A Curiosity of the Solar System E-Book

Ian Antony

• Herausgeber: Atmos Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Newearth Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 466

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Set in 1851, A Curiosity of the Solar System follows the adventures of Captain Ivor Hooke, an affable but rather undistinguished officer in the British army who has been sent on a mission of diplomacy to one of the farthest flung corners of the British Empire. Ivor is soon hurled in to a world of rebellious intrigue that sees him plotting his escape from a city suspended above the clouds while being pursued by the ruthlessly piratical Jebediah Craven. Throughout the course of his journey Ivor will encounter a curious collection of characters, contraptions and conspiracies while also embarking upon his own peculiar voyage of self-discovery.

Leseprobe

A Curiosity of the Solar System

by Ian Antony

Copyright ©2016 Ian Antony

Cover Art by Richard Morgan

Edited by Lesley Jones

ISBN 9783961127313

With thanks to those who have donated their precious time to read various versions of this novel prior to publication: Tim Souster, Will Elkerton, Richard Morgan, Paul Baker, Rachel Baker, Ed White, Ellen Holgate and of course Natalie Roper.

If you would like to order a hard copy of this book, or perhaps just have a chat with the author, please email him at [email protected]

For Natalie

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Ivor’s sleep was not a peaceful one. Normally fairly content when having a mid-afternoon snooze, today he was troubled with visions and sensations that he would subsequently have trouble fully articulating. Intangible streams of suffering and torment, the ear-piercing screams of men, fire and ash, dark terrifying firmaments, screeching machinery and the crack of thunder, all building to a great, awful crescendo like the crashing of a thousand cymbals… and then nothing. The world shrank into a tiny, virtually imperceptible dot; the silence pounded on his eardrums and a great void of nothingness washed over him.

Ivor woke with a start, perspiration from his forehead soaking the sleeve of his jacket on which it was rested. Troubled by his inexplicable and nightmarish visions, he stumbled over to his wash bowl and doused his face with a few healthy handfuls of cold water.

Eager to forget his unexpectedly turbulent post-lunch nap, he opened his small wooden medicine cabinet and poured himself a stiff glass of brandy before depositing himself back into the rather rigid wooden chair, one of which could be found in each of the officers’ cabins. He leaned his elbow on the small mahogany writing table and rested his chin on the palm of his hand as he gazed out of the cabin porthole with a hang-dog expression.

Ivor’s nightmarish vision seemed to have instantly plunged him into one of his mournful, reflective moods – moods that weren't conducive to doing anything particularly constructive, but which were something he took a sort of perverse, comforting pleasure wallowing in occasionally.

‘Life really is not fair,’ he complained to himself, a sentiment that up until that precise moment in time he hadn't been terribly fond of. It had always seemed to him that the only people who went around saying things like ‘well, life's not fair old boy!’ happened to be exactly the same people who were in fact most likely to be making the decisions that dictated the course of events in his life: decisions that, rather than provide any rational justification for, they tended to attribute to some sort of mystical, unwieldy, universal law of unfairness.

Not today, however. Today life certainly was most unfair, decided Ivor. The aftershock of his troubled sleep seemed to have awakened all manner of anxieties that he was usually so adept at repressing. These anxieties now gushed forth in an uncontrollable torrent and were, he supposed, infinitely preferable to dwell upon than the awful visions that had just been visited upon him as he slept.

This was the problem with long voyages. They gave Ivor far too much time with only himself for company, despite the various activities that the ship’s officers tended to participate in to keep the mind and body stimulated. He never was any good at chess, couldn’t stand the screeching of Major Perry’s violin, and there was only so much patience he had for practising swordplay. He always seemed so far away from the action (not always a bad thing, some might argue) that it seemed a fairly pointless exercise to attempt to hone the art of killing a man in a single combat. Besides, in all honesty he wasn't entirely sure he had the stomach for it.

It wasn't hard for Ivor to find a reason for his glum introspection. If anything there was too much to choose from. The stagnation of his military career over the course of the past five years was always a good place to start. It was a stagnation that had been precipitated by his elderly parents’ loss of nearly the entire Hooke family fortune in the Great Guano Scandal of 1846. An inheritance lost to bird shit.

Or perhaps he might choose to get in a stew about another of his favourite topics of despondency: the fact that he’d seen neither hide nor hair of his most beloved and betrothed Isabel Grenfell in half a decade?

No, not Isabel. That was too much to dredge up now. He’d save that particular subject for when he was sure he really had sufficient time to luxuriate in some all-encompassing self-pity. Today, instead, he opted for something far more immediate: his latest posting. Last month he had received orders that he was to be unceremoniously plucked from the safe haven of his admittedly dull but decidedly unperilous administrative duties at Horse Guards, the offices of the Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces Sir Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, and dispatched to one of the farthest-flung corners of the British Empire. Although the exact details of the task in hand remained something of a mystery to Ivor, and would doubtless remain so until Lieutenant Colonel Craythorn decided otherwise, he understood that the mission of the company to which he was assigned was a diplomatic one rather than an overtly military undertaking.

This, at the very least, provided Ivor with a small amount of comfort being, as he was, rather fond of his own skin and not being one who felt that he was necessarily best equipped to go risking it on behalf of Queen and country. That wasn’t to say that Ivor was not a patriot; more that he understood where his limited talents lay and how best they might be utilised in the service of the British Empire – even if everyone else did not.

Ivor stirred from his daydreaming with a jolt as a loud crash reverberated through the floor of his cabin from the deck below, closely followed by the sound of orders being shouted in a deep, guttural tone and men generally yelling, bickering, and moaning at each other as they attempted to undo whatever mishap had just befallen them. This was not an atypical occurrence on HMS Cranleigh, as Ivor had discovered after nearly a fortnight on board – a fortnight that was yet to see him be granted an audience with his commanding officer Lieutenant Colonel Craythorn, although with just over three months to go until they reached their destination, there was little point rushing these things, Ivor supposed.

