by Arthur Slade
“I was très dumbfounded, I’ll admit that,” Colette said.
“Cerdà, prepare Icaria’s mace.”
“Are you certain, Captain?” Cerdà said. Modo hadn’t heard him question her before. She nodded.
“What is this mace?” Modo asked.
“You shall see soon enough. Let us warn our comrades.”
They all climbed out the hatch and Cerdà closed it. He then went to a storage locker.
“Does he need help?” Modo asked.
“Comrade Garay should arrive shortly,” Monturiol said. “Once he had pedaled clear of the Wyvern, he could engage the motor. He will aid Cerdà.”
They entered New Barcelona. The same three women in white robes greeted them halfway down a long hall, along with four boys, the oldest looking not much older than eight. There were two elderly men, both with peg legs, and beside them a sickly-looking man who was missing an arm. Modo remembered that they had been outside working on New Barcelona the first time he had visited. In all Modo counted twelve people, including a swaddled baby and young twin girls. Several people were holding fishing spears. Modo’s heart sank. The children were mostly afraid; the women grim. This wasn’t an army trained to defend an underwater country.
“Our comrades are imprisoned on an enemy ship,” Monturiol said to the gathered Icarians. “Our enemy is an organization that calls itself the Clockwork Guild.”
“Captain! What can we do?” one of the old men asked.
“You shall protect New Barcelona with every beat of your heart. Cerdà and I will strike them with the Ictíneo.”
“What about the balloons?” Colette asked.
“We will go deep enough that the balloon devices cannot follow. We will spear them directly from below.”
“But is the Ictíneo designed for those depths?” Modo asked.
“Yes, she is. Her collapse depth is one thousand meters. We will only go a quarter of that distance. The deeper we go, the more speed we will attain when we empty the ballast tanks.”
“The pressure will be tremendous,” Colette said. “It’s madness to risk it all.”
“No, not madness. It is the unexpected, and that is how one wins wars,” Monturiol said. “Your debt has been paid. You two may remain here.”
“You promised to deliver us to Iceland,” Colette said.
“I will fulfill that promise after this battle.”
“You don’t have enough sailors to run the Ictíneo,” Modo added.
“We shall manage.”
Modo looked at the women and the children, and at the old men. They were determined, even the youngest, but none of them was trained for battle. Everything was moving too fast. His assignment was to bring the technology home to England, to Mr. Socrates, but that would be impossible if the technology was destroyed.
No, it was more than that. Modo’s eyes rested on the men missing limbs. Monturiol had brought them here, had given them a home—a homeland—where they could contribute. Could be accepted.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
“You are very brave.” Monturiol put her hand on his shoulder. “It will not be an easy mission.”
Colette let out a long sigh. “I shall go too. I won’t be outdone by an Englishman. You may have insulted my country, Monturiol, and I could not live under the water like this; I enjoy the cafés and dress shops of Paris too much. But I do not want your city destroyed.”
Monturiol put her other hand on Colette’s shoulder. “You are heartily welcome. We shall go now.”
When they returned to the Ictíneo, Modo noticed that the hatch was open. Hadn’t Cerdà closed it earlier? His brain was too addled to recall clearly. Observe! Remember! The Filomena was also in the dock now, and Comrade Garay was helping Cerdà bolt a large spiked metal ball near the tip of the Ictíneo’s sharpened ram.
Cerdà and Garay marched over. “The mace is attached, Captain,” Cerdà said.
“Good, good.”
“What is it?” Modo asked.
“Icaria’s mace,” Cerdà said.
“Yes,” the captain continued, “the ram will tear a hole in the hull and the mace will detonate within a minute, ripping more wounds in the enemy’s ship. That is the theory. We have not tested it before.”
“Oh,” Modo uttered. “I see.”
“Comrade Garay,” Monturiol said, “you shall be in charge of the defense of New Barcelona. You need to arm the citizens and patrol.”
Garay’s eyes were wide. “But Captain, I want to come with you!”
