Nemo Rising

by C. Courtney Joyner

  “My friend,” Grant looked up, “if that’s really the answer, then God help us.”

  Duncan said, “Duncan’s Folly will fly at last.”

  Grant said, “Hell, I got Congress to pay for it.”

  Oliver moaned from the backseat. Grant set a pillow, with Mrs. Grant’s needlepoint, under his head, calling back, “Is everybody straight?”

  Duncan closed the portable kit. “All orders sent.”

  Grant said, “We’re burning daylight.”

  He relit the stub of his cigar, taking in the artillery craters, the Virginia grass struggling to grow over scars left by kerosene and gunpowder.

  “Surely not the ‘Conflict of States.’” Grant stiff-legged himself to the driver’s seat, keeping the rifle and pistol with him. “It’s the whole damn world.”

  27

  PREPARATIONS

  “Hold the stock with your right hand, looking beyond the transmitter down the barrel, to the ruby chip. That’s your siting.”

  “I’ve shot with my mother, but this driftwood—it feels strange.”

  Nemo said, “The shoulder stock’s the back of a shark’s skull, the thickest part. The barrel support, the spinal column. The laser is where the dorsal fin would be.”

  “All of the sea,” Sara said, holding the rifle precisely, the shark spine thin but very strong to support the transmission barrel, its slight under-curve perfectly fitting the metal cradle holding the laser-source.

  Adjusting her stance in front of the library’s observation portal, she brought the barrel slightly toward the center of the curved glass, as its protective copper shield opened to miles of murky, blue-green Atlantic.

  “After your declarations, I never thought you’d be teaching me about a rifle.”

  “I’ve never denied the use of force for the right purpose. Adjust the light source. Bring the cradle all the way back, to understand its function.”

  “I’ve seen this gun in use, remember?”

  Nemo said, “Then this should be simple for you. Make the adjustment.”

  Sara slid the cradle and light cells back to a spinal knob that was the weapon’s rear sight.

  Nemo said, “Different positions control the laser’s intensity. You have to travel through the portal glass, and the water, to your target.”

  “Which target?”

  “Not living. Stay absolutely still,” he said, securing the cradle, light cells, and focus lens with the twist of a small knife.

  “Now. Fire.”

  A bolt of electric red from the laser traced the water before dropping off behind a coral reef and vanishing as broken pieces of light. A squid rolled from the coral, tentacles curling, then propelled itself away, squirting a cloud of ink.

  “You disturbed his slumbers,” Nemo said, upping the front of the barrel. “Again.”

  Sara fired upward, the laser traveling clean: through the water, breaking the inky cloud, and splitting a bank of thick seaweed. Fish scattered, the beam making it nearly to the surface, forming an impression around the bottom of a floating object.

  An indistinct, waving shadow.

  Nemo kept Sara’s finger on the laser trigger, setting it, until the bow and stern were completely outlined by the sharp-edged beam, as if the boat were made of burning red sections. His hand came off the rifle.

  “According to the fantasy box calculations that craft should be from your British steamer. And we’re here in one day instead of three, with no government vessels trailing.”

  Sara lowered the gun, laser cells dimming. “My God—”

  Nemo took the weapon. “Not designed exclusively for destruction. One of the many differences between what we create on the Nautilus and the rest of the world. You’ve seen the vessel, maybe there are survivors, maybe it’s a drifting ghost, or something to lure us in.”

  Sara looked to Nemo. “Are we going to approach?”

  “Yes, but my way.”

  * * *

  The hatchway for the rescue orb was belowdecks, next to the power source, recessed into the stern. The hatch opened with a swift turn from Nemo, the double iron door opening to reveal a polished steel ball, large enough to house two people.

  Nemo said, “As you’d claim, another of the Nautilus’ secrets, the steel pressed in the forge in Vulcania. A magnetic rail ejects it spinning into the water, creating centrifugal force that speeds it along. There are rescue supplies on board.”

  “The power of friction,” Sara said.

  Nemo locked the hatch. “Friction or fiction?”

  “Captain, one thing I’ve learned on this ship is that my eyes will tell me only half the story.”

  Nemo said. “Better to be prepared than surprised.”