Ivor's attention again turned to the world outside. As he gazed at the stars twinkling in the vast blackness of the heavens, his thoughts, quite against his express wishes, began to meander back to that fateful day five years ago, a day since when he had never again laid eyes on his beloved Isabel. No matter how many times he replayed the events of that day, the outcome was still the same: his betrothed had fled and no one, absolutely no one, knew where to find her.

There was a sharp rap on the cabin door.

‘Captain Hooke, sir?’ enquired a rather boyish voice from the other side.

Ivor shuddered. He could just imagine the barely suppressed grin now spreading across the face of his young visitor, a frequent occurrence since Ivor's now long distant promotion to captain, with people taking constant delight in reminding Ivor how very piratical his name sounded when combined with his rank. It was rather funny he supposed, the first couple of times, but with no further promotion in sight, it seemed like a bad joke that he was destined to live with for the rest of his career.

‘Yes, come in,’ said Ivor, somewhat testily.

A fresh-faced Lieutenant Willy popped his head round the door. Ivor breathed something near to a sigh of a relief. Charles Willy was a nice young enthusiastic fellow. He'd only met him a couple of weeks ago at the start of the voyage, but he seemed a sincere sort of a person who didn't appear to be the type to poke fun at others. Ivor, feeling a touch guilty about his initial curtness, gave Lieutenant Willy a broad smile and a wink.

‘Charles! How are you, old chap? Was that you creating mischief in the hold a moment ago? Hell of racket down there.’

A rather panicked look spread across Lieutenant Willy's face.

‘Um, well, no sir. No, I think that was… well I'm not entirely sure what…’

‘Don’t worry, Charles,’ interrupted Ivor jovially, saving the lieutenant further embarrassment. ‘I'm just pulling your leg, old boy. We'll leave all that crashing about below deck to the crew. We infantrymen will have to find other ways to keep ourselves occupied during this interminable voyage, won't we? Talking of which, how can I help you, Lieutenant?’

‘Ah yes, indeed we must, sir,’ replied Lieutenant Willy, looking relieved. ‘Um, it's just that the colonel requests the honour of your presence in his quarters… right away if you don't mind, sir?’

So he would get to meet old Craythorn today after all, thought Ivor. Maybe some light would even be shed on just what they were doing so far from home.

‘The colonel wants to see me, does he? Any idea what this is about?’

As if on cue, the ship’s bell began to ring in furious alarm. The distinctive voice of the ship’s master began to reverberate throughout the Cranleigh’s hull, bellowing in his gruff Lancashire accent to make himself heard over the din of the bell.

‘Newearth to the fore!’ he shouted. ‘Newearth to the fore!’

Lieutenant Willy looked at Ivor and cupped a hand to his ear in a rather showy attempt to listen to the master’s plainly audible cries.

‘Not exactly sir, but I suspect that has something to do with it. He's been in there with Major Perry. They've been poring over maps and charts all morning…’

The major was Craythorn's second in command – a shrewd and rather cold character.

‘Fine, well, no time like the present,’ said Ivor. ‘Let's go and see what old Craythorn wants then, shall we Willy?’

Ivor turned back to his desk to retrieve his shako, a piece of headgear that had turned out to be decidedly cumbersome in the small confines of a ship. As he did so he took one last look at the outside world.

The stars shone as brightly as ever in the vastness of space. As he narrowed his eyes, the simultaneously familiar yet utterly alien spectacle of Newearth came into view through his cabin porthole. It was the first time Ivor had seen Earth’s mysterious doppelganger in person and he felt a strange sense of foreboding as HMS Cranleigh made her way to rendezvous with the small British fleet stationed just outside its orbit. Foreboding was a funny sort of feeling for Ivor. He was quite used to a bit of melancholy punctuated by a dash of anxiety here and there, but foreboding was a sensation quite new to him, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he was that fond of it.

Ivor gazed upon the outline of Newearth’s equivalent of the African continent with a glazed look in his eyes. As he peered beyond the recently discovered planet’s warm blues and verdant greens he was sure he could just about see the rapidly shrinking outline of Earth millions of miles away – a mere pinprick now, soon to disappear from view entirely for who knew how long.

His home was soon to vanish from before his very eyes, just as Isabel had vanished all of those years ago.

1

On the twelfth of August 1851, three months and ten days after launching from Her Majesty’s Naval Base, Portsmouth, HMS Cranleigh reached her eagerly anticipated destination: the British Empire’s far-flung colony on the mesmerising blue planet of Neptune. As the Royal Navy ship began her descent into the planet’s upper atmosphere, Ivor noted to himself that the blues of Neptune felt nothing like the blues of Earth (nor indeed Newearth, for that matter). They were richer, deeper, and somehow more enchanting – and quite a sight to behold. The atmosphere aboard the ship was one of sheer, unbridled excitement, not least because after three months in space, the prospect of escaping the cramped confines of the Royal Navy frigate was at last a very real one.

‘Brace for entry!’ came the call from the ship’s master. As the call was repeated and echoed down the length of the Cranleigh, Ivor joined the scramble for one of the seats that lined the walls of the officers’ wardroom. Upon finding one he fastened himself in with the leather straps with which all the seats were equipped. To remain standing during atmospheric entry was inadvisable, unless one enjoyed the sensation of feeling one’s legs buckle suddenly, depositing you on the floor like some sort of ungainly human pancake.

Ivor had only done this a couple of times before, and it should come as no surprise that it wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. The Cranleigh started to judder and jolt as its hull, unperturbed by the vacuum of space for so long, began to meet resistance from Neptune’s atmosphere. The juddering increased in intensity to a violent shake. The ship rattled uncontrollably and a crash was heard from the galley as some cooking utensil or other that an inexperienced cabin boy had neglected to stow away properly managed to escape.

The Cranleigh was now well within Neptune’s upper atmosphere, her crew ready for the real fun to begin. The frigate began to plummet towards the planet’s surface, dropping like a lead weight under the force of Neptune’s gravity, surely to be smashed to smithereens unless something was done about it.

