The Venusian Gambit Read online

  Praise for The Daedalus Series:

  The Daedalus Incident

  “A true genre-bender. It mixes alchemy, quantum physics, and historical figures in ways you haven’t seen before. […] adventurous, original, and a blast to read.”

  —Tor.com

  “Genre bending often come at great peril, but Martinez pulls it off with an assurance that makes all the pieces slot together perfectly.”

  —BuzzFeed, selected as one of “The 14 Greatest Science Fiction Books of the Year”

  “Martinez’s debut is a triumph of genre-blending, as steampunk adventure merges with modern space opera. With a cast of superbly drawn characters, Martinez’s title is a mesmerizing tale of two universes that briefly cross paths, leaving both worlds forever changed.”

  —Library Journal (starred review), included in “Best Books 2013: SF/Fantasy” year-end wrap-up

  The Enceladus Crisis

  “A follow-up that manages to improve on the first in significant ways […] continues the first novel’s mix of alchemy, intrigue, mystery, science fiction and high adventure into an entertaining package.”

  —Paul Weimer, SFSignal

  “Wooden sailing ships battling it out in orbit around Mercury, Earth astronauts discovering an ancient alien temple on one of Saturn’s moons, the Egyptian Book of the Dead, undead French soldiers, Venusian jungles, and corporate espionage. Michael J. Martinez pulls it all off magnificently in his Daedalus series of novels.”

  —James Floyd Kelly, GeekDad

  “Riveting…a uniquely imaginative science fantasy tale.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Books by Michael J. Martinez

  The Daedalus Incident

  The Enceladus Crisis

  The Venusian Gambit

  The Gravity of the Affair (novella)

  Copyright © 2015 by Michael J. Martinez

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Night Shade Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-59780-819-4

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-59780-825-5

  Cover illustration by Lauren Saint-Onge

  Cover art and design by Victoria Maderna and Federico Piatti

  Print interior layout and design by Amy Popovich

  Printed in the United States of America

  In memory of my mom

  .

  PROLOGUE

  4,122 B.C.

  Mars will rise once more.

  That is what the Martian told himself as he looked out over the cities of the Xan, laid before him in splendor, spread across the rings of mighty Xanath and trailing off into the distance of the Void, a riot of light and color circling the planet.

  It was terrible beauty, a reminder of his failure, and the last view of this universe he would likely ever see.

  The Martian—no longer a warlord, now a mere prisoner—turned away from the window in disgust. His accommodations now as a captive of the Xan were far more luxurious than the ones he’d chosen for himself as leader of the Martian people. His cell—for it was a cell despite its trappings—included a cushioned bed, a chair, books, even a device that would allow him to listen to the mewlings these Xan called “music.” He did not use any of these. He did not wear the robes given to him. He sat and slept on the floor. He meditated. He was allowed two servants—those reptilian savages from the wilds of Venus—but he did not use them. The trappings remained untouched. Despite it all—the loss of his armies, his weapons, his very homeworld—Althotas of Mars remained singularly fixated on victory. No matter how long it took.

  A soft melodic chime—damn these Xan and their soft sounds!—drew his attention to the door. It opened to reveal four Xan, hooded and armed, with the two little Venusian servants flanking them. In the seven Mars-years since Althotas had been imprisoned, he had seen the Xan transform before his very eyes. When he first arrived, his guards were true soldiers, armored and armed with projectile weapons capable of killing any creature on impact. Now, those who dared call themselves guards and soldiers wore voluminous layers of cloth. The weapons were now staves, tipped with a canny device that would shock and stun their targets, rendering them ineffective but alive.

  It was laughable, this softness. Yet, Althotas knew, these creatures had beaten him. As much derision as he had for the Xan’s newfound pacificity, he constantly reminded himself that somehow—somehow—they had beaten him. And perhaps it was his own people’s martial ways that awakened the rage and determination necessary for the Xan to rise. Perhaps the Xan simply needed a suitable target before they unleashed their hidden barbarity—for barbarity it was. They had little sense of true honor in the throes of battle, and he expected none from them now.

  “Althotas, the council has reached a determination,” the lead Xan sang, its two mouths creating harmonies that sounded somber and excited all at once. “You are required to accompany us.”

  Althotas looked down at his clawed green hands and saw them clenching involuntarily. His very essence was that of a warrior. His first instinct was to rip these “guards” apart with his bare hands, to flee captivity, to rage through their cities and gather an army to him.

  But there was no army. The Martians were as dead as their planet. And the Xan would not follow him. Not these Xan, at least. He could see from his perch the battles upon the rings, both near and far. As ironic as it seemed, in the aftermath of the great Martian-Xan war it was the Xan’s pacifist political party that emerged victorious to lead the Xan into the future. The warrior caste was being hunted. The pacifists were now in charge.

