fitzwilliam had told her that the luger would probably jam on the next round. She had a sporting chance that the gun would not fire. Sarah snapped her head to one side and bit down hard on the arm holding the flask. She did not stop until she tasted blood. Kilstett screamed and dropped the flask. He clamped down hard on her gun-hand. The pressure forced her finger onto the trigger and the luger went off in her face. The bullet missed but the flash and concussion blinded and half deafened her.

Kilstett dropped her and she pitched forward. She could enthasise the little daemons. Her mind saw them clearly dropping towards the floor. She fell after them. Everything was in slow motion. She heard the boom of Fitzwilliam's revolver but it was muffled as if it were fired from far away.

Sarah reached out to the daemons. She fell to her knees, hugging the flask safely to her bosom. Fitzwilliam's revolver fired again.

* * *

Sarah leaned back on the fireman's bench and rearranged her skirts. She tightened the ribbon knot on her boater. It was showing signs of coming off in the breeze as the little train built up speed.

Fitzwilliam pulled levers and tapped dials. She wondered what it was about railways that turned men into small boys? Fitzwilliam pulled a lanyard to make the whistle toot. He beamed at Sarah in delight. His enthusiasm was infectious and she soon smiled back.

"You took one hell of a risk." Fitzwilliam said.

"You said the luger would probably jam on the next round," Sarah replied, accusingly.

"I meant after it had fired!" Fitzwilliam said in exasperation. "I told you the problem was in the recoil mechanism."

"Well, I don't understand how lugers work," Sarah said. "You should have explained it better."

Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes.

"Won't the Prussians have some awkward questions for us when we turn up with their engine?" Sarah asked, deflecting him.

"We won't be going to the end of the line," Fitzwilliam replied. "The Service have an escape route laid out for us. We shall be taking the place of a fictional Sir Henry and Mrs Eggham who are honeymooners on the grand tour of the solar system."

He deployed the boyish smile with which he must have carried many a young lady's ramparts.

"We are expected at the Der Kleine Prinz tomorrow, Miss Brown. It has the reputation of being the most romantic and luxurious hotel in all Ishtar Terra. Our luggage has been sent on ahead. I believe our suite is called the Blumenmädchen—Flower Girl," Fitzwilliam said.

"I assume this Blumenmädchen is a honeymoon suite," said Sarah.

"We have to give verisimilitude to our false identities," Fitzwilliam said, defensively.

"Indeed," Sarah said. "No doubt it has a fine double bed for the romantically inclined honeymooners."

"That would be normal practice, Miss Brown," Fitzwilliam said.

Sarah hesitated. She was so tempted but then she caught the glint of triumph in Fitzwilliam's boyish smile.

"Does the honeymoon suite also have a comfortable sofa?" Sarah asked.

"I don't know," Fitzwilliam replied, warily. "Is that important?"

"It is if you are to enjoy a comfortable night," Sarah replied. "I, of course, will take the bed."

She enjoyed the look of consternation of Fitzwilliam's face. His smile evaporated like morning mist in the sun.

Sarah reached over to the lanyard and tooted the horn triumphantly.

* * *

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