Julia pulled the letter with the Royal Seal. “Mr. Gladstone is being an alarmist. England would never take up arms against us. They wouldn’t dare.”
Grant said, “He’s saying I can’t bet on a damn thing with Victoria. That’s what that Summit at Sea is about, to decide any moves against us.”
Julia said, “And planned so there’d be no chance of you attending.”
“Those Kings and Kaisers know I can’t be there. The accused doesn’t get to plead his case,” Grant said.
“So they can plan their attacks,” Julia said. “Gladstone risked something, telling you this.”
“Every country that lost ships, they’re building a damn catastrophe, and he knows it.”
“So I guess you’re going to have to use your wings.”
She got up, sat on the edge of the tub. “That machine’s been breathing, or whatever you want to call it, since you sent the messages.”
Grant said, “I thought I’d have to tell you.”
“No, just like you didn’t have to tell me about the shootings.”
Grant said, “Someone’s really pushing us.” He took the last of the bourbon in his glass. “I never imagined I’d be holding a rifle that way again.”
Julia lowered her head. “You were under fire.”
Grant said, “I’m sorry, dear. It’s an old story for us, and I know I only have so much luck.”
Julia fought tears. “The warrior’s day never ends.”
Grant said, “You said something like that the day I proposed.”
“To remind myself about your duties.”
She went to the window, lowering the lights next to it, to see the glow of torches and machines coming from below, the lights surrounding the greenhouse. In the quiet, the sound of the machine’s operation, its breathing, echoed from the cellar and traveled across the grounds.
“Getting to that summit is the only way.”
She turned to her husband. “No matter what side Nemo takes, or whatever he finds, you have to show your face to the world.”
“I always feel like I’m preaching to the choir; I never have to explain anything to you.”
She said, “Remember, you’re not a shavetail anymore.”
“I’m reminded constantly. All my life, I’ve never been as frank with anyone as I can be with you.”
Julia smiled. “And your reputation’s for plain speaking.”
“Among other things.”
Grant put his empty glass beside one of the tub’s clawed feet, looked to Julia, standing at the window, the lights from below reflecting behind her.
“Those little eyes of yours. Everybody thinks they just see each other, but they see everything.”
She smiled, “Always.”
* * *
The Whalers swung reinforced boat hooks, coming in from the side, to catch the edge of the rescue orb as it rolled onto its rails from the sea entrance. The velocity too fast, the rush of water, all powering it into the Nautilus. They ran alongside, grabbing at it as they would a ship’s line, snagging handles on the orb’s middle with the magnetized hooks and pulling back against the ball’s momentum with their combined strength. Feet braced against the submarine’s grating, slowing, braking it on its short track like a runaway mining car.
A steel-enforced net brought it to its final stop.
The seal split, the top sections unfolded. Jess brought Nemo and Sara from their seats, as others hefted Fulmer, not moving, from a small place behind the orb’s controls.
Fulmer’s skin was bluing, his infected eyes closing again, but Nemo said, “Supposedly, he’s breathing. Get him to the laboratory.”
The crew made quick work of strapping Fulmer to a battle litter, running him down a passageway to the stern and lower decks. Nemo and Sara followed. Silent. Soaking wet, carrying the laser and the burlap, leaving footprints of bloody seawater behind them. Battle weary.
Jess held out a blanket for Sara. “This is gettin’ to be a habit.”
Nemo said, “You’ll need this, too, Miss Duncan,” handing Sara a Nautilus key: a silver dolphin, in mid-dive. She held it as if it were a posthumous medal of honor, and followed the litter.
Jess produced a bottle of brandy and shot glass from his peacoat. A sly move, and he was proud of it, saying, “Takin’ liberty, sir, but it must have been a hell of a thing up top.”
“Does this mean you’ve been in my quarters?”
Jess said, “No, sir. Never. This here’s from the old stores. It’s not Napoleon or nothing.”
“We’ve got foul weather blowing in for the next two days at least. Set special coordinates. My brandy’s off-limits, but you can distribute that fairly among the men, as I’m sure you will.”
