Harry Heron: Into the Unknown

Chapter 1

Fresh Start

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“Check your guns, Mr Heron.” The lieutenant ducked between the beams. “The French will not expect our weight of shot. Make it count.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” responded Midshipman Harry Heron. “You heard the lieutenant, men. Check the locks are primed and all the lines are clear.”

“We’m ready, sir. We’ll show them Frenchies.”

The waiting was always the worst. With the ports closed, the lower gun deck was shrouded in darkness. No lamps were permitted now that the ship was cleared for action, as a spilled lamp would mean fire, and fire would mean the death of them all. Once they raised the port lids and ran the guns out, there was no time for anything but decisive action.

“All guns! Load double shot!”

The order, bawled down the hatchways, reached Harry, and he relayed it to his crews.

Harry checked his division of the battery. “Make them count, men. We’ll not get a second chance once his companion engages.”

“Captain plans to engage close, then,” Ferghal remarked as Harry passed.

“Aye, it will be hot work, I think.”

The deck shuddered and a heavy crash resounded above them as a ball found its mark somewhere in the hull.

A rush of feet told its own story, but the word soon passed that the damage was minimal and there were no casualties. In the gloom, Harry watched his childhood friend Ferghal checking the rammer and sponge for his gun while the rest of the gun crew made sure the training tackles, breech ropes and all their equipment was ready and to hand. Danny the powder monkey, a boy of about eleven years, walked between them scattering sand, insuring that the crew would have a good grip of the deck as they worked around the gun.

Harry walked forward, checking each gun and crew.

“Stand ready to transfer to the starboard battery. If opportunity serves, the Captain may change course.”

Satisfied with his inspection, he ordered, “Stand by.”

The lieutenant’s call urged Harry to his station near the Number 8 gun where he stood close to Ferghal and awaited further orders. Danny clutched two large wooden powder cartridge cases as if his life depended on it, and it did. These cartridges were required for reloading the Number 8 and Number 10 guns as soon as they fired. It would be the boy’s task to run to the magazine on the deck below and bring up two more, repeatedly, until the engagement ceased.

Harry grinned at the grubby face. “Here—Danny is it?” The urchin nodded in awe at being addressed by an officer, even though that officer was only five years his senior. “Stand between Ferghal and me until we need you.”

“Aye, aye, sor!” Always ready to work, Danny capped off his reply with an enthusiastic gap-toothed grin. He had lost a front tooth and couldn’t wait until a new one came in.

Seconds later, a crash accompanied by a great shudder told them the ship was struck by several heavy balls. This time cries for the loblolly boys told their own tale of injuries and perhaps dead on the deck above. The ship plunged steeply then bore up sharply as the French head-reached on them, and almost simultaneously, they heard the sharp and distinctive bellow as the larboard of the forty-two pounder carronade spat its vicious charge. Not for nothing were these guns called smashers by the British Tar and the devil gun by the French.

“Await my order to open ports and run out,” called the Fourth Lieutenant.

Ever since the lightning strike at the Vihara near Bombay, Harry’s sleep had been troubled by some very strange dreams, some of which he had committed to his journal in a cryptic form. After each such dream, he’d awoken sweating and filled with foreboding. It was usually the same sequence—an engagement with a French man o’ war, a brilliant flash of light, the sensation of falling, then a glimpse of the interior of some vast hall before awakening shivering and drenched in sweat. Now he had a moment of déjà vu—the scene was exactly that of his dream.

He glanced at Ferghal, ready to tail onto the tackle for the big thirty-two pounder. He was one of the usual sixteen men needed to handle the massive gun, but their number had been reduced to twelve due to deaths and injuries during the voyage. Harry smiled as his friend acknowledged his nod. The French would not expect this heavy a battery. Most seventy-fours carried eighteen and twenty-four pounders. Spartan had thirty-twos instead of the usual twenty-fours, and at close range could deliver a devastating barrage.

The noise of the sea, the groan of the timbers, the shouted orders from the upper deck penetrated his thoughts as he experienced another moment of déjà vu. He shivered despite the heat.

