Captain Nemo

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Certainly, Monsieur,” Verne said, trying to be formal as he recovered his pride. He searched for more lint to brush from his jacket and said with comic bravado, “Alas, I cannot give you the recipe. It is a family secret, and I am sworn to die before I reveal the vital information entrusted in me.”

  “But of course,” the man said, then patted his stomach again. “You are fortunate that for me, the primary interest is in consuming the omelet.”

  The man continued up the marble stairs toward the harpsichord music, but Verne stopped him. “Wait, Monsieur. You have not told me your name or your address.”

  The big man stopped in genuine surprise and turned to look down at Verne. “You mean you do not know?” He clapped his hands, then smiled even wider, flashing bright white teeth. “Oh, ho! So many fawning people cling to me at all times. Rarely does anyone bump into me truly by ‘accident.’ ”

  He extended a ring-studded grip; his palm could easily have folded around Verne’s entire hand. “I am Alexandre Dumas. You must come to my chateau at Monte Cristo. I believe anyone here can tell you the way.”

  VI

  After all he had been through, all he’d accomplished and suffered, Nemo refused to let a mere ocean stop him. So he decided to build a raft.

  The monstrous mushrooms provided sturdy, woody stems that floated with ease. Squatting in the soft dirt, Nemo used a stick to sketch plans for building a simple, seaworthy craft. He took what he knew of engineering and added ideas he’d gleaned from Captain Grant’s library—from the sketchbooks of Leonardo da Vinci to the designs of the steamboat inventor, Robert Fulton. It was a problem to be solved through time and ingenuity, and Nemo had both.

  With his cutlass, he hacked down seven sturdy mushrooms. He removed the hemispherical caps, each one broader than his outstretched arms, and dragged the porous logs to a flat clearing at the shore of the sea.

  Rather than using simple vines to lash the mushroom logs together, he took extra time to braid thin tendrils into a sturdy cord. He had no way of knowing how long he’d need this craft to last. He secured four of the large fungus caps together on the bottom of the raft to act as pontoons for extra flotation. Next he used his braided cord to tie the logs together on top.

  After many hours of labor, Nemo stripped to swim in the leaden waters of the Earth’s central sea; then he went back to work again until, exhausted, he crawled under a mushroom canopy to sleep. . . .

  Once the completed structure was firm and stable, he looked across the cavern ocean. Seeing no end to the water, he gathered fresh supplies: ripe fruit, hard roots, even the meat from a small plant-eating dinosaur he ambushed behind the thick ferns. He still had his two pistols taken from the pirates, but so far he’d found no need to use them.

  Ready to undertake a long voyage, Nemo heaved his lightweight fungus boat into the water, using shaved mushroom logs for paddles and a tiller. The raft drifted along, carried by the strong subterranean current. Behind him, the underground shoreline faded into the distance, veiled by a mist that clung to the thick fungus forest.

  Before long, Nemo found himself in the uncharted expanse of a featureless sea. The grotto ceiling above shone with pearly luminescence, far, far away, and Nemo had no stars or familiar land features to guide him. Only his dreams . . .

  The hardest part was coping with the sheer boredom. For so long, Nemo had been forced to spend every waking hour on the simple business of survival, occupying himself with essential tasks all day long to feed himself, improve his life, or reinforce his defenses.

  Drifting in the open sea, Nemo had nothing to do but lie back and think. He tried to determine his velocity by tossing bits of flotsam over the side, but had no fixed point of reference. Smiling, he let himself enjoy memories of his childhood days and the port of Ile Feydeau, playing card games with his father, spending joyful times with Jules Verne, competing for the attentions of Caroline Aronnax, imagining all the adventures they would have in their lives. . . .

  Now he was at the mercy of the strong current, and his simple rudder could barely nudge him in one direction or another. He saw no reefs or shoals, still no sign of an opposite shore, or a passage leading to the surface. He began to think he might never see the real sun again.

  He was lost at the center of the Earth and defenseless in the face of whatever forces Nature chose to inflict upon him.