Jess turned on his heel. “Aye, sir.”
“And Mr. Jess, have a burial detail ready. Within the hour.”
* * *
The silver dolphin opened a wall that had broken the sea laboratory in two. Folded back, it revealed the other half of the Nautilus’ laboratory: a place of two worlds and two sciences. One side, all modernized sea cages and study tanks. The other, an operating amphitheater that was a never-finished Victorian puzzle.
An examination table, surrounded by glass tubing and bubbling chemical tanks, was it center, gold sconces illuminating its far corners with elegance against iron walls dented by bullet strikes from the Nautilus’ capture.
The table was spotted with blood, the old stains as dark as the knots in the wood. Beyond the table, a jungle of wiring laced the edges of the domed-iron ceiling, spools running to freestanding energy arcs throwing off power. Other wiring was in tangles about the room, along with wrecked components. Pieces of steel and specialty glass, in labeled boxes, with dates of the failed experiments.
To Sara, the different equipment in the lab, the conflict of old, new, ruined, and unexplained technology was the epitome of Nemo: an always-fighting brilliance, looking backward and forward simultaneously.
The crew rushed the litter past the spotless chrome and glass, to the examination table where a full complement of oddly twisted surgical equipment was laid next to it.
“Those knives and clamps are meant for creatures with all number of lungs, not just two.”
Nemo crossed the lab, the Whalers hefting Fulmer from the litter. The table tilted forward, large steel bands snapping around from beneath, flexible belts locking Fulmer’s ankles and wrists in place, the table’s balance wheels automatically setting a position for surgery.
“Stop being goggle-eyed, Miss Duncan. It responds to the weight of whatever’s put on it.”
Nemo was at a washbasin, sterilizing his hands. “That device was created for subjects that won’t be still. If your survivor had a dorsal, you’d understand completely. Sterilize. There’s a pharmacy kit in the far cabinet.”
Nemo tore open Fulmer’s shirt, ordering the Whalers, “Mabwana, nyuma yako posts,” then to Sara, “You’re dawdling; do you want your survivor to die? That would represent a great deal of wasted effort. Take the bio-carbonate. It’s the first syringe.”
Sara opened the kit, and the syringe was exactly as Nemo said. She moved to Fulmer, chest exposed, blood wiped away, with Nemo pressing on his breastplate with both palms, massaging the heart.
“You had two years of medical college,” Nemo said. “When I stop the massage, inject the carbonate into the sack around the heart muscle. Around, understand?”
Sara drew the fluid, watching more color drain from Fulmer’s skin, his blood gathering purple around the tips of his fingers, swelling the veins on the top of his hands. His breathing and circulation, shallowing to nothing.
Sara said, “Sir, you’re aware what’s happening…”
“The important thing is, are you? Now!”
Sara jammed the needle into Fulmer’s chest, just missing the breastplate. Not all the way in. Nemo punched the syringe, driving it farther into Fulmer’s chest cavity, pushing the plunger down completely, snapping its tubing in half. Nemo yanked the b
roken glass away, pulling out the needle. Blood spurted.
“What eye movement?”
“None.” Sara’s fingers were on Fulmer’s wrist, feeling for a pulse.
Nemo said, “His throat!”
Nemo grabbed two wire coils attached to the base of an electrical arc, and unfurled them to the table, the ends bare and wound around small copper flats. He hung them on the side of the table beside Sara, now with both hands on either side of Fulmer’s neck, lightly feeling for an artery.
“Reactions? Don’t rely on your touch!”
“I don’t have any choice, Captain. It’s there, and very faint.”
Nemo tossed a pair of gloves to her, rubber strips sewn along the fingers. “Your studies were only with western medicine, a common mistake. Go to the arc, and throw the red switch, on my command.”
Fulmer’s eyes moved, searching beneath sealed lids.
Sara called, “Captain!”
And then there was the faintest sound: “… death…?” before his head cantered to one side, mouth open, jaw slack, and tongue swelling white.