  * * *

  Troopers fell in behind the President’s coach miles before the White House, two of them leaping from their horses, grabbing the coach’s back handles, with guns out. One of them covered the blasted-apart seal with his body, not wanting an enemy to see that vulnerability, or the bullet holes around it. The other climbed the coach roof, scrambling not to fall, and took a prone position, bringing his rifle around on its sling.

  Around them, the others ran their horses faster, trying to keep pace with the president’s team. They called out to Grant, as if not believing he was driving; asking if he was injured, asking, again and again, if they needed to take over.

  Grant waved them off, pushing the team to take a sharp corner without skidding. He caught the turn, keeping the horses running sure, as they had been for hours, with a reins-snap, quick-pull, and release. Always in control.

  Before this day, Grant hadn’t driven a four-up since his last visit to his parents’ Ohio farm, but the old skills, of knowing the animals and their moves in harness, that control, had returned. So had his skill with a Carbine.

  The feeling in the Norfolk street was as if he were at Palo Alto again, his troops spread along the Rio Grande, shooting through dust and cannon smoke at the revolutionists. The instinct of battle, and how to pull a trigger, had come back, too.

  The coach ripped over railroad tracks, wheels catching the ties, then landing. Grant played the brakes as the team circled wide to a dirt road along the tracks leading to Pennsylvania Avenue. His eyes followed the guidelines to the bridles, steering the animals with precision.

  Flatcars stacked with girders and barrels of cement were on the siding that Grant passed, thinking the materials looked exactly like what was needed for a new gymnasium.

  Grant didn’t know if General Sigel had even finished the journey to be buried in Germany, but there was already new steel and fresh-cut wood to rebuild the place where he’d been assassinated. The ground now clean and bloodless.

  Reconstruction, he thought sadly, running out the last stretch. Soldiers fought to keep up, as if protecting him these last few blocks. Coming in from the side, oil torches spitting fire, Color Guards rode with the coach, a bugler announcing Grant’s arrival.

  Just what he didn’t want.

  The streetlights around the White House were lit, with more torches tied beside the lamps, giving off huge circles of yellow, forming their own barricades behind the barbed wire that blocked the sidewalks. Two Howitzers stood sentry on the front lawn.

  Grant tossed his cigar, pulled the coach off the road, cutting down a grass slope, to a gravel spit from behind the stables, to the far side of the White House grounds.

  He didn’t slow, keeping the same gallop if he was dodging enemy shells. More Guards leapt for their horses, others ran to follow, as the coach careened toward the stables.

  Grant halted by the greenhouse with a single, skilled motion: braking, and the horses pulling up. He grabbed his rifle and pistol from the boot, dropped from the seat and walked for the greenhouse’s double-doors, leg dragging, but making it. The Guards rolled from the coach roof, landing with their rifles. Some bruising knees, all coughing dust.

  “Mr. President—”

  Grant said, “There’s a wounded man in the back, take care of hi
m!”

  Grant stopped, and looked to the back balcony stretching along the White House second floor, and saw Mrs. Grant at the railing, holding up a bottle of brandy. And a relieved smile.

  Grant said, “Let’s get this the hell going.”

  Duncan climbed from the coach, brushing himself clean, as the soldiers pulled the Driver roughly from the seat. “He made it this far, gentlemen, let’s give him a fighting chance.”

  Other riders rode in, voices shouting for the president, as Grant and Duncan stepped through the greenhouse double doors, letting them shut behind them, then automatically lock. The works clicked over.

  A voice from outside said, “We don’t have access!”

  The doors were plate steel, painted to look like termite-rotten old pine, with vines growing across it via wire ties, and leading into a long, clay-walled tube, lit from the ceiling.

  Grant and Duncan heard their own footsteps and another sound coming from the tube’s end. Rhythmic. Pumping, with a low whistle.

  Echoing back to them from an open door leading to a cellar that stretched dark in all directions, the sound was mechanical, but with the touch of something familiar. And human. Huge lungs drawing in air; a sleeping giant breathing.

  An instant flash of hot light from the cellar blinded them, followed by a cloud of burned magnesium and sulfur.