But, of course, everything was perfectly under control. Those who had undergone atmospheric entry many times before sat stony faced, allowing the procedure to unfold, while those with a bit more joie de vivre, on the other hand, and particularly those fond of fairground rides, couldn’t help but whoop and holler in delight at the exhilarating sensation of free falling. Ivor was most certainly not in this camp, and hung on to his harness for dear life as he tried not to think of the planet’s surface rushing towards them at hundreds of miles per hour.

After what seemed like an age, but was in fact just ten seconds or so, the call that Ivor had been waiting for finally came.

‘Release the balloons!’ ordered the master.

At that point, two huge balloons unfurled from two squat little chimney-like structures that stood where the masts would have been on a terrestrial sailing ship. The sound of atomic burners firing up could be heard reverberating through the ship’s hull as the two balloons rapidly inflated with hot air in just a matter of seconds. Suddenly, as the balloons reached the requisite inflation levels to support the weight of the ship, the Cranleigh’s dramatic descent was arrested with a huge jolt (not to mention another crash from the galley).

Ivor, realising that he hadn’t drawn breath for quite some time and was starting to feel decidedly giddy about it, exhaled loudly. The worst of it was now over and he hoped, all being well, that it would be plain sailing from then on in – figuratively speaking, of course. In stark contrast to the turbulent nature of atmospheric entry, HMS Cranleigh now cut a far more graceful figure as she gently glided through Neptune’s spectacularly hued sky, suspended under two inflatable orbs and powered by two side-mounted steam-driven propellers.

Ivor unstrapped himself from his chair and called over to Lieutenant Willy who was doing the same on the other side of the wardroom. ‘Fancy poking your head above deck, Charles? I think we’ve had quite enough of this fetid air, don’t you?’

After three months of breathing the increasingly stale recycled air aboard the Cranleigh, those members of the ship’s crew who didn’t have duties below deck had exactly the same idea. There was something of a rush to get out into the fresh air and stretch one’s legs after months of being cooped up and Ivor couldn’t wait to clamber on to the ship’s deck. There was an excitable hubbub of activity as men lined the ship’s railings and chattered eagerly about what they would do when they finally reached port.

Some of the chatter was savoury, and some, well, some was a little less so.

‘’Ere lads, I’m gonna find me the cheapest knocking shop in New Newcastle and get as many dolly mops in the sack as I can for a shilling…’

The able skyman, obviously not wanting to offend the sensibilities of two officers, trailed off with a slightly embarrassed look on his face as he came to face to face with Ivor and Lieutenant Willy, who had elbowed their way through the throng to the ship’s railings. Ivor had heard it all before, but Lieutenant Willy looked a little awkward in the face of such outright bawdiness.

‘As you were, skyman,’ said Ivor jovially. ‘Charles, take a look at this. What a sight, hey?’

The two officers rested their elbows on the railings and peered down to Neptune’s surface three miles beneath them. It was a cloudless day and a desert-like, storm-scarred landscape was clearly visible down below. Ivor closed his eyes and took his first deep breath of fresh air in three months.

Lieutenant Willy excitedly referred to the copious reference material that he and Ivor had been poring over for the last couple of months. ‘The Great Solanum Desert! They say it’s named after a particularly hardy breed of potato that’s taken root there. Darwin discovered it growing on a beach in Chile, don’t you know! Who’d have thought it, sir?’

Ivor had actually met the great botanist, Darwin, by chance several years previously, but couldn’t honestly say that he’d got on to the topic of potatoes with him. He let Lieutenant Willy continue enthusiastically, not wishing to interrupt him.

The process of atmosphorming had resulted in some areas of Neptune being able to sustain some really rather verdant grasslands and forests, but the Great Solanum Desert was an exception. Occupying a vast tract of land comparable in size to the Indian subcontinent, it was this desert-like region in which Neptune’s rich mineral deposits were primarily found and, consequently, where most of Neptune’s population had to situate themselves whether they liked it or not. In the centre of the desert stood, or rather floated, Neptune’s principle city of New Newcastle, towards which HMS Cranleigh now steadily wended her way.

‘Good lord. There it is, Charles. New Newcastle. Quite spectacular if I do say so!’

Spectacular was certainly one way of putting it. As Neptune’s capital city slowly floated into view, the astonishment of the crew was audible as they oohed and ahhed (not to mention cursed) in amazement at the sight before them. For there, suspended beneath a network of a hundred thousand balloons, floated a city of almost unparalleled splendour. Its architecture was quite extraordinary and Ivor could only think to describe it as a bizarre combination of the gothic revival that was so in vogue back on Earth, and a sort of Moorish or Moroccan fort-like sensibility.

Cornices, crestings, crenels, and chimneys punctuated a landscape of towers and bastions connected by a series of lofty walkways, passages, and bridges. The city was awash with dark reds and yellows, which alleviated the slightly austere atmosphere conjured up by the more gothic architectural elements, not to mention the shadows cast by the thousands of balloons floating above, each connected to the city by a series of robust steel cables. Emanating from the bowels of the city Ivor could see a huge steel pipeline descending to the surface of the planet below – a pipeline that would ferry the fruits of the mining operations beneath the surface of the desert to the merchant ships docked in the city’s port, way up above.

New Newcastle’s docks sat at the southernmost edge of the city – a series of platforms and bays into which ships of the stars could gently nestle their hulls when not in flight. As the Cranleigh approached New Newcastle, Ivor could see that the docks below were hives of activity. He could hear orders being shouted in the distance as hundreds of men rushed around arranging themselves into parade-ground formation – no doubt their official reception committee, he thought to himself.

The ship’s crew was ushered away from their idle gawking and took up their stations as the Cranleigh prepared to dock. Lieutenant Colonel Craythorn and Major Perry appeared alongside Ivor and Lieutenant Willy.

‘Remember, men, this is a mission of diplomacy. Governor Wyatt may be stubborn as an old mule, but we are here to charm and flatter him,’ cautioned Craythorn.

‘And failing that, sir?’ enquired Ivor.