Nemo slapped the copper flats to Fulmer’s chest. Sara threw the switch at the arc, hammering with a measure of electricity. The creatures in the lab churned at the blast; reacting to the ozone searing the air, the voltage skidding over the water in their tanks.
Another charge. Like a lightning strike.
Fulmer seized forward, body lurching against the steel bands, then falling back. Again. Then again. Three intense jolts. Nemo signaled Sara off, and stood back from the table, watching Fulmer’s hands and feet. Beginning to flex.
Sara, about to speak, but Nemo cutting her with, “Could be delayed nerve reaction. There’s a heart monitor with amplifier by you.”
Sara placed the small probe, a glass half-dome, on Fulmer’s chest, tube and wiring to a battery-powered speaker. Nemo turned up the current until the lab was filled with Fulmer’s loud, steady heartbeat.
Sara delighted in it. “Your design?”
“For the heartbeat of a whale calf after surgery, or the flow of blood from the two hearts of the Hagfish. But this works as well,” Nemo said. “His life’s been saved too many times today, none of which will make a difference if we don’t get him fed. Wipe the muck from his face.”
Sara wet down Fulmer’s face, dabbing away dried blood and salt, cleaning out his eyes. They opened for a moment, and he moved his hand, to glance hers.
Nemo said, “He was close to dying, probably thought you’re an angel.”
Sara said, “Exhausted and a mess.”
“It was a near-death delusion, but understandable given the circumstances. Open his mouth.”
Sara smiled at the almost-compliment. Nemo hung a bottle of milky liquid from a stand, and she opened Fulmer’s mouth for Nemo to insert a rubber tube from the bottle into his throat.
“More magic medicine?”
“As long as he doesn’t choke.” Nemo checked the flow of the liquid. “My own recipe for whale calves, when the cows have been slaughtered. Should work on your witness.”
Sara looked down to Fulmer, who was deeply asleep. “He gets to rest. Do we?”
“Not yet.”
“Why is this man my witness?”
Nemo was at a tank, pouring in seawater. “Because the government has a theory about these monster sinkings, and he’s to verify it.”
Sara said, “He could give us information to any theory, including yours, if you’d like to share it.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Captain, you do seem to know him, recognize him at least.”
Nemo said, “Our history’s unimportant. Hand me that sack, he risked all for it.”
Sara picked up the burlap bag from beside the table, instantly reeling from the stench rising from it. “That smell, God, something’s dead.”
“It is indeed.” Nemo cut the burlap with shears, rotten threads pulling apart, followed by a dribble of brown. “Pure whale oil, directly from the animal’s skull.”
“You can buy it,” Sara said. “Is that what he was protecting?”
“Hardly.”
The burlap split completely, and the Sea Spider dropped into the tank. Piston-legs frozen, metallic body scarred, seaweed and flesh still caught in its claws. Its eye hung by a thin, vein-like wire, with antenna snapped off clean.
“I’m not sure what I’m seeing.” Sara squinted through the side of the tank at the thing turning lifelessly in the water, then sinking to the bottom. “A crab, but I’ve never seen a species like it, I don’t think.”
Nemo said, “Not a species, Miss Duncan. A machine.”
30
ANOTHER LAUNCH
“Do you know what that is?”
Maston was surprised at Duncan’s question. “Sir?”
Duncan said, “That box. Any ideas?”
“Well, to me, it looks like it could be a bomb.”
Maston was in the doorway of Duncan’s office, hat-in-hand, as if he was a beau come calling for Sara. Duncan used his bifocals to point to the tall, metal box on his desk, next to the Phono, and surrounded by stacks of rolled charts and half-folded maps.
“A bomb. One of my first thoughts, and many would agree with you.” Duncan rubbed the exhaustion from his unshaven face with his palms. “You’re perceptive, in your way.”
Maston kept his eyes averted and words low. “Well, I have training.”
“That’s the Nemo file, and my opening it started all of this. Papers. Reports and memos. That’s what government is, young man. Papers that instruct others to pick up weapons.”
