The water around the craft had turned a softer hue. Aladdin blinked as an onrush of bright light poured over them.
“Sunlight,” explained the pilot. “If you look at my gauge you’ll see we’ve climbed to less than thirty fathoms below topside.”
“Topside? You mean the surface?”
“Does that surprise you?”
Aladdin had to concede that it did. “A little,” he admitted. “I — er — assumed Cinnabarians made little or no contact with the surface world.”
“We don’t. Except, on rare occasions, through the funnel. But we work and mine the beds and peaks at every level, and sometimes that brings us into close contact.”
“Then you’ve never actually been... topside?”
She shook her head. “No. What for?”
Aladdin was surprised by her response. “To... experience it,” he said. “To sail the waves or feel the rush of wind against your face. To bask in the sun...”
The girl laughed. “I suppose it does seem strange to you. But there’s nothing up at the top for us. Our world is down here, where we belong.”
“And you’re not even curious?”
The yellow-haired guide hunched down in her swivel chair and sighed. “Sometimes,” she admitted, remembering past moments in her life when, as a young girl, she’d wanted to break the rules and experience, at least once, the sensation of knowing the world as a surface dweller knows it. But those fancies had quickly given way to the realities of Cinnabar. How could she give her surface guests an understanding of the subtle but very real differences between their worlds, differences which in some ways made her civilisation as alien to his as Hellix was to Cinnabar.
“Perhaps someday,” she said quietly, reflectively, “I will climb those final few fathoms. Not now, though. Not for — ”
Something nudged against the hull, sending the submersible onto its side. The pilot snapped back to her job and reached for the panel, steering the turtle upright again. From the starboard porthole Aladdin saw a huge dark hulk move up alongside.
“By Allah — !”
A low-pitched sound, like a mournful cry, filled their ears. Outside the craft, the mammoth beast swam by slowly, heedless of the smaller being which shared its territory.
“Sperm whales,” said the pilot, knitting her brow. “They won’t bother us purposely, but running into a whale, broadside, can do us a lot of damage.”
Like Christóbal, Aladdin had seen whales before, but only from the deck of a ship, at some distance. Never before had he come so close to one in its natural environment, and right now he felt very much like an intruder, invading the mammal’s territory, but unable to do anything about it.
The girl slowed the turtle down to little more than a drift. All around them the ten-and twenty-meter-long mammals swam by, communicating in a whining drone. “Fantastic,” rasped the Spaniard as the school closed-in around the submersible. They were graceful creatures despite their awesome size and strength. Aladdin stared at the rounded humps on their backs, the small paddle-like flippers, the enormous squarish heads, and the large, conical teeth. Some were grey, others blue, still others brown, with pale bellies. Sovereigns of their domain. And although they posed no overt threat to the turtle — the pilot was right — one swift inadvertent blow would have the same impact as an oceangoing ship striking an iceberg.
“We’ll have to drift until they pass.” The girl said trying to conceal her distress. “The rotary motion of the propellers might attract them — or worse — frighten them.”
The pilot sucked in air and ran her fingers across the control panel. Above them, copper rods sent out a hissing stream of blue vapour; the amber lights dimmed; the humming of the steam-powered engine ebbed, then died. Suspended, the turtle hovered amid the passing herd, almost motionless, tugged gently by the mild current.
Aladdin and Christóbal sat silent, with furrowed brows. Their guide, meanwhile, seemed to share none of their trepidation. She sat with her legs crossed, impassively calm and cool.
“You don’t get upset very easily, do you?” remarked the adventurer.
She swivelled in her seat and faced Aladdin fully, her pert features aglow with the reflected hues of the sea.
“We’re trained to obey the laws of the ocean,” she said. “Natural laws. Never upsetting the delicate balance of the world around us. Simple laws, really; we learn to live with the sea and its creations — not to defy them. Experience has instructed us well.”
“It doesn’t frighten you to be trapped in the middle of a school of giant whales?” inquired the Spaniard.
She shrugged off the notion with a twist of her hand. “It’s the sea which gives us all life — and only she can take it away.”
