Relics, Wrecks and Ruins

by Aiki Flinthart

  Scotty shrugged. “But I’m not against giving it a go. I wouldn’t mind seeing Central Park again.”

  “Ensign Hurst.” Kennedy turned to her comms officer.

  Hurst lifted her earphones off one ear. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “If there are any other subs within shouting distance, I want you to raise them, please. Anyone at all.”

  Hurst’s eyes widened, but she bent her head and fiddled with her dials.

  Kennedy looked at Scotty and Masterton. “For the record, this is on me,” she said firmly. Masterton opened his mouth, but Kennedy held up her hand. “No. If we come through this, my report will say you did your best to dissuade me, but I refused to listen.”

  Her shipmates nodded. What they were suggesting was treason; if they succeeded, there would be hell to pay. Still, rescue, even by a foreign power, was better than being dead. Kennedy prayed there was someone out there.

  At last, Hurst turned to her. “Someone’s scrambling our communications, ma’am. Flooding the frequency,” she said. “If there is a sub in the vicinity, they’re not going to hear us over the noise.”

  Masterton’s shoulders slumped.

  “Fuck,” Scotty said again. “They’re killing us.”

  Kennedy glanced at her screen. “We’ve still got 12 percent. We could have a go at powering up and seeing if we can blast ourselves off this ledge. There’s a small chance we could get clear of the rock, make it to the surface.”

  “And we throw open a window when we get there,” Scotty said glibly.

  “We’ve got to try something,” said Masterton.

  “Tell the crew to strap in,” Kennedy said.

  “Ma’am,” Hurst interrupted, before they’d had a chance to move. “I’m getting something. It sounds like…like a craft.”

  “Another sub?” The commodore had made it clear there was no help coming, still Kennedy’s hope flared.

  Hurst frowned. “Maybe. Except…so strange…and it’s as if it’s coming from below us.”

  That wasn’t possible; it must be some kind of echo caused by their position in the trench. Either that or Hurst and Kennedy were suffering from the same debilitating headaches.

  Still, Kennedy rushed to her screens, punching buttons to illuminate built-in eyes on the Tartarus’s hull. She almost knocked skulls with Masterton as they searched the screens for their rescuers.

  Something was definitely out there. Just nothing Kennedy had ever seen before.

  Above them, near the escape hatch, hovered a lozenge-shaped object which looked to be about half the length of the Tartarus. Running along either side of the creature were a pair of frilled appendages that rippled in unison.

  Kennedy squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again.

  “What is that? A kraken?” Masterton breathed.

  So, it wasn’t just the effects of sleep deprivation and hypoxia; Masterton could see the floating centipede, too.

  “That’s mechanical, not organic,” Scotty said excitedly. He poked the screen with a finger. “See the Greek lettering on the side? That says Phaedra.”

  Kennedy squinted for a better look. At this eleventh hour, the news seemed too good to be true—like a mirage, or a hallucination. A submersible like no other, and from such an unlikely source. “Last I heard, all the Greek Navy still operates is a couple of archaic diesel electrics,” Kennedy said. “How do they have something this advanced? And what is the Greek Navy doing in the Atlantic?”

  “Rescuing us, I hope,” Masterton said. “Maybe they intercepted some intelligence about us and came to see for themselves. Who cares so long as they’re here?”

  He had a point. Kennedy glanced at the battery readout: 11.8 percent.

  “Look!” Masterton said.

  Outside, in the gloomy depths of the ocean, a hatch opened on the hovering craft, and two shadowy figures emerged.

  “What? They have suits to withstand pressures this deep? That’s not…that’s not…” Masterton trailed off.

  He was right. It simply wasn’t possible. At these depths, the tremendous pressure of the ocean would crush a diver in seconds.

  “What are they? Gods?”

  “Fairy godmothers more like,” Scotty said. “Let’s get to the escape hatch.”

  “Hurst. You’d better come,” Kennedy told her communications officer. “And bring your translator. My Greek is a little rusty.”

  They hurried to the base of the ladder. “Let them in, Scotty.”