  Maston handed them both blue-paper sunglasses. “Sir, I didn’t know when you’d be arriving, but thank God you’re here.”

  “‘Thank’ isn’t the right word.” Grant put on the paper glasses, saying, “All orders have been met?”

  Another flash.

  “I’m not completely privy, sir,” Maston said. “If I might, I did see everyone assembling in the executive room, and sir…” He held out a large folder, sealed around the sides. “This is from Mr. Colfax. He assumed you’d be coming down here first, check on the progress. Just in case.”

  Grant took the file. “And?”

  Maston looked to Duncan, who was slipping on his sunglasses, and said, “They’ve also followed all of Mr. Duncan’s instructions to the letter regarding construction. Claimed to, anyways.”

  Duncan adjusted his glasses, modestly nodding, but Grant said, “I sure as hell hope so.”

  * * *

  “General, certainly glad you survived the melee,” Lime said, pouring new powders into a flash pan set next to his camera, both on tripods, and facing the other side of the cellar, toward the breathing machinery. “I didn’t think your friend there would let me make it without another beating, but here I am. Not quite big as life, but still here, eh?”

  Lime cackled, slipping on his dark glasses, framed gold, and dangling around his neck on a chain. He checked apertures on the studio-folding camera, the price still on its bellows. He attached a cable plunger to camera and flash, then set off a bigger burst of light.

  “A little yellow,” Lime said, “but, it’ll have wonderful detail.”

  He bowed toward Grant. “Despite the manhandling, I owe you a debt, sir. I even had time for new equipment, to celebrate our little arrangement.”

  Grant said, “Just honor it.”

  “Oh, yes.” Lime brushed sprinkles of magnesium from his new green shirt, reset his trouser crease. “You’ll be telling me what to print, and when, or I’ll face a bloody firing squad. That’s motivation enough.”

  “But isn’t it coincidental,” Lime pointed to the other side of the cellar, “that all these secrets take place underground? Or under the sea?”

  Lime hooted through his nose, the voice of a crow. Behind him, the machines continued their breathing, drawing air and exhaling more rapidly. He set his camera. Ignited the flash pan. Still brighter.

  He said, “When these are on the front pages, General, the entire world will be envious of your United States and your wondrous toys.”

  Lime quickly pulled the exposed negative plate, replaced it, then brought the camera to a corner, taking in all of the secret apparatus with its short lens.

  His voice was almost singing: “This creation of yours will soak the hearts of your enemies with fear. Just like Captain Nemo. You really should have Mr. Spilett write it up that way.”

  Grant tore his glasses off. “What about your damn spying?”

  “Your man got every single picture I took of Nemo, the Nautilus, and the waterfront,” Lime said. “And destroyed my specialty cameras. So, did any of Norfolk survive?”

  Grant ignored this last, turned to Duncan. “Mrs. Grant’s waiting. In five minutes, we’ll be buried in half-guesses and ignorant battle plans for all this insanity, and I need to speak to someone.”

  And then, to Maston: “The Leprechaun stays until we’re gone.”

  * * *

  The White House was on high-alert.

  Guards patrolled the lawns, and a wash of light from their lanterns spilled into Duncan’s corner office, throwing shadows across the submarine diagrams on the walls. Slicing them into sinkable sections.

  Duncan sat at his desk, back to the submarines, teakettle boiling, and the Phono-tele-Photo coming to life.

  Fingers moved expertly over the dials, finding optimum signal strength, before he spoke into the receiver horn. “Sweet, it’s your father. Can you hear me? Nemo, are you getting this transmission? This is Duncan, calling the Nautilus. The situation’s changed, and I want to talk to my daughter, know that she’s faring well. This is Duncan.”

  From the horn, there was only static. Duncan poured tea, took a Derringer from his desk drawer, checked the ammunition before tucking the small weapon into a vest pocket.

  He tried again, “Sara, this is your father,” then sipped his tea, “if you can hear my voice, please come back.”

  The only answer was a distant, electric hum.

  28

  GHOST FROM THE MIST

  A polished-steel meteor, shooting across dark ocean instead of a summer’s night sky, the rescue orb rotated wildly, creating a whirlpool of water-energy propulsion, after its launch from the Nautilus.