It was a profound remark, Aladdin realised, and curiously fatalistic coming from someone whose background was in the sciences. It struck him now how little he really knew about the beliefs of these strange subterranean people. But from the girl’s casual comment, he was able to glean a superficial understanding. To Cinnabarians the sea was the source of all life, which sheltered and nourished them. Was it then no less proper that they had a special reverence for it?
“We don’t worship the sea,” the girl said as if reading his thoughts. “We respect it as a mother. A giver of all we hold dear.”
“What about Hellix?” he asked provocatively. “Aren’t your enemies a creation of this natural order as well?”
She frowned. “An aberration, Aladdin. A mutant civilisation, nothing more and nothing less.”
Unlike Rufio and Damian and most of the others they’d met, the yellow-haired pilot didn’t speak about the enemy with open contempt. Rather, her attitude seemed to be — well — scientific. Based more on reason and understanding than on blind hatred. “You don’t despise what they are?”
She inhaled slowly, thinking before she answered. “It’s easy to hate what you don’t understand,” she told him forthrightly.
“Rufio would wipe them off the face of the ocean if he could.”
The frown turned into a distasteful grimace. “Which may be why we’re in the predicament we’re in. Don’t misunderstand. Hellixian tactics can be brutal, as I’m sure you’ll find out. But our own military has never given the opposition cause to question its convictions about us.”
This was evidence again of the rift, the mutual mistrust which seemed to characterize Cinnabarians. “You sound like you believe the war could have ended long ago.” He was probing deliberately, hoping to find her more willing than the others to speak about the suspicions between those aligned with the Pavilion and those aligned with Rufio’s legions.
“I can’t speak for what has happened in the past,” she replied, carefully skirting the question. “Soldiers have their own way of doing things; it’s not my place to interfere.”
“But you don’t necessarily approve?”
“Neither approve nor disapprove. I obey the laws and do my duty. Politics I leave to the politicians, war to the generals.”
Aladdin met the glare of her sea-grey eyes. “And what about us, soldiers from the surface?”
She looked at him long and hard, smiling at last with what Aladdin thought might be a touch of sarcasm. “The truth?” she said.
“Certainly the truth.”
“I think you’re wasting your time. I think that everyone concerned in bringing you here is fooling himself. That goes for Damian, Rufio, and my father as well.”
Aladdin leaned forward. “Your father?”
She regarded him curiously, head tilted, eyes flickering with hints of puzzlement. “Don’t you know who I am?” she said at last.
“Only that you’re a pretty young woman with a great deal of courage — ”
The pilot clapped her hands in delight, shut her eyes, and lifted her head skyward. Then she laughed, uproariously, talking special pleasure in the joke played on them all. As her laughter subsided, she shared her glee with her passengers. “Shara,” she said. Shara, namesake of the captivating woman whose sta
tue had so entranced Aladdin. Shara, only daughter of the consul, the otherworldly wizard who by trickery had forced Aladdin into making this journey. Shara, child of Shaman.
Chapter Sixteen
“I tell you one thing, capitán, these Cinnabarians know how to eat well.” Christóbal burped as he wiped his mouth with his embroidered napkin, leaned back in his chair, and enjoyed the view from the wide window. The oversized portions of deep-sea bass, mussels, and clams, along with a plankton and seaweed concoction, which tasted remarkably like buttered spinach, had been another delightful meal, washed down with a huge glassful of heady Cinnabar wine. It was a cuisine rivalling the finest to be found, anywhere.
“Capitán, aren’t you hungry? Why haven’t you finished your meal?” The Spaniard frowned at his friend’s half-eaten dish. It was certainly unlike Aladdin to have eaten so little, particularly after such a long and gruelling day. Christóbal shrugged when his companion didn’t answer; he leaned over and fork in hand, plucked up the remaining juicy portion of succulent blue bass, eyeing it eagerly as it plopped onto his own plate.