  After three days of waiting, the three minutes it took for the hatch to drain seemed an eternity. Kennedy smoothed her hair, tugged at her grimy uniform. Finally, the hatch opened and two men wearing slick body suits descended. The first, a huge swarthy-faced man, was forced to bend his body in half to fit the submarine’s headspace.

  “Hello!” Their other guest flipped back his head gear. Slim, with a seaman’s short-back-and-sides, he held out his hand.

  Kennedy stepped forward and clasped it.

  “Gordon DeWees of the USS Cyclops at your service, ma’am, and this is my colleague, Knoso of Mycenae.”

  Kennedy snatched her hand back. “What? That’s not…you can’t…”

  “Wait. Did you say the Cyclops?” Masterston said, stepping closer to Kennedy. “The cargo ship? But…that vessel disappeared in—”

  “Nineteen eighteen. Yes.” DeWees’s eyes twinkled.

  Kennedy’s knees weakened and she grasped a rung of the ladder. She must be dreaming—the deluded wishes of a mind addled by hypoxia. DeWees had to be over a century old, yet he looked barely out of his twenties.

  Scotty must be bamboozled too because he spluttered, “This is crazy. Are we already dead?”

  “Only God and the sea know what happened to the great ship,” Masterton murmured, echoing President Wilson’s comment about the Cyclops.

  Except they were all seeing the same thing. And Kennedy had shaken DeWees’s hand; he was as solid as she was.

  The giant spoke, his voice deep and gravelly, although Kennedy couldn’t comprehend a word.

  “My friend reminds me that we haven’t got much time,” DeWees said. “We’ve come to invite you to join us. We don’t have the power to pull your ship free, but we can save your people.”

  Kennedy turned to Hurst to check the translation, the woman nodding.

  “Join you where exactly?” Scotty demanded.

  “On Knoso’s island of Mycenae,” DeWees said. “You might call it Atlantis.”

  Scotty grunted. He shook his head as if a bubble of water had collected in his eardrum.

  “Atlantis is a myth,” said Hurst. “A utopian dream.”

  And DeWees should be dead.

  DeWees chuckled. “Actually, Atlantis does exist; I live there. Plato was correct, at least his dates were, but he was a bit off with the location. The island resides beneath the seafloor, its upper flank close to the Bermuda Triangle.” DeWees dropped his eyes. “As for it being a utopia, Atlantis is a sanctuary, that’s true. The island is beautiful, and its people are welcoming. But there is no utopia without the people you love. If you decide to join us, you can never go back. Your families will never know what happened to you.”

  “I—” Kennedy paused. The Tartarus still had 10 percent power. Would that be enough to break free of the rock pinning them to the ledge? If they got to the surface under their own steam, the commodore would surely move heaven and earth to rescue the submarine. They might bob on the ocean for a few days, but the crew would get to go home. Kennedy could hold her girls in her arms again.

  Or, she could use the remaining 10 percent to power the Tartarus’s life support systems while the crew evacuated to an alien submersible that would carry off them to an imaginary destination.

  Kennedy almost laughed. She was literally stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  “Captain,” DeWees said softly. “If we’re here, it’s because no one is coming to rescue you.”

  Hurst touched Kennedy on the arm. “Ma’am? For what it’s wo
rth, if Atlantis exists, I’d like to see it.”

  Kennedy hesitated, her heart physically aching for her girls. For Cole’s breath on her cheek. For home. Kennedy straightened her back. Cole would look after their girls, but the men and women of the Tartarus were her responsibility.

  She swallowed hard. “Assemble the crew, please, John. Tell them to leave everything behind.”

  “And the dead? Cohen and McNaught? Rafferty?”

  “Leave them.”

  There was a clunk as the centipede submersible locked onto the hull of the submarine. While the crew evacuated the Tartarus in groups of four, Kennedy deleted the ship’s logs and powered down the screens. She glanced at her letters to Cole and the girls and considered adding a postscript—a private note to let them know she’d be okay—but what might her superiors do if they knew? They’d already sacrificed fifty-one lives to safeguard the technology on the Tartarus. How many more would they forfeit to uncover the fabled utopia? And what of the citizens already there?