“Our first engagement against a ship of comparable force, my friend,” he said to Ferghal. Louder, he added, “Let us hope his gunners are all seasick and her commander a landsman.”

The gun crew laughed, breaking the tension. “They’ll not be expectin’ our weight, sor.”

“No, indeed, Hanson. I rely on you and the rest to make him regret his boldness. Open ports!”

The waiting man complied, and a burst of spray accompanied the growing light as the heavy port lid swung upward.

“Run out!”

Harry took a quick glance through the Number 8 gun port as the crew heaved their charge into place. The enemy ship’s hull reared into view as the Spartan rolled at the top of the swell.

“She’s a big ’un—a forty at least.”

“Silence on the gun,” Harry snapped. “Gun captains, use your levers—we’re head-reaching on him. Train aft and make every shot count!”

The enemy ship erupted smoke and flame in a ragged broadside. Thuds and screams from the decks above told a tale of at least some hits. “Bloody Frenchies—aimin’ for t’ riggin’!” bellowed the gun captain.

For a terrifying moment, as the ship lifted again, Harry saw the same view as in his dream.

“Ready to fire, sir!” said the gun captain.

“As you bear! On the up-roll—Fire!”

The gun deck filled with smoke as the after guns began their bellows of rage and spite. The crouched gun captains peered along their guns, the flintlock lanyards taut as they waited for the enemy to be squarely in their sights.

A high-pitched scream that penetrated the ears and made Harry shut his eyes tight in pain drowned out the rolling thunder of the guns. A flash, at least as intense as the lightning that had nearly struck him in India, penetrated his eyelids. Then he was falling, tumbling in darkness.

He landed heavily, in part cushioned by someone’s legs and lower body. The wind was knocked out of him as a smaller body landed on his stomach. He caught a brief glimpse of a huge grey-painted hall and strange buttresses along the walls forming a web across the vast, high ceiling before his head made sharp contact with a hard surface and blackness engulfed him.

Chapter 2

Lost or Found?

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Harry opened his eyes and winced at the brightness. He struggled to sit, and immediately his head throbbed with pain. He felt nauseated and dizzy as he staggered to his feet and surveyed the strange surroundings. A groan drew his attention. Ferghal stirred, and a whimpering Danny, still clutching his cartridge cases, crouched at his head.

“Ferghal, you’re hurt!” Helping his friend sit, he took in the odd angle of Ferghal’s shoulder and his swollen forearm.

“Where are we?” Ferghal murmured, focusing his eyes as he gazed round at their strange surroundings. “I see no Frenchmen here.”

“I know not where we are,” said Harry. “Come, we must find a place of safety where I may attend your injury.”

His face white with effort, Ferghal gritted his teeth as Harry helped him stand. With Danny’s help, Harry supported his friend, and together they picked their way through the wreckage littering the deck.

“What manner of place is this?” Harry said under his breath.

Echoing his concern, Ferghal added, “And what are these fiendish devices?”

Harry steered them toward a door, his head throbbing and his stomach churning. “I know not, but we must find concealment until I can discover who has trapped us in this strange dungeon.”

The door opened as if by magic as they approached, and with a gasp of surprise, Harry pushed the others aside and drew his dirk, wishing he’d thought to arm himself with a cutlass.

“Beware, someone comes,” he warned under his breath.

No one entered, and when the boys stepped back instinctively, the door closed again. Thinking quickly as to what had made it open the first time, Harry took a tentative step forward and watched the strange magic happen again. Testing his theory, he stepped back, and the door closed once again.

Determining that the best course of action was quick movement combined with brute force, Harry lunged toward the door, and it opened again so quickly he nearly tumbled across the threshold. He stood in place, having deduced that standing still would keep it open, and motioned to Ferghal and Danny to step into the small chamber. It appeared to be some kind of office, but what caught Harry’s eye were the glowing pictures on the bulkhead of the chamber they’d just left.

With Danny’s help, Ferghal limped inside, and Harry followed with the intention to seat his friend so that he could attend to his injury.

“The door—it’s closing, Master Harry!” called Ferghal.