“No, Garay. Only you can pilot the Filomena. If all is lost, you must take your fellow Icarians to safety.”
He saluted with a trembling hand. “Yes, Captain.”
“Now we shall strike,” Captain Monturiol said, “like a spear thrown by Poseidon.”
42
The Dark Deeps
Once they had boarded, Modo closed the hatch on the Ictíneo, spinning it into locked position. “Quickly!” Captain Monturiol said. “Cerdà, take Modo to the crow’s nest—he’ll be our navigator.” She patted Modo’s shoulder. “You’ll be watching for obstacles. There is a speaking tube, which you will use to communicate with the bridge.”
“And me?” Colette asked.
“You were good with the ballast tanks—you are officially a control officer now.”
Cerdà led Modo to the bow of the ship. “The crow’s nest is normally at the top of ship, isn’t it?” Modo asked.
“Yes, but on the Ictíneo it’s the nose. Its purpose is the same as on any ship. You will have a view above, below, and to either side. You will be able to see much more than the captain can through her periscope.”
Cerdà opened a hatch door and led Modo into the tight little crow’s nest. There were several large portholes, as though Modo were standing in the eye of an insect. A light shone from the bow of the ship, illuminating the underwater wall of the bay. Suspended over the portholes was a chair with multiple belts. It looked like something a clever spider might have designed.
“Be seated,” Cerdà said. Modo sat and Cerdà began strapping him in. “These are to prevent you from being thrown around when we smash into our enemy.”
Modo didn’t like the feeling of being tied down.
“From here you can see above and below the Ictíneo, through the viewports. When you spot an obstacle, lift this shutoff valve and report through the speaking tube.”
The tube was hanging to Modo’s left and ended in a bell-shaped mouthpiece. “I understand.”
“It is important that you flip the valve closed at the end of communication. Especially important if we are about to ram a vessel.”
“Why is that?”
“If this chamber is flooded, we don’t want the water to penetrate the remainder of the Ictíneo through the tubing.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” Modo tried to say this as calmly as possible, but his voice cracked.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Cerdà said, “she is a sturdy ship. Remember, you are the Ictíneo’s eyes.” He went to the door and, as he was shutting it, said, “I am sorry. I must keep this closed. You are very brave.”
“Thank you,” Modo said, but the door was already closed.
Modo hadn’t thought about what might happen to the viewports when the Ictíneo bashed into the Wyvern. And what damage would that exploding mace do?
“Uh, all clear,” he muttered into the speaking tube. He pulled back on the valve. “Modo here, saying the crow’s nest is all clear.”
“Thank you, Navigator.” Captain Monturiol’s voice came back to him through another tube that dangled above. “Please inform me only of an obstruction. I know this area well.”
They left the bay and accelerated over the plateau. Modo opened his eyes wide. No matter how hard he stared upward, he couldn’t see the Wyvern’s hull.
“Shouldn’t we shut off the exterior lamps?” he asked.
“We want them to follow us,” Monturiol said. “We will reach the edge of the plateau soo
n, Modo. Please inform me once we have passed it.”
Modo watched as the ground dropped away into an underwater canyon of unimaginable depth. “We are over the top of it now.”
“You are looking at the Valley of Clavé.” She sounded very calm.
Modo glanced up and saw a dark shape far above them. He couldn’t even be sure it was real. “I believe the Wyvern is forty-five degrees to starboard.”
“Good eyes!”
She had adjusted something, because now one of the Ictíneo’s lights lit the hull of the other ship. Which began to move.
“They’re following us!” Modo shouted.
“Thank you, Modo,” Monturiol said. Apparently she had left her speaking tube open, because Modo heard her orders for Colette. “Fill the forward ballasts to twenty percent. We begin our descent.”
The Ictíneo shifted. They were pointing down now, the screw propeller pushing them ahead as the ballast tanks took on water. The hydrogen light illuminated the darkness, showing him the Ictíneo’s battering ram. The red substance on it was probably barnacles, but it looked like blood. Icaria’s mace was a fist clamped to the end of it.
