“‘The Lost Treasures: A Memoir by Jules Verne Part One Translated from the French by the Amazing Alexandra Verne,’” Max said, spitting the words out as fast as he could. Getting rid of them like they were so much garbage—
“Max, please—”
“I hate them!” Max shouted. “I hate the words! ‘Dear reader, if you have found this I am profoundly grateful for it means I trust that the world still exists that the aims of my nemesis have not borne fruit I write this in a pen—’”
As he stopped short, the words continued in his mind. Alex and Basile were staring at him as if he’d grown another head.
Max grinned.
He looked at the leather booklet that Alex had thrown onto the table. “Open it,” he said.
“Wait, what?” Alex said. “We can’t, Max. The pages are stuck.”
“Dry them,” Max said. “Don’t look at me like that, just dry them and open it!”
Alex darted out of the room and came back moments later with a hair dryer. She held up the booklet sideways so the edges of the pages faced her, then flicked the dryer to the High setting and let it roar.
In a minute the pages began to curl and buckle as the water evaporated. “I don’t see how this is going to do any good, lad,” Basile said softly.
“Can you open it now?” Max demanded.
Alex turned the dryer off, set it down, and carefully slipped her finger inside the booklet. With a soft crackle, the cover separated from the first page.
The paper was still wet. But the words were all there, deep and bold without even a blot.
“What the . . . ?” Alex said.
“The text . . .” Basile said.
“‘I write this in a pen using ink based in iron,’” Max recited, “‘in the hopes that it will last . . .’”
“Iron-based ink!” Basile said. “Crikey.”
“Iron,” Max said, “is not affected by water at all.”
“Eeeeeeee!” Alex screamed, as Max took the booklet and held open a full page of glorious, French, Jules Verne handwriting.
“The game is afoot!” Basile said.
“Max, you are a genius!” Alex blurted. “Can I hug you?”
“Hug this,” Max said, handing her back the booklet. “Then translate it.”
36
THE LOST TREASURES
—PART THREE—
Dearest reader, it is here in Greenland that I, Jules Verne, planned to leave my vast treasure. But here marked the beginning of the end of my fragile alliance with this captain of dark moods and deep intellect. I thought no act could be more hideous than the destruction of Ikaria. But here is where I learned the true scope of his plans. The depths of his delusions.
I am a man of science. Yet I stand in awe of the mystery of nature. The former exists to understand the latter. To break down the natural world into smaller parts for examination. Yet the combination of nature’s parts can be put back together in new ways. They can create monsters of their own—substances of explosive energy. Death sticks whose force can vaporize a human being in seconds. This power makes a mockery of gunpowder and bullets. And this power is what my enemy seeks to use to ever-more-destructive aims.
Having seen the calving of an ice shelf by chance upon his voyages, he set his mind upon causing one such event himself. For his pleasure alone! For now, I have defused his demented plot. But someone will trip the meteorite, and I pray for the survival of all the gentle souls nearby. And then what? The development of ever-greater methods of destruction? The taming of the atom itself, a goal which my nemesis has professed to seek?
I fear he is drunken with the success of his plunder of the Ikarian secrets! In his lifetime, he believes, he will master the building of an underwater civilization. It is then that he will set in motion his plan of devastation. And when the cities empty, then into his triumphal kingdom will flock his chosen people—chosen by their willingness to accept him as master.
Reader, if you have made it this far, I can only imagine your astonishment. But it is crucial that you know what happened. That you see the depravity of the demented genius who calls himself No One. It is here that I decided upon his final fate. May God forgive me. May you forgive me.
Take this note. Secure this cave. Proceed, as I did, to the northeast, stopping at the port of Tourbillon D’Eau.
JV
37
“TOURBILLON D’Eau . . .” Basile said, running his finger up and down the map of the Greenland coast. “Not seeing it. What in the blazes does the name mean?”
“D’Eau means ‘of water,’” Alex said. “Tourbillon is like ‘turbulence.’ If that helps.”