“Yes, this is truly a remarkable land,” he mumbled as he chewed slowly, savouring every morsel. “You know, capitán, I have been doing some thinking. These — er — hosts of ours are not such a bad lot after all. Even old Shaman, curse his name. There is much we can learn from them, don’t you think? I mean knowledge that can be taken back, perhaps, and applied to our own world. Think of it, my friend! No more would the children of the world starve, if we could somehow harness the ocean as they do here. With their science, even the Sahara itself might be made to bloom. The surface could be turned into a Garden of Eden, capitán. And our navies, instead of fighting one another, could learn to pluck from the deep anything and everything that is needed.” His eyes twinkled as he thought of the priceless beds of pearls to be found at the bottom of the ocean, the incredible minerals begging to be harvested; enough for everyone, by God! More than enough. Every man could become a king...
“Did you see the mines of marble, capitán?” He slapped himself on the cheek. “And the fisherman’s nets which haul in their catches by the thousands? And the blubber and oil to be had, and the teeming life that could sustain — Capitán. Capitán? Are you listening to me, capitán, or are my words falling on the ears of a deaf man? Has the water pressure kept your ear drums clogged, my old friend? Or are you merely asleep with your eyes open?”
Aladdin stirred from his thoughts. “Did you say something, Christóbal?” he asked absently, toying with his silver fork.
The Spaniard groaned. “I have been talking until I am blue in the face, like this poor bass we have devoured. What is wrong with you, eh? I haven’t seen you behave so peculiarly since the dawn after the night of the sultan’s party.”
Exhaling a long breath, Aladdin tilted his head and stared out of the window. The magenta sky was darkening; whitetime was almost gone. Across the magnificent domed city, soft lights were beginning to shine.
His thoughts had indeed been far away during this pleasant evening. But not on the riches of Cinnabar, as were Christóbal’s, but rather on another element of the day’s adventures.
“Shara,” he muttered.
“Eh, my friend? What did you say?”
“The girl, Christóbal. Our guide. The pilot of the turtle...”
“Ah, I see, capitán,” the Spaniard said with a knowing wink and silly grin cracking his roughly hewn features. “I think she might be a fair piece of woman, without the wet-suit and webbed feet.”
Aladdin waved his hand in a gesture of frustration. Christóbal always did have a one-track mind in these matters. It was not the young woman’s beauty he was entranced with, although he would be less than truthful if he didn’t admit to noticing it. No, it was something else. Perhaps her name, yes, and the similarities between the flesh-and-blood girl and the strange statue of her namesake. The statue had so captivated him that day. What was it about her, he wondered. What had made him see the model of the revered Shara in the vibrant and free-spirited woman who had been their guide? Both were, without question, unlike any woman he had met before. And both, somehow, seemed to embody, symbolically, the undersea world of Cinnabar itself.
“Don’t fret, my friend,” said Christóbal in a comforting manner. “Maybe you will have the chance to see her again.” The grin deepened.
Aladdin looked evenly at his large friend with emotionless eyes. “She’s Shaman’s daughter,” he said. “Our enemy. The man who imprisoned Fatima and caused us all so much grief. Or have you forgotten the oath we took?”
“You cannot blame the child for the sins of the father, capitán.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I do not understand why you are so morose, compadre. So what if she is his daughter?”
With a deep sigh, Aladdin said, “No, I suppose you don’t understand.” He made a face. “Perhaps I don’t understand it, myself. Only...”
“Only what, capitán?”
“Only right now I wish she weren’t his flesh and blood. That she had never even heard the name of Shaman.”
As usual, the Spaniard was getting ready to expound upon some home-grown Castilian philosophy. He didn’t have the opportunity, though. A shrill, almost painful, buzz suddenly resounded, and both adventurers nearly jumped from their seats in alarm.
“What on earth — ?” gasped Christóbal.
“What in Cinnabar,” corrected Aladdin. He stood up, covering his ears.
Lights began to blink in sequence from the highest towers, flashing, much as submersibles blinked beneath the water. From the window, Aladdin noticed the lights being extinguished across the city.