  Wordlessly, his body trembling with disciplined rage, Althotas walked through the door and down the carpeted hallway, his guards scurrying to keep up. Althotas knew the way to the Xan’s so-called Temple of Justice. He had been going back and forth between his cell and the temple for many long days.

  It was about time the damnable council had reached a determination. Althotas was a warrior of Mars, first and foremost, and a leader of his people. Sitting and waiting in captivity was anathema, much as a fish slowly, inexorably expired upon dry land. He would still watch closely to see if these soft Xan would provide him even a sliver of opportunity. But he knew, deep down, that they would take no chances. All he could hope for was death, honorable and painful, one that would allow him to show these creatures true greatness in the end.

  Down stairways and through halls and salons, past gossiping clusters of Xan whispering harmonically amongst themselves, Althotas walked toward his fate. The smooth stone and glass of the Xan buildings were in stark contrast to the rough-hewn fortresses of Mars. The Xan reveled in their aesthetics, with ornamentation meant to show beauty and peace on nearly every surface. And yet there was no virtue in the looks he received from the Xan as he passed them, only fear and loathing. He returned these stares with a smile that showed his razor teeth, and reveled in the double standard of these people. Beauty and peace only lasted so long as he was not th
ere to remind them of their own crimes.

  Finally, he stormed toward the massive double-doors leading into the Temple of Justice’s inner sanctum, pushing through them impatiently and striding into the chamber. The guards behind him immediately rushed forward, flanking him on either side, staves at the ready. He proceeded to the circle where all inquiry subjects stood, lit brightly while the rest of the temple was shrouded in complete blackness. There, around the area in which he had stood nigh daily for such long years, were a series of devices. Small boxes, connected by a cord, reeking of ozone…Althotas could practically taste the occult and alchemical power flowing through them.

  The Xan had, apparently, come up with something new. Perhaps there would be new agonies, ones that would not shed blood. Would the pacifist Xan find the same pleasure in torturing their enemies that their war-obsessed brethren had? He did not break stride as he strode toward the circle. Without being prompted, he stepped over the ring of devices and into the circle. It was the same place where he stood and was tried for so many months. He could see the scratches in the floor where his foot-talons rested as he listened to the Xan’s intolerable singing of justice and peace.

  “Althotas,” a voice boomed.

  “I am here,” the one-time warlord shouted, his voice a raspy buzz compared to the melodic Xan that had addressed him from the darkness. The cowards never showed themselves, not for all this time. It was, he was told, to show the unity of the Xan people in the face of injustice. Althotas knew it for what it was, however. They were trying to place themselves at a remove from their vengeance. They were afraid of what they had done to Phaeton, to Mars itself. They had wielded such immense force in the last days of the war—such destructive power indeed! They had razed verdant Mars into a red desert, and proud Phaeton, one-time colony of Mars, was now a million boulders, scattered around the Sun between Mars and Jupiter.

  Of course they would distance themselves from that. Because they were as children. The Martians knew that life was conflict. And pain. And power.

  Even if you lose.

  “It is the finding of this council that you are indeed guilty of numerous war crimes. You have broken the laws governing conflict between individuals, conflict between nations and conflict between worlds,” the disembodied Xan voice sang.

  “These are your laws, not mine,” Althotas hissed. “the conduct of our war was done in accordance with the highest honor of my people. So pass your sentence and be done with it.”

  “There is more,” the Xan continued. “Recent inquiries have shown that you are also guilty of violating the laws governing alchemical practice, occult practice and scientific inquiry.”

  A second spotlight flared to life from above, shining down upon a stone altar in the center of the room. There, Althotas saw two very familiar items—a green stone slab and a black-covered book.

  “You have used these items to draw the souls from your people and place them in the bodies of others. This plague has been placed upon the lizard creatures of the second world and the ape creatures of the third world, but also upon the Xan themselves,” the voice said. “Dozens of souls. Hundreds.”

  “It is well that you have figured this out, for you know full well there is nothing to be done about it,” Althotas hissed. “These souls will travel from life to life, down through the centuries, until such time as you are forgotten, and the spirit of my people will rise again in new form.”

  “No,” the voice sang with notes of sadness, tempered with an undercurrent of steel. “We have harvested these souls. We have tracked them down and captured them, bringing them back to our Pool of Souls, so that they may learn peace amongst others of our kind.”

  Althotas hung his head, but smiled inwardly. The ritual was massive—more massive than they had suspected. It would be impossible for them to capture every soul. There would be enough for them to one day rally, when the time was right.

  “You have the blood of the lizard and ape people upon your hands, then, along with your own kind,” Althotas said. “So much for your peace.”

  “Peace is larger than any one life, Althotas,” the voice said, tiredly.

  “So is vengeance.”

  “Vengeance is not our way,” the voice replied. “The lives taken to free the souls trapped in other forms was a mercy. We will hide these cursed objects you used for your working, so that they may not be used again. The apes and lizards will not be polluted with your ways. They shall grow independently, and we have agreed to remove ourselves from them as well.