Max woke up with a start. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. But he was on the floor of the control room covered with a blanket. He struggled to his feet, but every muscle in his body ached. “Owww. I feel like I’m a hundred years old.”
“You don’t look a day over ninety-eight, Mr. Van Winkle,” Basile said. “Good morning.”
Max rubbed his eyes. The sky outside the Conch window was a deep blue. “It’s morning?”
Morning.
It was a seven-letter word.
“Why did you let me sleep?” Max cried, racing to the ignition panel.
He typed MORNING into the squares, but nothing happened.
“You were dead to the world, lad,” Basile said. “We all caught a few winks.”
“But . . . Niemand . . .” Max said.
“Niemand is busy on the shore, trying to convince some poor sap to be his new captain,” Basile said. “Don’t forget, lad, he thinks we’re dead.”
“Niemand is a seven-letter word!” Max shouted.
“We tried that,” Basile said. “We tried quite a few.”
Max began pacing. Everything felt bad. Last night when they’d survived and met Basile, everything felt good. When they’d opened the book and seen the text, everything felt good. But now his mind was running yesterday’s events like a horror movie. He saw the avalanche and the snowmobile and the ice floe. He thought about how close to death they had come. He saw the grin on Niemand’s face. And the way he had walked away from the snowmobile.
A smell like a warm blanket welled up around him. “Ozone,” he said.
“Beg pardon?” Basile said.
Max began pacing. “That weird smell . . . before it rains . . . and after.”
“What does that mean to you, Max?” Alex asked.
“I want to get out of here now!”
“Okay, it means impatience. I get it. And I don’t blame you.” Alex took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. He tried to meet her glance, but it was hard. “Max, listen to me. I translated the note. Turns out Niemand was telling us the truth about Nemo. Way back in the eighteen hundreds, Nemo was plotting to set off a series of explosions up and down the Greenland coast. The Antarctic coast too. He wanted to create climate change all by himself and force people into underwater cities. Sound familiar?”
“We left home to help my mom,” Max said. “Yesterday we almost died. What if we had? How would she ever know?”
“Max, I need you to listen,” Alex said. “Focus. We know where we’re going. It’s a place called Tourbillon D’Eau. A port. We’re trying to locate it on a map. The point is, we need to start up the Conch. Can you focus on figuring out that password?”
Basile peered through the periscope. “There are motorboats in the cove. Checking things out. Making sure people didn’t get stranded. Or worse. They don’t know we’re here, but they know we’re missing.”
“Ozone,” Max said. “Ozone ozone ozone.”
“That’s five letters, laddie,” Basile said with a smile.
Max turned to him. The big guy was sitting at a tilted angle. The bandage on his head was so completely soaked with blood that it was nearly black. “You need to change that bandage,” Max said.
Basile nodded. He stood slowly from the chair and grabbed the crutch. “Very good, then. Carry on. I have faith in you, Max
well.”
“Maximilian,” Max said.
As he hobbled away, Alex whispered, “I’m worried about him.”
Max felt an odd sense of relief. “When you started that sentence, I thought you were going to say you were worried about me.”
Alex smiled. “I don’t worry about you anymore, cousin. You are the greatest.”
She kissed him on the forehead, and he let her. As she walked away, he wiped it off. But it didn’t feel too bad, honestly.
“If you need me, holler,” Alex said. “I can hear you in the infirmary.”
“Roger,” Max said.
He spun back to the pad and typed in HOSPITAL and then BANDAGE.
Too random.
“Familiar words . . .” Max muttered. He swiveled the chair and hollered down the hallway: “Basile, what are the names of some of Niemand’s family members? Or pets? What does he like?”
“His parents were Oliver and Octavia, but he didn’t like them!” Basile called back. “He only likes himself. And money. Jewels. For a month in college he had a ferret named Lucifer before it got away.”