‘And failing that we will subjugate him,’ said Craythorn, before adding in a slightly milder tone, ‘but one thing at a time, Captain. One thing at a time.’

As Major Perry continued to remind Ivor and Lieutenant Willy of the details of their mission on Neptune, Ivor’s mind started to wander back to his first audience with the major and his commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Craythorn, two months previously just outside Newearth’s orbit…

‘Right, Hooke. It's about time we brought you up to speed with what exactly is going on here,’ barked Major Perry.

‘Right hook? Oh, very good, Major!’ said an amused-looking Colonel Craythorn. ‘Have a good right hook do we, Captain? Like a bit of scrap, hmm?’

Ivor was standing rather stiffly at one end of his commanding officer's quarters. Opposite him, behind an oak desk strewn with dusty ledgers and old astral charts, sat Lieutenant Colonel Craythorn, a thin, wiry man with a long nose and a twinkle in his eye. Beside him stood his second in command Major Perry – a stout fellow with a luxuriant moustache not quite long enough to cover an unsightly boil on his right cheek.

‘Well, I don't know about that, sir. I mean, I've never really been a believer in nominative determinism. I’m really not sure I’m the type who likes a scrap to be honest…’

‘Nominative what, Hooke?’ interrupted Major Perry.

‘Nominative determinism! Do keep up, Major,’ chirped old Craythorn. ‘Very good, Hooke. Very good, although that's not what I've heard,’ he said with a wink. ‘By all accounts, a bit of a scrap is exactly what you do like.’

The Colonel steadied a pair of pince-nez on his impressive nose and brought a sheaf of papers in to focus in front of him.

‘“Twelfth September 1846: Caught duelling with an officer of the Queen’s Royal Rifles at Leith Hill Tower shortly after dawn”, it says here, Hooke. “Frightful racket. Terrified the local deer.”’

The Colonel peered at Ivor over the top of his glasses. ‘Duelling, Hooke!’ And then after a pause, with a slightly wistful look in his eyes, ‘Matter of the heart was it, Captain? Nothing like a duel over the honour of a fine young lady. Good to hear that chivalry isn't dead…’

‘Well, um, it wasn't exactly like that, sir. I didn't exactly want to…’

But the Colonel wasn't listening. Lost in his own thoughts he stared into the distance. ‘Duelling. A fine tradition among young men. I remember the good old days. I'd be duelling twice a month if I had the chance! Elizabeth was awfully generous when I returned from a good bout of duelling…’

Major Perry and Ivor exchanged rather awkward glances.

Suddenly, the Colonel remembered himself and snapped back to life. ‘But, of course, duelling has been banned for some time in the British army, Hooke. A fact of which I'm sure you are well aware. We'll have no duelling under my command. Isn't that so, Major Perry?’

‘Indeed it is, sir,’ intoned the major gravely.

‘Of course, Colonel. It really was rather a one off,’ said Ivor. ‘Besides, pistols at dawn and suchlike has never really been my forte.’

He didn't really think it was worth dredging up the past any more than necessary. Besides, going into more detail would only serve to pour cold water over the rather chivalric version events that Craythorn had apparently conjured up in his mind: a version of events that seemed to have already given the old colonel a respect of sorts for Ivor.

‘Ah, modest as well, hey Hooke? The British army could use a few more cut from your cloth, that's for sure. Anyway, where were we, Major Perry?’

The rather dour major raised an eyebrow at the colonel's last comment, looked at Ivor, and said, ‘The slave trade, Hooke. Pay much attention to it?’

Ivor, slightly taken aback at this rather abrupt change of topic, and feeling somewhat incapable of doing justice to such a broad question about such a globally divisive issue on the spur of the moment, simply muttered, ‘Slavery? Well, um, it's a terrible business isn't it, sir? We banned it some time ago though, didn't we?’

‘Quite, Hooke. The Slavery Abolition Act 1833. An Act for the Abolition of Slavery throughout the British Colonies; for promoting the industry of the manumitted slaves; and for compensating the persons hitherto entitled to the services of such slaves.’

‘“Am I not a man and a brother?” and all that sort of thing, sir?’

Major Perry looked across at Ivor with a suspicious look on his face. ‘What was that, Hooke?’

‘Oh, oh just something I saw once at Josiah Wedgwood’s home, sir. The anti-slavery medallion designed by his father. It was on display at his home on Leith Hill.’

‘Hmm. That may well be, Hooke, but we’ll have no more talk about that non-conformist thank you very much. This is a serious business, Hooke.

‘Slaves helped Great Britain build an empire the likes of which the world has never before seen,’ continued Major Perry in his rather officious growl, ‘but of course we must move with the times.

‘The thing is, Hooke, it's one thing parliament passing an act from the comfort of the benches of Westminster, and quite another thing actually enforcing it. Particularly where the colonies are concerned…’

‘And particularly where the celestial colonies are concerned!’ interrupted Craythorn. ‘Sorry, do continue, Major Perry.’

Major Perry continued to explain to Ivor how news of the 1833 Slavery Act was communicated to the colonies as soon as it was passed. They quickly fell into line: Venus, Mercury… the Governor of Mars even rather sheepishly informed Whitehall that he'd already freed all the slaves who'd travelled on his atmosphorming ship some time ago. But Governor McAdams always was a liberal sort.

There was, however, one exception. The rather curt response came from the Governor ofNeptune, to the effect that he would be happy to free the colony's slaves as long as parliament was happy to see a significant reduction in the quantity of titanium that Neptune’s slaves worked so hard to mine – an export upon which the British Empire's military might was very much dependent. It was a delicate situation. Having learned from the American War of Independence, parliament was cautious when it came to antagonising the colonies – particularly those in the furthest reaches of space.

‘The impudence of it!’ spluttered Craythorn. ‘We can't have the colonies defying Her Majesty's government, going off willy-nilly doing as they please,’ and then after a short pause, ‘Governor Wyatt always was a contrary old coot, but the British Empire simply cannot afford to have the man cultivating his own personal fiefdom on the edge of the solar system. It will not do!’