  VII

  When a pounding came at the door of his small room, Jules Verne was not asleep, though the hour was late. He’d sat by the pale light from a salvaged candle, rereading scenes from The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Tears were in his eyes from the tragic end of Romeo and Juliet, but the plotting and careful tapestry of characters made him weep as well. He wanted to publish great dramas, too—and perhaps Alexandre Dumas could help him. He wished he could afford to buy some of the esteemed author’s novels and plays before visiting Dumas in his chateau. Verne was anxious to make a good impression.

  The fist hammered insistently, and Verne assumed it must be one of his literary friends, possibly drunk, possibly wanting to borrow money that Verne didn’t have. He got up, grumbling, and closed his book. “Coming, coming!” But when he opened the door, he saw a broad-shouldered figure in the dimness of the hall. The stranger wore the striped pullover shirt of a sailor and tattered bell-bottomed pants, and he carried a smell of tar and sweat about him. Verne stopped, startled, as if seeing a ghost from the shipyards on Ile Feydeau.

  “I’m looking for Jules Verne,” the man said with a gruff, Breton accent.

  “I am he.” Verne drew himself up, running a hand through his tousled reddish hair, though this sailor did not seem to put much stock in personal appearances. Rough and tumble, scarred, the sailor cut a fearsome figure, and Verne swallowed hard. He took an unsteady step backward, thinking of assassins and bullies. But who would want to rob him? “May . . . I help you?”

  “You’re from Nantes, then? I’ve been to your city and seen your father. He gave me your address here, but I’ve got to get back to my ship.”

  Now Verne was even more confused. His mind whirled—his father would never send such a man to check up on him, would he? He wished he’d been studying his law books rather than Shakespeare, just in case this ruffian reported on him. “What is this all about, sir?” He did not dare invite the man into his small room.

  “I have a message for you. And a story.” The sailor withdrew a thick, rolled-up sheaf of papers from his pocket. The pages were yellowed, curled, and water-stained, some torn. “I worked on a fishing trawler five months ago. We caught a shark, and when we slit his belly open we found a bottle inside. That bottle contained this journal—a long one, written by a friend of yours. Someone by the name of Nemo.”

  Verne’s entire body went numb, and he reached out a trembling hand to take the roll of papers. As he unfolded them and looked down at the packed writing, he recognized his friend’s penmanship. “Nemo . . . he’s alive?” The sailor shrugged his broad shoulders. “I expect so, otherwise he wasn’t likely to write so much. Beyond that, I can’t say. No telling how long the bottle drifted in the currents before the shark swallowed it. Says here at the top to deliver it to a Monsieur Jules Verne, from Ile Feydeau. That’s you, isn’t it?”

  Stunned, Verne stepped back into his room, holding the pages as if they were a rare treasure map. “Yes. Thank you. Thank you.”

  He had no money to tip the sailor, and he hoped his father had at least paid the man something for his trouble. The stranger didn’t seem to expect money, though, and turned to depart without further formalities. Verne recalled that the brotherhood of the sea obliged sailors to perform such services for each other.

  Nevertheless, he was relieved when the intimidating man creaked his way down the long staircase. Verne locked the door. He moved aside the volume of Shakespeare and sat down in a cold sweat. A strange amazement warmed his heart as he stared at the pages.

  He read all through the night and well past dawn, astonished at the ordeals Ne
mo had undergone on the mysterious island. But the story came to an abrupt end after the pirate attack, without a resolution. Verne sat up, trembling, and wondered what had happened to his friend next.

  VIII

  As the weird, unchanging days passed, Nemo lost track of how many times he slept or ate. Estimating as best he could, he marked notches on the mushroom logs to make a crude calendar. The endless twilight passed in a haze of monotony as he continued to drift across the underground sea. The character of the sky began to change so subtly that Nemo failed to notice at first. But then he saw that the air overhead had acquired a swirling, oily color, as if the cavernous ceiling had trapped strange thunderclouds. To him, it looked like a manifestation of the brooding vengeance he’d held for so many years against Captain Noseless and the pirates. Fluid arcs of electricity danced about, fading and vanishing . . . not exactly lightning, but pulses of electric current, discharges from some mammoth dynamo.