HIMSELF
SPENCER
OCTAVIA
LUCIFER
JEWELRY
DIAMOND
EMERALD
“Come on . . .” Max murmured. None of the words was working.
He needed more help. Basile had to know more. He got up and tromped down to the medical room.
From inside came a deep, anguished scream. Max slowed his pace. At the edge of the door, he leaned in to look.
Basile was lying on his back on a padded table. Alex had placed a metal basin on the floor under his head. She was rinsing off his wound with water poured from a beaker. As the pinkish-red blood splashed into the basin, Max could see a track of sutures holding together a deep blackish scar.
Nausea welled up, and he had to turn away.
“Come in, Max,” Alex said.
Max stayed where he was. He forced himself to speak, even though he wanted to throw up. “I . . . nothing’s working. With the password.”
For a moment no one answered. Then he heard Basile’s voice, sounding weary and thin. “Stinky loves to talk about Nemo. Captain No One. I think the chap reads Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea once a year. Blathers on about it all the time until we’re sick of it.”
“Nautilus! The submarine name!” Alex blurted out. “No, wait. That’s eight letters.”
“What about the characters?” Basile added. “There’s Ned Land. The impulsive harpooner. Also Conseil! He’s my favorite, the trusty manservant.”
“Harpoon . . . Ned Land . . . Conseil . . . they all have seven,” Alex said. “Also Aronnax, the hero!”
Max spun away and returned to the control room. His put the words in one by one.
HARPOON
NEDLAND
CONSEIL
ARONNAX
From outside came the sound of a siren. Max quickly peered through the periscope, turning it around until he saw a boat approaching the Conch. It was moving slowly, as two men with metal poles shoved aside blocks of ice. There were three others on board, two of them wearing official-looking uniforms and caps, the other dressed completely in black. One of the uniformed men was pointing directly toward the Conch, gesturing for the others to look. Max realized it was because of the periscope. The guy had seen it move.
Max zoomed in. They were all standing now, moving around, talking, gesturing. As they motored closer, Max finally got a look at their faces. Qisuk was one of them, and he was holding a megaphone. The man dressed in black was wearing a floppy canvas hat and sunglasses. As he raised a set of binoculars to his eyes, he removed the hat. And Max saw a shock of silver down the middle of his thick black hair.
Niemand.
Max’s hands tightened around the periscope handle. The boat was pulling alongside them, and he could hear fists banging on the Conch’s hull. Now Qisuk’s voice rang out through the megaphone, loud enough so Max could hear it in the Conch. “Hello! Anybody in there? Request permission to board!”
Pulling away from the periscope, Max turned and shouted into the hallway. “Alex! Basile! They’re coming! The dock people—with Niemand!”
He heard a clattering of footsteps in the hallway, and Alex raced in. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I saw him,” Max said. “And Qisuk. They’re patrolling. We have to get out of here! We have to escape!”
Alex stared hopelessly at the ignition keyboard. “The passwords—none of the passwords worked?”
“We see the lights! Whoever you are, squatters are not permitted on board, and any damages will be recovered by Niemand Enterprises!”
“Fish fish fish fish . . .” Max muttered. He held on to the instrument panel and breathed as deeply as he could. Only one seven-letter word was in his mind now, and it was failure.
“Max, we have to think,” Alex said. “We need to escape before they get here.”
Behind them, Basile was hobbling silently into the control room. Above them, the hatch wheel creaked as it began to turn. “Open up, right now!” Niemand shouted from above them.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Stinky,” Basile muttered. “Let me get my hands on that man . . .”
Before either of them could stop him, Basile was forcing his way up the ladder to the hatch, using both his arms and one foot. At the top, he pressed a button marked OPEN, which electronically turned the hatch’s ring.
When it clicked, he pushed the door open.
Immediately Niemand’s voice resounded. “This is private prop—”
But at the sight of Basile, Niemand’s words choked in his throat. His face was white as a sail. “I am s-s-seeing a ghost . . .” he murmured.