Much as on its Earthly colonies, Great Britain's planetary colonies were ruled by carefully selected governors chosen for their supposed loyalty to the Crown along with the wit and iron constitution so very much needed to sow the seeds of civilisation in their respective domains. Some had travelled on the initial atmosphorming ships thirty years before, while others were relatively new appointments where the previous incumbent had retired or expired. Governor Wyatt fell into the former category. Now over seventy years old, the ex-Royal Navy man had a reputation for being a shrewd and ruthless ruler.

‘So why have we stood for it for so long, if you don't mind me asking, sir?’ pitched in Ivor, desperately trying to find a good balance between sounding inquisitive and sounding informed. ‘I mean, it's been eighteen years since the act was passed.’

Colonel Craythorn sighed and switched to a more resigned tone. ‘Well yes, why indeed, Hooke. It's the mines you see. As Major Perry has explained, no one produces titanium quite like Neptune does. Too economically important to the Empire, you see. The East India Company managed to get an exemption from the slavery ban, a precedent that Governor Wyatt has been all too happy to remind us of, and as we well know the company has been quite the piggy bank for the Crown.’

All men are equal, unless there's a tidy profit to be made, Ivor thought wryly, a thought which he wisely chose to keep to himself.

‘And then of course there's the matter of proximity,’ continued Craythorn. ‘It's very hard to keep a dog on a leash when the dog in question is three billion miles away, and when the hand at the end of the leash is busy doing other things. But we can no longer let this sleeping dog have its day. We must bring this dog to heel! Do you follow me, Hooke?’

Ivor, trying desperately to untangle the barrage of metaphors that Craythorn had just fired at him, nodded furiously in agreement.

Major Perry continued. ‘Neptune no longer has quite the monopoly on titanium production that Governor Wyatt thinks it does. Discoveries have been made by surveyors on Newearth that will help bring the production of titanium much closer to home. The time is ripe to bring Neptune back into line and remind Wyatt where his loyalties lie. Which is exactly what we are going to do, Hooke.’

‘And presumably arrange for Neptune's slaves to be freed, too, Major?’ enquired Ivor sheepishly.

‘Yes, yes, that too, Hooke,’ said the major with a rather dismissive wave of the hand.

Craythorn, eager to cut to the chase now, looked at Ivor and said, ‘A company of the Queen’s Royal Rifles has been posted on Neptune for eight months now, Captain. A show of force if you will. Wyatt doesn't seem to have got the message though, so we're going to take a rather different tack as it were: diplomacy, Hooke. It seems like a rather novel idea, but the prime minister thought that we may as well… well, try talking to Wyatt.

‘This is where you come in. Major Perry and I will be handling the doubtless thorny negotiations with the governor, while you, Hooke, will be keeping your nose to the ground, recording anything and everything you see pertinent to our mission.’

‘Anything and everything, sir? That's rather a lot of, well, things, isn't it?’

‘It is indeed, Captain,’ said the colonel with an encouraging wink (the colonel seemed to do a lot of winking. Ivor started to wonder if it was in fact some sort of nervous tick), ‘and you are just the man for the job. We've heard good things about your time in The Kingdom of Nepal. Got on well with the Gurkhas, got on with things with minimum fuss, detailed dispatches back to Horse Guards and all that. Just the man for the job.’

‘Well yes, umm, thank you, sir.’

‘To be frank, Hooke, if these negotiations break down then a military expedition somewhat larger than just a paltry company of riflemen is going to be required to deal with Neptune. Any military manoeuvres must be based on intelligence and detail. Intelligence and detail that you will record and report back to Major Perry on a daily basis. Understand, Captain?’

‘Intelligence and detail. Absolutely,’ said Ivor, sensing that this was probably about as specific as his orders were going to get. And then he added cheerily, not really sure what else to say, ‘Happy to be of some use, sir.’

Major Perry raised another rather cynical eyebrow. ‘There's plenty to be getting on with in the meantime, Captain. Lieutenant Willy can furnish you with ample reading material on all things Neptune, its people, geography, and suchlike. We will talk again.’

There was an awkward pause as Colonel Craythorn and the major stared at Ivor. Craythorn, suddenly realising that the conversation was over, added, ‘Well, I should think that's all clear then. Off you go, Hooke. Dismissed.’

Ivor stood to attention, saluted, and then shuffled awkwardly out of his commanding officer's quarters, his head already starting to fill with questions that he wished he'd thought to ask during the briefing, along with several he was relieved he hadn’t asked, foremost of which was how on earth a dour thing like Major Perry and an excitable old thing like Colonel Craythorn hoped to bring their influence to bear on Governor Wyatt, a man who clearly had the strength of character to openly defy the British Empire.

Over the course of the next few weeks Ivor had pored over the reading material that Major Perry had provided him with in an effort to bring him up to speed on Neptune's short colonial history. He was pleased to have something to occupy his mind at last and Lieutenant Willy, who had been assigned to assist Ivor, proved to be an amiable young companion with an inquisitive mind, happy to discuss the fruits of their daily reading well into the night.

Ivor learned of Neptune's rich mineral deposits, which were to be found in deep underground caverns beneath the planet's surface. He learned of the subterranean mines that had proliferated alongside the colonisation of the solar system, feeding deposits to the surface through vast vertical pipelines. He was fascinated to learn of Neptune's rather splendid sounding capital, New Newcastle, a city above the clouds, its position there necessitated by the two-hundred-mile-an-hour winds that frequently plagued the planet's surface – winds that the process of atmosphorming had still not successfully brought into check. He also learned of the hardy prospecting communities who lived on the planet’s surface, braving the hostile conditions as they sought out new titanium seams to mine.

Despite his initial trepidation at being so far from home, Ivor had started to become rather excited at the prospect of sailing through Neptune’s faint planetary rings, which were comprised of tiny ice particles, and of peering out of HMS Cranleigh’s portholes as she navigated past Neptune’s fourteen moons (the largest of which, Triton, was large enough to be a planet in its own right) before finally descending into the planet’s delightful-sounding iridescent blue atmosphere.