“Something’s happened,” he said. “Something — ”
The door to their chamber flew open. Pimply faced, panting, an unsmiling Crispin burst unceremoniously into the room. “Good lord, shut off that glowlight!” he commanded.
By reflex, Aladdin passed his palm over the yellow light suspended over his shoulder. The chamber fell into shadows. The buzzing came in short spurts now, not as loud or painful as before.
“What’s going on here?” growled the Spaniard.
Crispin, normally a most jovial fellow, shook his head and regarded them dourly. “Red Alert,” he said. “The city’s going on blackout. A precaution, of course, but standard procedure in emergency situations. Fortunately I was here in the Pavilion when the signals were first flashed...”
“What signals? What emergency?” With his face bathed in shadows, Aladdin peered out from the window at the spotty blue lights blinking wildly from the nearest steeple.
“A breach,” Crispin said simply. “The attack commenced precisely at the point of darkout. The enemy has reached the locks of the Inner Circle.”
Aladdin spun around and confronted the youthful adjutant. “They’ve broken through the first line of defence?”
“Can’t say, old boy. Too early to know all the conditions yet. But they might have caught the First Legion with its pants down, all right. Couriers begging for support units have been streaming into Supreme. Contingents are already headed for the eastern locks.”
“Isn’t that where we were today?”
“Exactly, old boy. Lucky they didn’t try and breach before you made it back.” He heaved a sigh, scratched his hair. “It has the makings of a bad one, this time. Casualty reports indicate that we’ve already suffered heavy losses in the sea. Particularly among the civilians. Three of our mines have been reported to be overrun, and word from the Green Dome has it that the Academy labouratory is under siege.”
Aladdin looked at the soldier with a gasp, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He remembered Shara’s words, that most of her time was spent in the undersea labouratory, and if it weren’t for their brief sojourn, she would be there now.
The adventurer turned to Christóbal. “Maybe it’s about time we started to earn our keep,” he said. As the Spaniard nodded, Aladdin looked back at Crispin. “Take us out,” he said. “To the fight.”
The soldier recoiled at the demand. “I say, old boy, you don’t want to do that! Not without a bit more experience under your belts. It could be dangerous. No one can vouch for your safety.”
“We’ll take care of ourselves, I promise you,” said Aladdin. He tossed Christóbal his knife belt and strapped-on his own. “Take us, Crispin. Straight to the front line. It’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? To learn your warfare first-hand?”
Crispin spluttered. “Yes — but — but I need authorisation from the War Room. Old Rufio would emasculate me if anything were to happen.”
“And I’ll personally do the job right now if you don’t stop whimpering and do as the capitán tells you!” Christóbal barked menacingly.
“He means it, old boy,” Aladdin chimed in. “Now get us to the locks! Clearance be damned! For once and for all I’m going to find out what this undersea war is all about.”
Chapter Seventeen
The submersible was much larger than Shara’s turtle, but similar in design. In what the controlling officer tersely referred to as “silent running,” the undersea craft weaved out from the locks and, lightless, roared across the murky depths.
A pale light gave Aladdin and Christóbal just enough brightness to make out the harsh lines of the iron vessel. Beside them a bevy of grimly silent Cinnabarian troopers sat motionless along the slatted benches of the transport. “You’d better don your wet suits,” advised Crispin. Speaking in dark whispers, the adjutant offered the rubber skins to each of the adventurers, showing them how to wear the swim and battle gear.
The “transport,” as the vessel was called, gained in altitude and speed. The black sea rushed past the darkened portholes. Aladdin flexed his muscles inside the confines of the rubber skin, took the offered goggles and fit them over his face.
“You’ll receive your tanks at departure,” said Crispin. “Remember — each tank contains just sixty minutes of breathing air. Indicating the tiny dial set alongside his own air tank, he said, “This gauge will tell you how much oxygen supply is left. When the needle reaches the red area, you have only seven minutes remaining. Whatever your circumstance, you’ll be required to reach the safety of a supply vessel to tank-up again. Understand?”
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 93