  No. Let the US Navy wonder where the crew had gone—if they ever bothered looking. She smiled bitterly and turned away.

  #

  Just 0.4 percent battery life remained when she entered the escape trunk, the last to leave the Tartarus. Scotty gave her a hand up, pulling her up the final rungs into the Mycenaean submersible.

  “It’s modelled on the ancient triremes,” he said. “Those legs are flexible oars!” His eyes were bright, the blue tinge of hypoxia already fading.

  Kennedy glanced back at the wreckage.

  She turned to DeWees. “The US Navy may come looking for her. They’ll have questions. Do you…is there any way we could let her rest?”

  The sailor arched a brow. “I’ll see what we can do.” He pushed some buttons and the Phaedra rang with the sound of ordinance fired.

  Taking a seat next to Hurst, Kennedy strapped herself in. As the submersible pulled away, the lights of the Tartarus winked out.

  Moments later, the cliff collapsed, burying the sub and all her secrets.

  Six-String Demon

  By Sebastien de Castell

  Jen leaned into the Ford Galaxie 500’s voluminous trunk and hauled out her old Fender Bandmaster and the cable bag before reaching for the three guitar cases. The first held an acoustic with a cheap, glued-on pickup for amplification; the second, a decent Mexican Fender Strat.

  She hesitated before taking out the third—the 1964 Rickenbacker 425. A beat-up, semi-hollow-bodied instrument that supposedly had been used by George Harrison to compose “My Sweet Lord” whilst in the throes of some sort of Hare Krishna religious ecstasy.

  Jen sighed, trailing her fingers over the hard case. The Ricky was all that remained from those brief days when she’d had money and let herself believe she was going to be a rock star. But the advance on the Axe Girl record deal was gone, the recording itself deemed unmarketable. Now her life was shitty gigs in backwater towns.

  Staring at the pile of gear, Jen gave one last thought about leaving the Rickenbacker in the trunk of her crapped-out car. But the asshole singer who’d called her in as a sub for his usual guitarist had been adamant about the Rickenbacker. Something about it having the right ‘vibes’ for the gig because it had once belonged to Lennon.

  That made her nervous. It wouldn’t be the first time someone booked her as a side player, had her bring her best gear, and then tried to steal it after the show. Still, he’d been pretty insistent, and she did need the cash.

  She loaded the amp, cable bag, and three guitar cases onto a foldable dolly she kept in the trunk, before hauling everything down the street towards the address she’d been given.

  #

  The house was smaller than Jen expected, not much more than a two-story box seated between larger—and substantially nicer—homes. She hated house-party gigs. Getting harassed was an occupational hazard at the best of times. The ass grabbing was always worse at house parties.

  “There you are,” called a voice from the shadows beneath the hedge fence. At first, he appeared as nothing more than the red dot of a cigarette and the stench of stale Marlboros. The singer, then—only rock singers still thought it was cool to smoke.

  “Car trouble,” she explained.

  He stepped into the streetlamp’s sick light, thin limbed with stringy gray hair that probably hadn’t seen a comb since the black leather pants and vest he wore had still been cool. He was older than he’d sounded on the phone.

  “Did you bring the Rickenbacker?” he asked.

  She stopped pulling the dolly and nodded towards the case on top. “Still don’t know why it’s so important.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough, Axe Girl.” He extended a hand. “Johnny Jacks.”

  He hadn’t given the last name on the phone. Johnny Jacks. Good grief.

  “Jen Farmer,” she said taking his hand. “Please don’t call me Axe Girl.” He held her fingers a fraction too long.

  Two others sidled from the darkness. The man was young, early twenties at most, with tight curly hair and a thick-lipped smile.

  “Levon,” Johnny said. “Drummer.”

  A woman about Jen’s age stomped out the remains of a cigarette on the front lawn before joining them. “Lucy,” she said. “Lucy Bottom.”

  The bass player, no doubt, hence the “Bottom.” These people might have been time travelers from the late seventies except even then, bands weren’t so on the nose.