“Damnation,” exclaimed Harry, trying to prevent it without success. The door slid to a stop, sealing them inside the chamber. Approaching it, he tried to get it to open as it had from the other side, but to no avail. He turned back to Ferghal with his usual firm resolution. “I shall find a means to open it when I have seen what may be done for your arm. Is it broken?”

“Aye, Master Harry, and my shoulder is out of joint.”

“Then I must bind the bone before it is further damaged.” Looking about, he ordered, “Danny, look in those lockers. Find me some battens—anything I may use to splint the break—and something to bind them with.”

Examining the dislocated shoulder, Harry could not see how best to reset it.

“I shall do fine if you can splint my arm, sir,” Ferghal responded through gritted teeth as Harry eased him out of his loose blouse.

“These be all I kin find, sor.” Danny held out a number of thin metal rods with strange fittings at their ends and a roll of thick, shiny grey tape. “T’ bandage stuff be sticky, sor.”

MINUTES EARLIER, THE NECS VANGUARD had shuddered, the sensation enhanced by the shrill of alarms as various systems went into emergency mode.

Captain Heron keyed his link. “Engineering, report damage.”

“The gear we shipped for the science team to measure the transit gate functions has gone off the board, sir. The power has shunted into every open circuit causing overloads everywhere. The ship’s AI initiated emergency shutdown on endangered systems, and we’re compensating by shutting down generators and restoring them. The hyperdrives are unaffected and are now running at cruising output, sixty percent of full thrust.”

“Good.” The Captain paused. “We seem to be on the heavy side in Control. Is the artificial gravity affected?”

“Yes, sir. Your area has one point eight normal, but we have three times normal in the forward decks and two point four just aft of the hangars at frames two-two-six to two-three-eight.”

“And the science equipment?”

“Some of it is still drawing power, but the largest have stopped drawing anything. We may have lost them. The scientists are not sure, and we can’t get into the hangars yet to check, sir.”

“Very good, get the artificial gravity sorted out.” Closing the com channel, he keyed a second. “Damage Control, do we have any hull damage?”

“No damage to the hull or structure, sir. We’ve gained access to the main hangar. There’s a lot of wreckage where the scientists’ gear was stowed.”

“What sort of wreckage, Mr Guzewski?”

“Looks like a large piece of an ancient sailing ship, sir, all broken up. Heavy timbers and lots of ropes, and a bloody great cannon.”

“A cannon? Do you mean an antique gun?”

“Yes, sir, the kind you see in museums—heavy carriage, long barrel, loads of stuff attached to it.”

“I’ll send down the weapons team to deal with it. Anything else?”

“Just a hell of a lot of wreckage, and some of our scientific equipment was damaged as a result. Oh, and someone’s hat—sort of a top hat with a funny fan shaped badge on the side.”

“Any sign of bodies?”

“Negative, sir, but there could be some under the wreckage. It’ll take a while to search.”

“Very well. Make a check on it.” Snapping off his comlink, the Captain stared at his displays, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. Damn. With several suspected Consortium traitors believed to be among his crew and a very secret mission planned for his squadron, he didn’t need this latest complication.

Fleet’s argument that shipping the science team and their equipment to provide a smoke screen for the real operation sounded good, but now their first assignment—to establish what was happening at the new transit gate—threatened the entire operation. Turning his head to his communications officer, he ordered, “Give me a comlink to Bellerophon and Sydney.”

WISHING HIS HEAD DIDN’T ACHE SO MUCH, Harry studied his makeshift splinting of Ferghal’s arm. This sticky grey binding, of a sort he’d never before seen, was strong, and clung to itself most effectively but maddeningly. With a sigh of frustration, it took Harry several attempts and the feeling that he was all thumbs before he deduced how to work with it effectively. He pulled apart a length of it and tore it with his teeth, then he pulled out a bit of the roll and stuck it to a flat surface so he wouldn’t have to pick at it with his fingernails to start the whole process again when he needed another strip for splinting.

The metal rods were easier to work with and served as sufficient splints, and when all was done, he’d managed to straighten the break quite neatly.

“Does that feel more comfortable?”

“Aye, Master Harry, thank ye.” Ferghal’s face showed the pain he was enduring. “Now, if my shoulder—”

In that moment, Danny let out a shriek.

