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  20 Million Leagues Over the Sea

  K. T. Hunter

  Book One of The Nemo Paradox

  Published by Twin Cedars Enterprises at Smashwords

  Copyright 2015 K. T. Hunter

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

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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

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

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

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

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

  Tennyson, Alfred. "The Lady of Shalott". 1832.

  Cover by The Cover Collection www.thecovercollection.com

  Email: [email protected]

  ~~~~

  Gemma

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "There is a lady present, Doctor Pugh!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Oh, dear," sputtered Pugh.

  "Four."

  "What now?" demanded the captain.

  "Three."

  "That sixth cup of tea just kicked in."

  "Two."

  "Well, you'll just have to--"

  "One. Take it away!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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