Learning about a celestial body from the pages of a rather stiff Royal Geographic Society report was one thing, however. Experiencing it first hand would be a different prospect entirely: something that would become all too apparent to Ivor over the course of the next few months.

2

The reading materials that Ivor and Lieutenant Willy had studied over the course of their voyage barely did justice to Neptune’s ethereally majestic beauty. Now well within the blue planet’s atmosphere, they were gliding gently over the Great Solanum Desert on an approach course set for New Newcastle’s southernmost sky docks.

After HMS Cranleigh descended to one of the city’s docking bays with a gentle thud, it extended its gangplank for disembarkation. First off were the ship’s captain, Walter Higginbotham, and a retinue of his senior officers, along with Craythorn, Perry, Ivor, and Lieutenant Willy. Waiting for them on the platform below was their reception party. Hundreds of troopers from Neptune’s colonial army resplendent in pristine white uniforms lined either side of the platform, standing perfectly to attention with their rifles shouldered in parade-ground fashion. In the far corner of the platform Ivor noticed a small company of green coats – presumably the detachment of the Queen’s Royal Rifles that had been posted there nine months ago.

At the centre of the platform stood a tall, thin-faced man. He could certainly have been described as old, but he was straight backed and able looking, clean-shaven and smartly (but not decadently) dressed with a tricorne on top of the greying crown of his head. Governor Wyatt was surrounded by a modest retinue of his own – a fairly bland collection of characters, Ivor mused to himself, with one exception: a curious-looking fellow built like a brute, wearing a dark overcoat and an extraordinarily dour expression on his face. The reason for his dourness was all too evident; on his face this rather unfortunate fellow was wearing a leather patch where his nose ought to have been. Ivor had seen one or two eye patches throughout the course of his military career, even a missing ear or too, but this was most definitely the first time he’d encountered a chap with a missing nose.

‘Welcome to Neptune, gentlemen,’ came the greeting in the surprisingly baritone voice of Governor Wyatt. ‘Indeed, welcome to New Newcastle, the only floating city in the known universe. A city nestling in the heavens, no less!’

Governor Wyatt paused as if to give his audience some time to fully appreciate the supposed profundity of his greeting. A slightly awkward silence followed and Ivor shuffled his feet.

‘I trust you had a safe journey?’ Governor Wyatt enquired, breaking the silence.

At this, the conversation suddenly sprang to life. Captain Higginbotham, Craythorn and Wyatt (along with a Major Henderson of the Queen’s Royal Rifles who emerged from the governor’s retinue) exchanged pleasantries, complimented each other on the turnout of their respective city and ship of the stars, and, of course, spent a good five minutes engrossed in that most British of conversational subjects: the weather.

‘Two-hundred-mile-an-hour winds on the surface, gentlemen. Once a day for an hour or so all hell breaks loose down there. It’s all perfectly tranquil up here above the clouds, of course. An ingenious idea from Dedisham and Brunel if ever I heard one.

‘Anyway, I’m sure you’re keen to refresh yourselves after all that time up there in heavens. We’ve arranged for you and your men to be billeted in the western quarter. Fine sunsets and quite a view of our fourteen moons if you chance upon them at the right time. Telford here will show you to your quarters. We will meet again this evening at your reception banquet. I very much hope you like potatoes, gentlemen.’

And with that, the reception was over.

That night, Craythorn, Major Perry, Ivor and Lieutenant Willy, along with Captain Higginbotham and his officers, were treated to a banquet at the governor’s palace at the heart of New Newcastle. Despite the floating city’s ornate and intricate design, the architecture of the palace was even more lavish than its surroundings, so that it stood out as the grandest edifice in the city: the beating heart of the floating metropolis. Even though it was barely twenty years old, it felt a far older, far more mysterious place, and one that already had a multitude of its own secrets to tell.

Major Henderson of the Queen’s Royal Rifles (who doubtless Colonel Craythorn would be holding private counsel with in due course), along with the city’s nobility, were all in attendance. Several tables seating close to three hundred people ran the length of the banqueting hall, and with the company undoubtedly weighted towards men Ivor couldn’t help but glance at the small number of women who were in attendance: more out of a detached curiosity than any sort of lecherousness. He simply needed to gaze on some rather more comforting sights after three months aboard a ship of bawdy skymen.

A heavily seasoned potato soup was followed by what was presumably some form of deep-fried potato skin, although it was so utterly cremated in cooking oil that it was rather difficult to identify it by its remains. Ivor was seated between a rather stout, officious gentleman from the Office of Inflationary Affairs (not an economic posting as Ivor had initially assumed, but instead an office responsible for the supply of gas to the city’s hundred thousand balloons), and an equally stout bored middle-aged woman who seemed to spend most of the meal sighing deeply and fanning herself with an ornate ivory-handled fan.

The company he found himself in was a touch dry to say the least and, as his attention wandered, Ivor craned his neck, trying hard to listen to the conversation that was taking place between Wyatt, Craythorn, and Captain Higginbotham a few places away.

Ivor had always found that he’d got on rather well with HMS Cranleigh’s captain, and as he tired of his decidedly dull dining companions he craved a good conversation with the old naval veteran. Captain Walter Higginbotham was an efficient Suffolk fellow who had served as a midshipman at the age of twelve, at the battle of Trafalgar forty-five years previously. Initially he had seemed a rather stern individual when heard barking orders at his crew, but when it came to relaxing over a fine glass of port after their evening meal, he had proved himself to be an affable and courteous man.

Over the course of their voyage from Earth to Neptune, Higginbotham had in fact taken quite a shine to Ivor and Lieutenant Willy, asking them as much about themselves as he would regale them with tales of his own considerable military career – a common but bad habit of old military types nearing the end of their service days. A keen walker, who had little time to actually practise his pastime, Higginbotham was delighted to hear of Ivor’s days spent ambling around the Surrey Hills, much to the frustration of Craythorn and Perry, who would rather have spent their evenings discussing the far drier subject of interplanetary diplomacy than listen to Ivor rabbit on about this bridleway or that.