  “So,” Jen said, nodding towards the house. “What’s the gig? I never did get your song list.”

  Johnny shrugged and headed for the front door. “Song lists are for feebs.”

  #

  Dragging her amp’s head, cab, plus the cable bag and two guitars up the walkway and through the door—only to be informed the gig was on the top floor—worsened Jen’s mood. The others left her to carry the equipment up in stages, starting with hauling the guitars and cable bag up the narrow flight of stairs to a tight hallway and then going back for the amp and cabinet.

  When she passed an open bedroom, she caught sight of a man and woman sitting on the bed. They looked to be about Jen’s age, maybe thirty-five or so, and could have been Sears catalogue models except for their haggard looks and the tears running down the man’s cheeks.

  “Sorry,” Jen mumbled when they glanced up to see her staring. She hoisted the amp head onto her hip and shuffled down the hall towards the next set of stairs going to the top floor.

  “Are you…”

  Jen turned to find the woman standing behind her, one hand on the doorframe of the bedroom as if she might suddenly run back inside and slam the door shut.

  “Guitar player,” Jen said, then, not knowing what else to say, she asked, “Big party tonight?”

  The woman stared, a horrified expression on her face. “A party?”

  “Don’t mind her,” Johnny Jacks said, striding the hallway towards them. “Axe Girl here is…eccentric.” He gently shunted the woman out of the way, whispering as he passed Jen, “Never talk to the clients.”

  “Whatever,” Jen said, following Jacks up the stairs. It wasn’t unusual for a band leader to insist that only he communicate with the clients, but it wasn’t as if she’d been trying to book herself for the next party.

  “You’ll set up in there,” Johnny said when they reached the top. He pointed to a door on the left at the hallway’s far end. A sliver of yellow light crept from beneath the closed, peeling timber panel.

  “Why up here?” she asked, guessing at the size of the room. “Isn’t it going to be kind of tight in there for dancing?”

  “Nobody’s going to be doing any dancing tonight,” the skeletal singer replied. “Just get the rest of your gear and set up on the window side of that room. Lucy and Levon will be up with their stuff in a few minutes. Right now, I’ve got to warm up my voice.” He turned to go then stopped. “And when you get in there, remember what I said: Nev—”

  “Yeah, yeah. ‘Never talk to the clients.’”

  When s
he opened the door, only a small desk lamp provided dim illumination. The room was even smaller than she’d figured. “Great,” she said.

  “Are you the band?”

  Opposite the door, a single bed was pressed up against the wall. A kid, maybe eight or nine years old, lay under the covers. He wore some kind of beanie and she couldn’t see any hair underneath. Pale features. Wan expression. Probably chemo or radiation. Now, the whole scene made a lot more sense: the parents looking exhausted and miserable, setting up inside a bedroom on the top floor, and of course, the fact that the aging rocker hadn’t given her any details about the show. Probably the kid’s cancer treatments were going poorly, and this was a special present for him.

  Geez, kid, she thought. You make your last wish to hear crusty old Johnny Jacks croon out his one hit song and collection of mediocre follow-ups? No accounting for taste.

  “Are you the guitar player?” the kid asked. “Guitar’s my favorite.”

  Jen held up the acoustic case and smiled. “Me too. You ever learn to play?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Want a quick lesson?” She had done two years of afternoons in the back room of a local guitar shop teaching aspiring high school rockers and over-the-hill wannabes how to play their favorite AC/DC covers.

  The kid in the bed pushed himself up to a sitting position. “Is it hard?”

  Jen set the acoustic case down and flipped open the clasps. “Easy-peasey. You like rock?”

  He shook his head.

  “Metal? Pop? Jazz? Folk?” Apparently, none of those interested him, because his head just kept swiveling back and forth. “Help me out, kid. What kind of music do you like?”

  “I don’t like music,” he replied.

  She tried to guess at what she’d done to trigger this sudden bout of petulance. “You don’t like music?”

  “No.”

  “Everybody likes music, kid.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Johnny Jacks demanded. His sudden appearance at the door and the snarl on his lips nearly sent her tripping over her guitar case.