“That actually sounds like some of Nemo’s philosophy.”
Duncan regarded Maston for a beat. “It’s someone’s.”
Maston said, “Sir, I’ve been ordered to write a report about Norfolk.”
“You were there. Tell the truth.”
“I don’t know all of it.”
Duncan said, “What are you asking me for, Mr. Maston? Everything’s completely out of my hands.”
His voice was as measured and folded as the maps and blueprints he took from the walls, jamming the leather satchel with paper. “For me, the worst is that I haven’t been able to speak to my daughter.”
Maston said, “Inflation’s almost completed.”
“So we’ll be leaving straightaway,” Duncan said, turning up the signal of the Phono-horn. “Nemo, this is Duncan. I need to contact my Sara.”
No response. Nothing heard in the office at all but the bouncing back of the mechanical breathing from the greenhouse cellar and the sound of crowds and horses gathering outside.
Duncan said, “The signal’s falling off somewhere. I checked weather reports, at least a day old, but they may be having rough seas. I have to keep telling myself that excuse.”
Maston responded as if Duncan were speaking a foreign language. “Yes, sir, a storm would do it, I guess, but these new machines are all a mystery to me.”
“But you understand guns, which I don’t.” Duncan let his voice trail, allowing a little fog around its edges. He spilled water from his teakettle, fumbling to relight the stove fire, the cool demeanor he had when alone now frayed and nervous in front of Maston.
“Sir, I’d like to volunteer to go along on this mission,” Maston said. “I feel like I failed by not being with Miss Duncan.”
Duncan regarded Maston “You didn’t fail.”
“She’s on that ship, and I should be there with her.”
Duncan took a folded tin map from his top drawer, slipped it into the satchel’s side pocket. “No one holds you responsible.”
“I was given an assignment, I failed.”
“You designed the poison ring for my daughter.”
“And showed her the best way to use it, yes, sir. That’s part of my job, and I’m dedicated to it.”
Duncan said, “I’m aware of your accomplishments.”
“But this wasn’t one of those. I was to be the watchful eye, which means I should be on the Nauti
lus. Now. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, when it’s asked of me. I complete my missions, and I need to complete this one, see it through,” Maston said.
“What about your other duties here?”
“The Leprechaun, uh, Mr. Lime, he ain’t going anywhere, and he’ll be doing exactly as the President ordered.”
Duncan said, “Well, I’m sure of that.”
Maston breached the doorway, saying, “They have Army and security officers. I genuinely feel my place is with you and the President, but it has to be requested for me to be assigned.”
Duncan’s words dragged on the floor. “I’ve never been shot at before, never been in any situation like this.”
Maston said, “I surely have, sir, and more than once.”
Duncan said, “I’m still shaking.”
Static burst from the Phono. A distant sound. Duncan immediately went to the dials, trying to find the signal again. Anything stronger. Silence. Duncan’s expression darkened with more frustration, his tall frame almost bent in half by an invisible weight, leaning into the horn as if climbing inside would bring Sara’s voice.
Nothing. Not even static. Duncan straightened.
Maston said, “Sir, I know I can be of use here.”
He peered over the tops of his glasses. “With all that’s happening, your presence might be a soul comfort, Mr. Maston. Consider yourself requested.”
* * *
Cincinnati was on his hind legs. Back arched, eyes wide and white, with nostrils flaring and kicking wild, after the blinding flash of powder. Rearing. Hot magnesium flashed again as Grant and Efrem kept hold of the bridle, easy with it, and brought the horse down, Grant calmly stroking withers and sides.
Efrem stayed close to Cincinnati’s bobbing head, ears twitching around, speaking quietly. “Apologies, sir, but this is truly scary for him; he’s never seen nothing like this. Or, heard nothing like this.”
The mechanical breathing was still a constant echo from the greenhouse, and Grant said, “Scary for me also, for the same reasons.”
Grant traced the scar of the sniper’s shot on Cincinnati’s shoulder, the hair around it a lightning slash across his onyx coat.
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