It was not to be tonight, however. The captain was engrossed in conversation with Colonel Craythorn and Governor Wyatt, playing out his diplomatic duties to the full.

An elderly servant started to pour Ivor a glass of wine from a silver carafe. As Ivor turned to thank him their eyes met briefly. The waiter, taking a good look at Ivor’s face for the first time, appeared suddenly startled. Having stared at Ivor for a good few seconds with a quizzical look on his face, the old man suddenly snapped out of his trance and scurried away from the table as fast as he could without saying a word.

Ivor, who had absolutely no idea what he’d done to elicit such a peculiar reaction from the old servant, sat there in bewilderment. Perhaps the old man was just a little senile, Ivor thought to himself. Who knew what living on this strange planet on the edge of the solar system did to people? Either way, the servant didn’t reappear for the rest of the evening and Ivor soon forgot about him as he craned his neck towards the conversation happening a few places away.

‘There are a hundred thousand balloons up there I hear, Governor. How on earth does one keep an eye on all of them?’ he heard Higginbotham ask.

‘Diligence and organisation, captain. Nothing more, nothing less. Each balloon is the responsibility of four men. They work in pairs – eight-hour shifts at a time. One sits in the basket below regulating the supply of gas, constantly checking that the balloon is at the required level of inflation, while the other – usually a younger lad, truth be told – clambers back and forth over the balloon’s canvas checking it for rips and tears and general degradation.’

‘I say, Governor, that sounds like a perilous job if ever I heard one,’ chimed in Craythorn in a jocular tone. ‘They must be a hardy breed on Neptune?’

‘Indeed they are, Colonel. Hardy to the extreme. There have been casualties. There always will be casualties. But the balloonists understand the greater good towards which their toils contribute. I say greater good? Nay, it is the collective good! That is what we are striving towards here on Neptune. We are building a civilisation at the edge of the known universe here, gentlemen. It has to be built on blood, sweat, and tears. There is no other choice.’

The wine was going to Ivor’s head. All the more so, given that he’d grown rather bored of lining his stomach with the relentless stream of potato-based dishes with which they were being served. He was a rather erratic drinker at the best of times. On some occasions he could happily knock back a couple of bottles of cheap French red with little effect on his sobriety, yet on other occasions it would take but a couple of glasses for Ivor to lose his wits and loosen his tongue. Unfortunately, it seemed as if this was one of those latter occasions.

Ivor started to wonder about the slaves they’d supposedly come to Neptune to free. His somewhat naïve and booze-addled gaze moved around the room. By Surrey standards the room actually looked rather cosmopolitan, several skin tones being present among both the guests and those servants attending to them. Judging by their earlier conversations, he had rather expected to see a bunch of manacled dark-skinned fellows serving their pale imperial masters. They must all be trapped deep underground, slaving away in the mines, he thought to himself.

Before he knew what he was doing, Ivor rather tactlessly blurted out across the table, ‘But whose blood, Governor? It’s not just the balloonists, is it? Who’s digging up all that titanium?’

Colonel Craythorn glared at Ivor. Major Perry attempted to kick Ivor under the table. Lieutenant Willy looked away and turned a deep shade of crimson. Ivor had supposed that he was going to say something frightfully clever layered in hidden meaning, but the second the words left his mouth, he realised that he sounded stupid. Stupid and drunk.

Governor Wyatt turned to Ivor and peered at him with a look that might usually be reserved for a pesky mosquito. He knew exactly what Ivor was getting at.

‘Guano, Captain Hooke. A fortune lost to guano, I understand?’

‘I… I… I beg your pardon?’ stammered Ivor.

Governor Wyatt continued. ‘Your father invested the Hooke family fortune in guano, did he not? Tell me, Captain, how did you think this vast pile of bird shit would magically transform itself into your inheritance, hmm?’

‘Well… I’m really not sure that I…’ Ivor really was thoroughly confused by the amount of insight that Wyatt seemed to have into his family affairs.

‘Slaves, Captain! The guano of South America is scraped off those godforsaken rocks by slaves!’

Ivor attempted to rally himself for a last ditch attempt to preserve some dignity. ‘Well, I really can’t be held to account for the actions of my family. I mean, my inheritance… there is no inheritance anymore!’

The blood drained from his face. He’d made an absolute unmitigated fool of himself. He sat silently waiting for the killer blow to arrive from Wyatt.

The killer blow never came, however. Like a predator toying with his prey, Wyatt suddenly adopted a far more conciliatory tone. ‘Gentlemen, Captain Hooke wears his heart on his sleeve. There is an elephant in the room here. I’d like to invite you all to join me tomorrow for a tour of Neptune’s mining operations. Please, judge for yourselves what it takes to build a civilisation out here on the edge of existence.’

Ivor, thoroughly embarrassed and perplexed, nodded sheepishly, took a swig of water and turned away from the rather fractious conversation that had just taken place. His eyes swept the room and took in the merriment and laughter of the banquet attendees he saw before him. He scanned back and forth across the crowd and let the spectacle of three hundred people enjoying themselves wash over him as his eyes glazed over.

Suddenly, something caught his attention in the corner of his eye. Ivor quickly turned back to a figure seated on the far side of the room: a figure staring at him intently with a wry smile on his face.

The familiar face raised a glass in mock salute and mouthed something that Ivor couldn’t quite make out.

The blood drained from Ivor’s face. Oh good grief, he thought. As if this night could get any worse.

As soon as the banquet had finished, a shaken Ivor retreated rapidly to the officers’ mess in order to gather his thoughts. He found a quiet corner with Lieutenant Willy and deposited himself into an old leather armchair next to a small open fireplace.

‘Who on earth was that, sir?’ asked Lieutenant Willy, who had quickly picked up on the source of Ivor’s discomfort.