He stared past the ram. There was no sign of rock or sandy soil. Occasionally he saw fish with large, bulging eyes and flat bodies as though the pressure of the ocean had shaped them, but mostly it was just a great empty blackness. He glanced at the pressure gauge: they were at twenty-eight atmospheres of pressure. He calculated that they were near three hundred yards below the ocean’s surface. He didn’t know how many meters that was, but guessed it was near the same amount. How deep had the captain said the ship was designed to go? A thousand meters? That was collapse depth. But it would all be theoretical. He examined the glass porthole; how much further could they go before it cracked?
Monturiol and Cerdà had built this ship well, he reassured himself, and had likely been much deeper than this.
The deeper they went, the more the pressure began to squeeze the Ictíneo. The ship began to groan as though it were trying to warn its occupants of the danger.
“We are at about three hundred meters,” Modo said into the speaking tube.
“I am aware of our exact depth, Modo,” Captain Monturiol said. “The Ictíneo will hold, if that is your worry.”
Modo clicked his speaking tube closed. “That is exactly my worry,” he whispered. He removed the handkerchief and wiped at his eyes. Just as he was replacing it, a dark, rocky form loomed in the central viewport, sticking out of the ocean floor.
“Hard right. Hard right!” he bellowed, but he hadn’t flicked the switch on the speaking tube. He snapped the switch up. “Hard right! To starboard. Impact dead ahead!”
At once the Ictíneo veered to the right. Cerdà was responding. The ram missed the jutting rocks by feet, but the bottom of the submarine ship was not so lucky. With a sudden impact that sent Modo banging against his straps, the Ictíneo scraped the underwater mountain spire and began to spiral downward.
Modo looked out the main window. The outer light swept back and forth as they attempted to gain control of the ship. “All clear! All clear!” he said, wanting to contribute something. He glanced at the pressure gauge: fifty-one atmospheres. He calculated from five hundred fifty yards to six hundred yards. The hull of the Ictíneo moaned like a live thing, as though a giant were squeezing it with two hands.
Where was the bottom? he wondered. Where was it? How far? Any moment he expected to see it come rushing up. The Ictíneo rotated a half turn clockwise, then spun back the other way.
The glass would go first. He was certain of it. And then what? Could he flee to the other chamber in time? Or would the force of the water crush him? He looked down hopelessly at all the straps. A bolt, loose or rusted, suddenly shot across the room, and water began to spout through the hole.
He thought of Octavia. Found himself wishing, oddly, that he hadn’t argued about Shakespeare with her. And then he had a second thought: I should have shown her my face.
“Ballasts are empty.” Colette’s voice drifted above Modo.
“A leak in the crow’s nest! It’s leaking here!” Modo said.
“Calm down!” Captain Monturiol commanded. “How bad is it?”
“Uh … uh, a few gallons a minute, I’d guess.”
“Inform us if it worsens.” Another mass was approaching. “Obstacle dead ahead,” Modo shouted. “It … I think it’s the bottom of the canyon!”
“Brace for impact, then,” Captain Monturiol said. “I’m going to switch the center of gravity.”
There was a loud thunk; the submarine ship straightened as though all its weight had shifted aft. It flipped further so that its nose angled upward. Modo thought a miracle had occurred until he realized the ship was continuing to plunge at the same speed.
A moment later he felt the impact.
43
A Game of Cat and Fish
Two hours had passed since the prisoners had escaped. Miss Hakkandottir strode along the upper deck. Already she had punished the Guild soldier responsible for guarding them by throwing him in the hold with the remaining Icarians. They could tear him to pieces. Her security lieutenant had also suffered her wrath, but he had sustained little more than a broken arm. All of the soldiers received a tincture that made them more obedient, but it dulled their minds. Automatons, she thought. She missed the days when she was a pirate with real men under her control.