“You are seeing your worst nightmare,” Basile replied.
He grabbed Niemand by the collar of his silky black shirt and pulled his face to within an inch of his own. A silver chain hung down, and a strange, small, blunt plaster object swung out into the air. “Good God,” Basile said, “is that . . . a pinkie?”
“What do you want, Basile?” Niemand squealed. “A raise? A title? You name it, it’s yours!”
“The password, you murderous, bloodless sack of sewage in a human body,” Basile growled.
“I—I don’t understand—”
Basile closed his other hand around Niemand’s neck. “The password to the ignition, Stinky, or your life.”
Niemand’s eyes were bugged out, his mouth flapping open and shut. “KISSUMS.”
Basile tightened his grip. “Do not mock me!”
“I swear, Basile, it’s K-I-S-S-U-M-S! It’s the name of my pinkie!”
Max was already typing the letters into the keyboard.
KISSUMS
A deep fffooooom shook the Conch. Around the control room, the gauges came to life.
“Take me with you, Basile!” Niemand said. “There is a place for you in the new order! I have the next set of instructions. They’re being translated right now! Please, old roommate, think of our friendship!”
“Good luck with the instructions,” Basile said. “I think dear Sophia is in for a bit of a surprise. And here’s what I think of you, Kissums, and our friendship.”
He let loose a massive glop of spit that landed directly between Niemand’s eyes. Then he lifted his old roommate by the shirt and tossed him into the frigid bay.
38
“LAAASPERAAAAANZA!”
Basile’s singing was so loud and awful that Max had to cover his ears. But he didn’t really care. He didn’t mind the opera music either that blared through tinny speakers.
That’s because Alex was dancing, and Max himself was spinning round and round as fast as he could. “Bye-bye, Stinky,” he sang, “bye-bye, Stinky . . .”
When Alex grabbed his arm, he nearly fell over with dizziness. “Max, stop. Look.”
Hunched in his seat, Basile was coughing like crazy. His body was heaving, his face had turned purple, and the red ooze on his head bandage w
as blooming.
“Basile . . . ?” Alex said.
Basile clutched his stomach and began taking choppy, deep breaths. Max couldn’t tell if he was laughing or choking. “Crikey! Remind me never again to try a high C on the high seas. Haw! See what I did there?”
“Just a sec.” Alex raced out of the control room and returned moments later with a basin, a beaker of water, and a fresh bandage.
Basile was already looking through the periscope, breathing deeply. As Alex gently began removing the old bandage from his head, Max flicked off the music.
“Ah, that does feel better,” Basile said. “You children are too good to me.”
“You scared us,” Alex said.
“You’re not the first person who’s said that about my singing,” Basile replied. A laugh bubbled in his throat. “But blast it, I sing when I’m happy. And the thought of Stinky’s face when he saw me . . . haaaaw!”
“Hold still, Basile . . .” Alex said. She cut the last piece of adhesive and gently taped down the edges of Basile’s new bandage. “I feel bad for the others. Pandora, Sophia, and André. What’s going to happen to them? Can you run the Conch alone, Basile?”
“Those three will fend well for themselves wherever they are,” Basile said. “And I intend to train you to help me run this thing.”
The Conch jolted, and Basile nearly fell off his seat. “Blasted bergs are so sneaky!” he cried out.
Out the window, Max watched the shape of an iceberg float slowly past. The edges looked strangely feathery in the depths, sending up streams of tiny bubbles. Fish slithered in and out of the iceberg’s crags like visiting tourists. A narrow fish turned toward the window, stared, blew up to three times its size like a balloon, and then swam away.
“Blowfish,” Basile said.
“Scared me,” Max remarked.
“At least we’re away from the worst of the ice—and Niemand,” Alex said softly. “Things will feel better when we’re farther away.”
“It’s going to be a long time,” Max said, “till things feel better.”
Max Tilt: Fire the Depths Page 16