“T’ pictures, sor. They’m movin’.”

“What manner of thing is this?” Staring at the screen, Harry realised the pictures showed the cavernous chamber they had awoken in, displayed from various angles, and now there were tiny men walking about in those pictures.

“What men are these? How is it they are moving about inside those pictures? How did they make themselves so small?” Thinking he was close to delirium, Harry needed confirmation of what he was seeing. “Do you see those small men in the moving picture, Ferghal?”

“Aye, that I do, but I thought it was only me who could see them.” Ferghal shook his head and blinked his bleary eyes, wincing as the movement shifted his dislocated shoulder.

Still aghast, Harry said, “Look at their style of dress. It is like nothing in the East. Could they be African pirates?”

“They be like no Africans we’ve encountered, Master Harry, nor any man for that matter.” Ferghal swayed as he stood, his good hand supporting his damaged arm.

“We must find a hiding place until we know more of what this means. Certainly, these men are harmless because they’re so small, but it is wise to take precautions. This could be some sort of sorcery meant to trick us.” Harry turned to Ferghal. “Let me afix your arm to your side—that will prevent movement and keep it immobile until we find a surgeon to reset it.”

Using the sticky binding again, Harry strapped his friend’s arm to his side then raised the broken forearm and taped it across his chest at a natural angle. He was glad they’d removed Ferghal’s loose blouse to examine his injuries.

“Some’uns comin’,” Danny alerted them, hearing the sound of heavy booted footfalls outside the door.

Harry snatched up his dirk. “There’s another door this end.” Steering Ferghal ahead of him, he ordered, “Danny, find the latch and open it.”

“There be no latch, Mr Her’n, sor.”

“There must be.” Harry glared at the blank surface. “Damn. How do these doors open?” Sticking the tip of his dirk into the joint between frame and door, he tried to lever it.

“Open, damn ye.”

All three jumped back, mouths agape as the door slid open, Harry’s dirk almost falling from his hand at his surprise that it had seemingly obeyed his command. In his boyhood, he had read the Arabian Nights and the tale of Ali Baba and the secret cave. He and Ferghal used to proclaim, “Open, Sesame!” when they played among the caves near their home on the coast of Northern Ireland, but he never thought he’d find himself in such a place.

The opening revealed a new chamber filled with a series of very strange metal machines—worse, there were figures moving between them, some attired in what looked like the suits of armour Harry had seen displayed in the few castles he’d visited as a child. The sound of the door opening behind them forced his decision.

“Steer to starboard, Danny; come, Ferghal, stay close and keep to the bulkhead. There is another door this way. We may find a place of concealment there.” He glanced at the nearest of the strange machines and shuddered with a mixture of awe and trepidation. It looked like a great metal bird of prey, and somehow it was alive and filled with menace as it squatted on its wheeled undercarriage. Cables and tubes that sprouted like obscene umbilical cords connected it to several small machines.

A man in a grey overall stepped out of an opening as they passed.

“Hey! Only handling crew are cleared to be in here—what the hell?” He ducked and stepped back as Harry swung his dirk, striking the wrench from the man’s hand.

“You’ll not have us without a fight,” Harry proclaimed, taking a fighting stance despite the nausea rising in his stomach. He lunged and missed the man, but the point of his dirk struck a plate and penetrated it in a shower of sparks, plunging the vast chamber into darkness.

“Run, Danny, Ferghal—make for the door!”

The trio raced to the heavily reinforced door, and to Harry’s relief, it opened to admit them. They leapt through, finding themselves in a long passage, and took off running. Harry swerved as a door opened, and on impulse, he entered.

“Come on!” he called to the others. “This way!”

Having no idea where he was going in this maze of strange tunnels with equally strange symbols and markings on the bulkheads and decks, he hoped desperately that they could find safety—or better yet, a way back to their own ship.

CAPTAIN HERON’S LINK CHIRPED. He’d been waiting for this report, but the sound caught him by surprise, as his thoughts had been on his all too brief final leave with Felicity Roberts, now also returned to her duties.

“Captain,” he stated, sitting up straighter, clearing his throat.