  He sat up on the swaying raft, feeling a strong metallic-smelling wind in his face. The placid water around him had become restless. In the distance ahead, where the flow was carrying him, he could make out the frothy choppiness of a brewing storm that increased in intensity. Nemo’s raft began to jostle and shake. Strange buzzing cracks stuttered through the air—not quite thunder, but something more exotic.

  Deep in the strangely thick water, he noticed the movement of large, shadowy shapes. Titanic silhouettes. Not far away, a slick form like the back of a whale breached the surface and then plunged down again. Nemo withdrew to the center of his raft, though it offered little protection, exposed as he was. From his brief glimpse, Nemo knew that what he had seen was no whale or cachalot.

  Another jolt of eerie crackles around him was broken by the sound of a huge beast emerging from the water. Its mottled back was studded with fins and armored with overlapping scales. Icepick fangs filled its long, narrow snout, like some hideous nightmare that had been the precursor to crocodiles. Black eyes like impenetrable volcanic glass stared at him.

  Nemo remembered sketches of fossils from Verne’s science magazines and noted that this creature was similar to an aquatic reptile called an ichthyosaur. The hungry-looking beast swirled in the stormy water and approached his raft. Gritting his teeth, Nemo withdrew his pistols and made sure both were loaded. He also propped the long cutlass in front of him.

  Before the crocodile-beast could attack, however, a second prehistoric monster burst above the water, its head long and sinuous. Its arms were wide flippers, like the rudders of a boat. Seeing its competitor, the new creature struck like an oceanic dragon. It was a sea monster reminiscent of maritime legends Nemo had heard on the docks in Nantes.

  This ferocious sea serpent was by no means his rescuer, though. Nemo paddled frantically, doubting he had the strength to push his boat through choppy waters while these two titans battled. The sea serpent fell upon the first monster, striking with its snakelike neck and wide-open jaws. It bit deep into the dorsal flesh of the other, which snapped back until it tore a bloody shred from a flipper-fin.

  Both aquatic dinosaurs chomped and hissed. The crocodile monster thrashed again, tearing a gash in the neck of the sea serpent. But the other monster was larger and more powerful, and as the two battled, the grayish water turned crimson. The sea serpent bit hard, using its unwounded flipper to roll the other dinosaur over so it could avoid the sharp, spiny fins on its enemy’s back. Then it bit deep into the soft, white underbelly.

  The doomed creature squealed and splashed, but its long snout snapped on empty air. The sea serpent disemboweled it, ripping open the tough hide and spilling ichthyosaur entrails into the stormy subterranean sea.

  Its teeth bloodied, the sea serpent struck again and again, taking a mouthful of meat each time, stripping the flesh off the cartilage and bones. As the carcass sank into the red water, the sea serpent circled.

  Paddling with all his strength, Nemo had put some distance between his raft and the frothing combat. He had his cutlass and his pistols, but he doubted either would be sufficient to defeat the remaining monster. As the sea serpent turned its head, its obsidian eyes spotted the mushroom raft and the young man paddling. The sea serpent glided toward him.

  Nemo got to his feet, cutlass in one hand and pistol in the other. He glared at the beast, as if his anger alone would be sufficient to drive it away. He shouted a blood-curdling scream. He had come too far and fought too hard to end up in a mindless animal’s belly.

  The wind increased, flailing his shaggy hair around his face, but a defiant Nemo stood to meet the oncoming monster. The sea serpent circled the raft, more curious than hungry after its feast of the ichthyosaur. The sinuous neck rose up like a mammoth cobra’s.

  Unflinching, Nemo pointed the pistol at what he hoped was a vulnerable point for his single lead shot. The sea serpent opened its jaws and struck as if it expected no struggle from this morsel. Seizing the opportunity, Nemo screamed another challenge and fired the pistol into the pink flesh of its mouth. The sea serpent jerked back with a roar, startled as much from the loud bang as from the bullet sting.

  Nemo dropped the now-useless pistol and yanked the second one from his belt, knowing he’d have no time to reload. Only one shot remained. After that, he would have to defend himself with the pirate’s sword—and he vowed to hurt the monster as much as possible.