‘Hmmm. Someone I haven’t seen for a very long time, Charles. A very long time indeed…’

Ivor trailed off, his wandering attention now turning to their surroundings. The officers’ mess was austere in comparison to the banquet hall in which they had just been seated. Situated in the barracks adjoining the palace, its walls were lined with tables and chairs while one corner, from which Ivor and Lieutenant Willy observed the room, was devoted to softer seating arranged around an open fireplace. A handful of white-coated officers from Wyatt’s colonial army sat at the far end of the room, talking and laughing over an open bottle of whisky.

Ivor was unsure whether he was quite ready to relive the events of that day five years ago: the day he had met Captain Henry Bloxham for a duel at Leith Hill Tower on a crisp autumnal morning. A day since which he’d seen hide nor hair of his beloved Isabel.

‘I just don’t understand it. The man’s supposed to be paralysed from the neck down!’ he exclaimed before slumping back into his leather chair. ‘It just doesn’t make any sense.’

The fact that Governor Wyatt seemed to have an eerily intimate amount of knowledge of Ivor’s family history had almost been totally eclipsed by the second of the night’s revelations – this utterly unexpected and unpleasant appearance of a ghost from Ivor’s past.

Ivor, however, wasn’t left to stew for very long, for at that moment a voice that made Ivor’s skin crawl resonated across the room. It was a snooty, clipped, upper-class accent, unmistakably mocking in tone.

‘Well, shiver me timbers, me hearties! If it ain’t my old shipmate Captain Hooke! I’ve been hoping we might bump into each other again one day, Hooke, but never dreamt it would happen here at the arse-end of the universe!’

‘H-H-Henry, what on earth are you doing… I mean I thought you were…’ stammered Ivor.

‘Thought I was what, Hooke? Lying around in bed all day staring out of the window, mother spoon-feeding me like some damned invalid while her vile little dachshunds jump around licking my face?’

Ivor, momentarily distracted by the peculiar vision of dachshunds licking Captain Henry Bloxham’s face, attempted to pull himself together and took a good hard look at his antagonist as he strode towards him across the officers’ mess. Flanked by two smirking fellow officers, Bloxham still cut an impressively dashing figure. He was tall, broad-shouldered and athletic, with a fine head of luxuriant fair hair and an impressively coiffured moustache to boot. His distinctive green officer’s uniform of the Queen’s Royal Rifles was resplendent with medals and his black leather boots looked as though they had been buffed to within an inch of their lives.

There was one crucial difference, however – one very distinctive difference compared with the Captain Bloxham that Ivor had last seen five years ago. Around his neck Captain Bloxham wore what could only be described as some sort of metallic neck brace. It appeared to be made of copper or brass and poked out from the top of his tunic, extending to just under his chin. It was lined with tiny bolts, rivets, gears, and gauges which all looked as though they performed some complicated but essential function.

Bloxham saw Ivor eyeing up the peculiar contraption around his neck. ‘A miracle of modern science you might say, Hooke! The Bloxhams are quite the patrons of the Royal College of Physicians. Quite a costly trip to Mercury was required to patch me up I must say. Pray that an impoverished Hooke never has the misfortune to break his neck!’

‘Well, that’s marvellous, Henry,’ said Ivor cautiously. ‘No harm done then is there? I mean, you look as fit as a fiddle.’

‘No harm done? No harm done, Hooke! There has been plenty of harm done, thank you very much. But not half as much harm as I intend to do to you, sir!’

‘Now hold on a minute, Henry. That was all a very unfortunate set of circumstances, but it’s all in the past now. I think it really would benefit us all to just move on and let bygones be bygones.’

‘I’m sure you do, Hooke. I’m sure you do!’ Bloxham goaded Ivor. ‘Always were one to shy away from a fight, weren’t you? Rather put your woman in harm’s way than face the music yourself. Isn’t that so, Hooke?’

‘Now that’s not fair, Henry. You know that’s not what happened. Besides, I haven’t seen Isabel since the last time I saw you. We don’t even have anything to quarrel over any more.’

‘Oh dear, Hooke.’ mocked Bloxham. ‘Left you, did she? So it wasn’t worth it in the end. No matter. We have unfinished business, Hooke. I’m calling you out, sir. Do you hear me?’

At this, Lieutenant Willy, who’d remained silent so far during the exchange, chimed in. ‘Well… I don’t think that would be at all possible, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir. Duelling between officers is absolutely in contravention of military regulations.’

Captain Bloxham turned to Lieutenant Willy with the sort of amused look of contempt one might reserve for an irritating child. ‘And who’s this, the ship’s cabin boy?’

‘Oh, no sir, not at all. I’m a lieutenant, not a cabin boy,’ Willy replied naively.

‘He knows full well you’re not a cabin boy, Charles,’ hissed Ivor. ‘Please, leave this to me.’

‘Well, it looks as though you have your second, Hooke. And this is mine: Lieutenant Turville.’ At that, one of the smirking officers tipped his hat to Ivor in mock salute.

‘What shall we go for this time then, Hooke? I think sabres ought to do it, don’t you? We will convene at dawn tomorrow in the gardens on the east of the city. By God, you’d better be there, Hooke!’

At that Captain Bloxham turned away sharply and stormed out of the room in rather bombastic and dramatic fashion, his two companions in tow.

Ivor and Lieutenant Willy sat in dumbfounded silence for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually the young lieutenant chirped up. ‘What are you going to do, sir? Craythorn isn’t going to take kindly to one of his officers duelling. I know, why don’t we get you promoted! Honour dictates that only officers of the same rank can duel. Isn’t that right, sir? Let’s go and see the colonel now and explain everything…’

‘Oh good grief, Charles. Craythorn is hardly going to make me a major just because I ask nicely… and before tomorrow morning at that!’

Ivor sat back in his chair and stared into the fire with a glazed look in his eyes. ‘I either fight and almost certainly get run through by Bloxham, or I avoid the whole thing entirely and live with the reputation of a coward for the rest of my life. Promotion’s hard enough to come by as it is, without the added burden of everyone laughing at me behind my back. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t, Charles.