  “And for your crimes,” the voice continued, sounding notes of triumph and determination, “you will be removed from all of us.”

  Althotas smiled once more. “Then kill me and be done with it. I tire of your vapid songs.”

  The boxes at the Martian’s feet began to hum, and lights began to glow upon them.

  “You will not be slain.”

  It took several moments for these song-words to sink into Althotas’ mind. “So how, then, do you propose to ‘remove me,’ Xan?” he spat. “You know that I will struggle to escape from any prison you place upon me. Or I shall simply take my own life to be rid of you.”

  “You will do neither. We have created a special prison to remove you not from society, or from the sight of other creatures, but from this very dimension.”

  As the hum increased in pitch and intensity, Althotas noticed a spot of darkness starting to form before him. It seemed as there was a rip in the very air of the chamber itself, a swirling eddy in reality itself that sucked all light and life from around itself. As it grew, the warlord thought he saw the blackness move within the fissure. In that moment, with all his occult and alchemical knowledge, Althotas came to a conclusion that shook him to his core—he would be removed from reality itself, and placed in a prison where no light, no sound, no sense of being would be permitted. It would be no less than his own personal hell. Althotas could sense the very fabric of reality fraying as the blackness grew. “You have no idea the powers you tamper with!” Althotas shouted. “Complete your working, you cowards, and be damned for it! You fools would tear apart your world to be rid of me, so do it! You are like children with fire, and you will burn for it someday. Know that you should have simply spilled my blood and be done with it, for so long as I live, in whatever place you send me—I will find a way out.”

  The boxes began to glow with a bright, white light and the rift before Althotas grew wider…blacker…as if it were about to swallow everything and extinguish all joy and happiness from the universe.

  But Althotas had not known joy or happiness for many years.

  With a scream, he leapt into the rift.

  And the universe shuddered.

  June 20, 1803

  “Stop tugging at it, Tom, or I swear I shall hang you by it!”

  Sir Thomas Weatherby, Knight of the Bath, former captain of HMS Fortitude and newly promoted Rear Admiral of the Blue in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, clenched his fists at his side while his longtime friend, Dr. Andrew Finch, adjusted his cravat. There was, in Weatherby’s opinion, nothing more useless than a cravat, and should he rise to such a rank in the service where he might effectively do so, he planned to order them out of existence.

  Yet even Finch’s clumsy efforts at sartorial improvement were not enough to dent Weatherby’s overall excellent mood. “Have you seen her yet today?” Weatherby asked.

  Finch smiled, finally giving up on Weatherby’s cravat for the moment. “She looks quite lovely, as you very well know,” he replied quietly. “One does not become a legendary alchemist without using a bit of working on one’s appearance, you know.”

  “She does not need it,” Weatherby said. “She never has.”

  “Well, you could use a bit, old man,” Finch said. “I keep offering, as I know she has, but you refuse it.”

  Weatherby smiled back at this old jibe. He knew of the gray in his brown hair, the lines upon his face drawn by wind and weather, Sun-motes and Void-storm. The scar upon his face m
ore than two decades old, and other, fresher, nicks and cuts. Yet his eyes shone clear, as sharp as the day he became a midshipman, and he remained strong and healthy by whatever grace he had earned in the service of His Majesty’s Navy.

  Of course, he wouldn’t be surprised if his love had been slipping some alchemical concoctions in his tea to keep him hale. But not his looks.

  “She has never offered, Doctor. Perhaps she enjoys my countenance perfectly well as it is. Besides,” he added, casting a weather eye upon his old friend, “you’re looking a bit haggard yourself. Your researches of late are all too consuming. It took my very wedding to pry you from your labs!” And indeed, Finch looked altogether wan and pale, though still strong and quick of step. His sandy blond hair was receding and graying as well, and there had been ever-present circles under his eyes of late.

  Finch favored his old friend with a wink. “I dare say your wedding, old man, is perhaps the finest miracle anyone might have wrought, so of course I had to see it. And it’s about bloody time.”

  A few steps away, Brownlow North, Bishop of Winchester, cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “I do believe we are ready, Sir Thomas. Shall we?”

  Weatherby grinned, shot a look at Finch, and exhaled. “Most certainly, my Lord Bishop. Thank you.”

  The bishop nodded toward the back of Portsmouth’s Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury. And the dowager Countess St. Germain began her walk, smiling radiantly.

  Finch’s indiscreet comments to whether the former Anne Baker used alchemical means to provide her with the bloom of youth, as many women with means had begun to do as alchemy became more prevalent, may certainly have been true. Yet Weatherby did not care one way or the other, for he knew he would always see her through the eyes of a nervous 18-year-old second lieutenant who had fallen hard for the brilliant, determined young woman with a knack for alchemy.

  “You know, Tom,” Finch whispered, “first love rarely gets a second chance. Do try not to foul it up.”