The Venusian Gambit by Michael J. Martinez Page B

Swiftsure.
    “FIRE!” Searle shouted, just as Weatherby’s mouth had opened to give the order himself.
    Streaks of alchemical fire rained down upon the Xan ship, with several shots striking the egg. Soon, several more shots came from above as well; O’Brian had turned back around, rotated his ship, and contributed a broadside to the effort. Yet even as a strange orange-and-black smoke began to pour forth from several rents in the Xan hull, bolts of bluish lightning erupted from the ship, lancing the sides of both Victory and Swiftsure . Weatherby watched as the powder inside four guns aboard Swiftsure exploded in flame, and the tremors he felt underfoot told him a similar effect had occurred on Victory ’s gundecks below.
    “Fire crews, to your stations!” Searle yelled, and immediately a score of men raced for the hatches leading belowdecks, buckets in hand. They were not at sea, of course, so the usual seawater was replaced by an alchemical powder that would smother flame in an instant—if they were fast enough to keep it from spreading.
    And yet, despite the damage—and the likely deaths of a dozen or more men below—the Xan had only gotten off weakened shots at best. Weatherby watched as the ovoid, wobbled off into the distance, spinning uncontrollably now.
    “Shall we take her, sir?” Searle asked, a gleam in his eye. No English vessel had ever successfully captured a Xan ovoid. And Weatherby had given strict orders not to try, but Searle was an ambitious man, and likely wanted some recompense—or revenge—for the damage to his vessel.
    Weatherby shook his head sadly, for he understood perfectly well the man’s motivation. “The Xan will not allow it, Captain. Engage the nearest enemy ship still standing.”
    A moment later, as Victory moved off, the Xan ship exploded in a puff of orange flame, leaving a glittering cloud of shards drifting toward Mercury. The warlike Xan partisans would never allow themselves to be captured. Certainly not by a race of people they considered patently inferior.
    Victory came up upon a large triple-decked French vessel—Weatherby could not make her name nor recognize her lines—and began opening fire, joining the 60-gun Agamemnon in pouring shot into her. Only half of Victory ’s larboard-side guns fired, for it was a standing order in Weatherby’s fleet to alternate fire from target-to-target whilst in the Void; opportunities flashed by quickly, and the divisions below decks needed to have at least some guns ready to engage at a moment’s notice, while the others reloaded as quickly as possible.
    The French ship shuddered under the assault, and quickly dove toward the Sun and away from both English ships, maneuvering toward the ribbon of glowing specks emanating from the star itself—the Solar current, a powerful flow of motes and lights that could whisk ships away toward the other planets at immense speeds.
    “Permission to pursue, Admiral?” Searle asked. In actuality, it was more of a statement, and it was quite evident he wanted the French triple-decker as a prize.
    Weatherby supposed that’s why there were admirals aboard ships after all—to rein in talented but ambitious captains.
    “Permission denied. I’m sorry, John, but we must assist the rest of the fleet, and we’ve not the space nor manpower to keep hundreds of French prisoners secured upon Elizabeth Mercuris,” Weatherby said gently and quietly. Even though he was in overall command, Weatherby knew to not loudly countermand his captains whilst upon their very quarterdecks.
    “As you wish, my Lord,” Searle said, with the very ghost of a smile upon his face, for he likely knew Weatherby’s answer before he gave it, but thought to chance it regardless.
    As it happened, there was little more Victory could do. Weatherby’s fleet of swarming ships had scattered and flayed the French fleet quite nicely. One French ship was adrift in the Void, fully engulfed in flames, while two others had lost their