  Inside, Sara’s stomach was upside down. Then, jolted to the left, thrown forward, and set straight. In seconds. Her seat gyroscoped to remain level as the rescue orb sliced water, always turning and spinning.

  “My spine’s—coming out my back, or my front. God, this is miserable.”

  It was the first thing she’d managed since Jess strapped her into the chamber, positive the centrifugal force was pushing her stomach beyond her skeleton.

  “You have a gift for exaggeration,” Nemo said, piloting the orb with foot pedals, swooping around a reef, then jolting upward again. “I haven’t been at this helm since before my capture. Needs adjustments, but I’m satisfied. Be ready for rescue.”

  * * *

  Fulmer hadn’t seen Yellow Scarf, or his men, climb into the lifeboat. They were just suddenly there when he woke. And then, he wasn’t even sure. Fulmer couldn’t believe his senses now; his nightmares were becoming more and more real, and he didn’t know, couldn’t figure, where and when they were bleeding into his thinking. Taking it over.

  But he heard Yellow Scarf’s voice: “You ain’t dead.”

  Yellow Scarf turned from the lifeboat’s bow, jabbing a machete at “Mariner,” painted in blue, and peeling off the bow’s side.

  “Your ship’s dead, but not you. Cut your eyes, feed them to the seagulls, you don’t speak about it. Where are to be, all the guns? Special bombs? I know you had the weapons, so where did they sink?”

  Words dribbled over rotten gums, in an accent from a distant coast, Scarf leaned into Fulmer. “From here! Point it out!”

  Fulmer whispered, “… can’t … see…”

  “You got your hand again!”

  Fulmer tried. He moved his arm, the first time in hours, muscles crying, as he brought his hand to his face, prying open infected eyes, digging away the salty paste sealing the lids. A Berber’s scimitar at his neck, pressing harder, was the signal to put his hands behind his back again.

  Scarf said, �
�Now, tell me. Something.”

  Eyes cleaned open, Fulmer saw the night was starless, the moon just a gray disc, fog settling through it. Slammed forward, jaw gouged against an oar cradle, his wrists were retied, with knots yanked tight.

  “You’ve got to speak!”

  Fulmer stayed silent, hunched over the bloodstained burlap sack, now between his knees. The stink from the sack was constant, and Scarf had waved off looking inside, moments after taking the lifeboat and threatening to kill if he didn’t show where the Mariner sank. Now the sun was gone, and he was still pressing about the Mariner and its hold.

  Scarf said, “The Mariner. Everyone’s drowned-ed, but we find you, in rags, holding onto a bag of shit. Could be your rescue, us, but you have to tell where to dive for the guns. Fair trade, your life. Adil ticaret, yes?”

  Ocean salt had thick-coated Fulmer’s tongue, streaming acid down his throat, burning away anything he could say.

  Scarf spit out, “Is this some kind of—loyalty? To the dead? Or, you’re just geri zekali? No brain left?”

  Fulmer half-smiled. He knew delirium was soon taking him some other place; his senses had been broken by the sinking, by rolling, night storms, and then, boiled to nothing by a punishing sun. His mind would escape. Leaving him behind. And he smiled, because there was no stopping it.

  Scarf backhanded Fulmer’s smile, “Listen! You can even have some money. Understand this?”

  Fulmer nodded, wishing he was Red, on the ocean bottom, wafting in the currents. The pirates were going to kill him. He knew it, and wasn’t afraid. Your mind has to be clear to be afraid, to make sense of the pain, and they’d scuttled the lifeboat of a crazy man, trying to get his secrets. He’d have laughed, but his throat was too raw.

  “What are you protecting? You’re us. A wanderer of the seas nobody cares for,” Scarf said, scraping Fulmer’s face with the blade, catching skin on its edge, wiping it with his thumb. “Want to die, or lead us to the sinking? Maybe get rich.”

  The Berber clamped hands around Fulmer’s skull, locking him, and Scarf angled the machete to strike just above his shoulders. A clean cut, the blood fountaining straight into the night air, and Scarf thought at least he’d have that kill to keep his crew in line. This blank-eyed Fulmer, this piç Kurusu, serving some purpose.