  The sea serpent lunged again, faster this time. Nemo tried to remain steady on the rocking raft as he aimed for the beast’s eye. When he fired, the puff of smoke obscured his vision at first, and then he saw that he had missed. Just barely. A bright splatter of red appeared below the sea serpent’s left eyelid, perhaps enough to blind the beast from that side—certainly enough to cause it further pain. And rage.

  Thrashing, the sea serpent submerged and doubled back for another attack. Nemo grasped the cutlass, turning in slow circles, feet spread on the uncertain deck of his raft. Around him, the thunderous cracks grew louder, and the wind howled as the magnetic storm grew in intensity.

  With an explosive thrust, the sea serpent surfaced under the raft. Its armored head crashed through the tough mushroom structure, snapping Nemo’s braided vine ropes. The raft broke into matchstick pieces in the water. The mushroom-cap pontoons broke free, and debris drifted in all directions.

  Nemo somehow held onto his sword as he plunged beneath the surface, taking an unexpected gulp of bitter water. He thrashed about, unable to hide in the ocean. He tried to reach the raft debris, where he could continue to fight.

  At any moment he expected to find himself in the gullet of the sea monster, crushed in those jaws. He struggled to a floating mushroom cap and hung on with one hand. The enormous sea serpent rose beneath him, its head brushing against Nemo’s legs. Out of instinct and fury, he swung with the cutlass and struck a deep gash across the beast’s snout.

  The sea serpent withdrew, and Nemo hauled himself into the bowl of the buoyant mushroom cap. The storm had turned into an electrical gale, and liquid lightning sparked through the air all around. The mushroom cap twirled and bobbed, nauseating him. He could see no way out of the crisis. The serpent lurched up again, dripping blood from minor wounds. It looked straight down at Nemo—yet it came no closer, turning its head uneasily.

  Gripping the puny cutlass, Nemo waited for the killing blow, tensing to make a final thrust. He planned to die fighting, never giving up. Instead, the dinosaur’s serpentine head dipped beneath the water and vanished from sight.

  Knowing it was sure to attack again, Nemo clung to the frilled sides of the mushroom lifeboat. But when he heard a change in the storm, he looked around to pinpoint the source of the growing din—and beheld a natural force awesome enough to frighten away even the sea serpent.

  An enormous funnel bore down on him, howling and buzzing like a million souls in pain. The pillar of wind and water extended from the sea at the center of the Earth, high up out of sight to the distant cavern ceiling: a waterspout with all the titanic strength of the greatest cyclone. It cam
e churning across the sea—and drew Nemo inexorably toward it.

  The mushroom cap spun around. Nemo clung to its sides as the waves churned, and whitecaps splashed over the rim. More fluid lightning skittered through the air. Nemo hung on for his life as he stared in awe.

  The whirlpool hurled him around as if in an aquatic game of crack-the-whip. The waterspout drew him into its core like a grain of sand sucked into a hollow reed. He felt as if the wet skin was being torn off his bones. His eyelids were drawn open, his lips stretched back by centrifugal force. The mushroom boat whirled and spun, and Nemo barely managed to hang on. Suffocation from the surrounding spray and the crushing weight of gravity filled him with black unconsciousness. He had no way to fight this. He let out a long wordless cry of defiance, but even that sound was torn from him by the fury of the cyclone. . . .

  IX

  Alexandre Dumas had designed his “Monte Cristo” chateau to resemble a fairy-tale castle, complete with turrets and Gothic towers. Across the expansive grounds, elm trees surrounded the main buildings and bordered artificial lakes that looked like sapphires. Swans drifted in the water, and raucous peacocks strutted across the manicured lawns. Topiary hedges and exquisite flowers added a filigree of colors to the landscape.

  It all seemed like a fantasy to Jules Verne, which was no doubt the impression the great author wanted to cultivate.

  Inside the main building, the writer’s kitchen was immense (as was Dumas himself). The heavyset man waited for Verne, already wearing an apron; he held out another for his guest. Every imaginable cooking instrument lay strewn across an oak table, along with tomes of recipes that Dumas had compiled from all over the world.