The conclusion was obvious. The enemy had another submarine ship. Likely a smaller one that they had used to rescue the prisoners and reclaim the Ictíneo. Clever little water rats!
She had marveled at the Ictíneo, had walked through the empty hallways, touched the thick hull. She sensed a mind behind it that equaled the imagination of the Guild Master.
Her men had not been able to break down the door to the engine room. That was where the real secrets lay. But the Guild Master would have rewarded her greatly for bringing this technology home. And now it was gone.
“A light! A light!” the lookout bellowed from the crow’s nest. The call was passed along, and Miss Hakkandottir herself saw a brightness below the ocean as though a comet were speeding through the depths.
“Prepare the balloon guns!” she shouted.
Then, suddenly, the comet was diving down, down, until it disappeared into darkness. The speed of the submarine ship was beyond belief.
She was confident that Monturiol was not fleeing. The captain wouldn’t abandon her underground city or her comrades still in the hold. She would strike but it would be useless; the hull of the Wyvern could withstand any blow. Would Monturiol risk the lives of the Icarians on board? Hakkandottir couldn’t decide. Then she laughed. It was a game of cat and fish. She liked this sort of game.
44
The Bottom of a Well
Modo felt his chest, but nothing seemed to be broken. The straps had bruised him in several places. He stared at the pressure gauge. They were nine hundred yards below the sea, right near the edge of collapse depth. Would it happen all at once? Or would the ship slowly crumple in on itself?
The Ictíneo had settled at an angle, leaving Modo looking up toward the water’s surface. It might as well be a million miles away, he thought. “Turn out the hydrogen light,” the captain commanded through the speaking tube.
Modo found the switch and flicked it, and the outside world went black. He saw that the spout of water into the ship had slowed—perhaps something had shifted in the crash.
The door clanked open and Cerdà entered, glancing at the crack. “That is a manageable leak,” he said. “Not good news, though. It means the forward ballast tank is more damaged than I thought. Come with me to the ballast station.”
Modo unstrapped himself and followed Cerdà down the stairs, to a narrow hallway. The angle of the Ictíneo was awkward and the metal floor was slippery. He was glad that there were several handholds along the wall. “There are four forward ballast tanks,” Cerdà explained. “I am certain that two of them were damaged and flo
oded after we struck that ridge—that is why we descended so quickly. We need to empty them and achieve positive buoyancy—we must go up!” He sounded almost jolly. “The Ictíneo will rise again, my comrade. And we will rise with her.”
“I wish I’d seen the ridge sooner!”
“You reacted as well as any Ictíneo navigator. Our luck did not hold, that is all. There is no blame. Ah, here we are.” They opened another door and stepped into the same room they had entered when they’d sneaked aboard the Ictíneo.
“The pressure will make it difficult to empty the ballasts—the sea pushes in, we must push her out. The motors will have to be started manually.” Cerdà led Modo to a wall covered with gauges, switches, and a large crank. “The question is, will they engage? And if they do, can they force the water out? It depends on where the breach is.” Cerdà flicked a switch near the panel and lights came on. All of the needles on the gauges were at zero. “Again our luck is bad—the batteries are dead. We must crank the motor.” He struggled with the crank without success.
“Please let me try,” Modo said. He wedged his feet into a corner, balancing himself so that he could grab the crank with both hands. It wouldn’t budge. He gritted his teeth, pulled harder. At last it began to screech and turn and the dials jumped along with it.
“Ah, good, good, Modo!”
The turning gradually became easier and the pump motor awakened. “The faster you go, the more you help the motors,” Cerdà said.
Modo heard a scraping sound and it felt as though his arms would fall off, but he kept working.
“That should push the water out of the tanks. There is a safety system which Delfina—Captain Monturiol—added for emergencies.” Cerdà pulled another lever. A thunk echoed in the chamber and several of the gauges shot to the center. “Success!”
The Ictíneo shifted as though nodding in agreement.
“We are rising off the floor. Assuming the propeller is not damaged, we will be able to ascend. Let’s return to the others.”