Nemo Rising

by C. Courtney Joyner

  He said, “Healing, and damn well.”

  “Honest, sir, the stuff the veterinarian used just wet the hair. My papa’s salve, that’s what made him heal up so fast. I didn’t ask no one.” Efrem looked down at his boots. “Am I let go from the telegraph room?”

  “Son, you worry about losing your job more than a senator. I’ll be gone these next weeks, keep taking care of the old boy. Your way. And bridle my daughter’s new paint; I don’t want him ill-tempered. You know how.”

  Grant put a folded envelope into Efrem’s pocket. “For your grandmother.”

  Artillery flashed. Four charges going off as silent fireballs, but it wasn’t artillery, only camera pans. Cincinnati twisted at the yellow-white, snapping his head away from the corral fence post.

  “He can stand the sound of cannon, but not the flames.” Grant tossed Efrem the reins. “Take him to the other side,” he said, before turning to the greenhouse. “Lime!”

  Lime, in double-breasted emerald, set the last of four cameras and flash pans in a semicircle around the greenhouse, focused upward at its hinged open glass roof and the enormous dirigible that floated within it.

  Grant started for him, a different person asking for a signature on special orders, or “one last question,” as he walked to the first row of cameras and flash pans.

  Schuyler Colfax, Grant’s Lincoln-resembling vice president, fell into step next to him. “Ulysses, I’ve prepared all statements, and the cabinet’s ready to act in your absence.”

  Grant said, “I’m sure they are. Just don’t let ’em act like the hogs got out of the pen.”

  “This has already turned into a county fair.” Colfax put a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Are you positive about doing this, this way? Your signature above a formal letter of protest is more than sufficient.”

  Grant said, “I’d prefer it if it wasn’t so, but you’re wrong. They’re serious about a first strike war, and a letter won’t speak for us. Hopefully, the airship and me will impress the hell out of them so at least they’ll listen to the evidence.”

  Colfax tried, “Ulysses, as your vice president, I’m officially advising you: don’t take this unorthodox approach. If nothing else, your solo crusade’s going to be damn hard to defend to the press, not to mention Congress.”

  “That’s actually what I’m praying for,” Grant said. “Schuyler, if they wanted orthodox, they should have elected the other fella.”

  Grant broke away. He was feeling the Washington damp. That bone cold that defied the torches lighting the lawns and stables, and always seeped in. Grant lit a cigar, and thought about his children. A flash went off, scorching his view.

  Lime called out, “The President Weighs His Options! Superb!”

  Lime’s cameras were scattered, capturing it all with a flash burst. He rushed between tripods, switching out negative plates, then setting off three more bursts as the greenhouse pumps shut down their breathing. The dirigible sleeve was now inflated, an American flag stretching across it.

  “Well, there’ll certainly be no doubt as to your identity.” Lime snapped off another picture.

  “Exactly the point.” Grant regarded Lime. “You understand why all your pictures have to be seen in every country?”

  Lime said, “I’ve telegraphed newspapers around the globe, sir.”

  “These aren’t your stinking spy photographs, the quality of the work—”

  Lime finished Grant’s thought. “Must be superb. These images are your warning shots to your enemies, and I’ve done them more than justice.”

  He turned the camera, adjusted the bellows, and took a picture of the gondola, the flash plan lighting it completely. “From every angle, the world will see your air fortress and tremble at its coming.”

  Grant said, “I’ve made too many deals with scoundrels without knowing how their loyalty’s going to fall. It’s not to my liking.”

  Lime said, “General, you can always depend on my fear of you.”

  Grant said, “That’s wise. You’re going to set a special camera.”

  * * *

  Mounted soldiers rode in behind the greenhouse, handling guidelines for the balloon, its sides expanding as it cleared the now-opened glass roof.

  The riders took position, six on each side of the balloon, handling the lines like roping a steer, bringing the inflatable from its hiding place, across the back lawn, and positioning it over the two-tiered, cast-iron gondola for Grant and his crew.

  A cigar-shaped ironclad with dual propellers at the bow and stern, its crown was a tank turret, with riveted sides ventilated by gun ports and small bomb doors.

  Duncan ran the lawn, giving instructions to crew to attach the gondola and balloon while he checked the locking of the metal frame to the inflatable, the sleeve grasped by steel claws from the gondola’s rim. And then, the tying down of the balloon itself at more than a hundred points.

  All hands worked furiously to secure it, with other staff handing off supplies and weapons to be packed in the gondola’s cabin. The riders formed a circle around it all, cradling their rifles and watching.

  “The first, true Presidential ship of the skies. You must be very proud, sir.”

  Julia had filled his pocket cigar case with his very best, and Grant lit one, the flame toward Duncan, saying, “That’s the man responsible, not me.”

  Horace, scarecrow of a Telegraph Manager, stood in an ill-fitting coat, holding a lockbox with both hands, shifting nervously. “These are the latest communications, Mr. President. All foreign intercepts.”

  “You shouldn’t be handing this to me in the open.”

  Horace shrunk. “I know … this is very … very sensitive material, sir. My sincere apologies.”

  Grant said, “You apologize too much. Not a good quality in one of my staff.”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Beyond the back lawns, reporters and mechanical crews racing the sky ship together, Efrem rode Cincinnati the length of the far corral, running fast inside the fences. Grant’s attention was there. Separate from all of the other activity, all the other business. Just running.

  Grant said, “Starting now, young Efrem’s out of the telegraph room, takes care of horses and that’s it. No more handling communications. That makes him a target for kidnap.”

  Horace said, “I understand, sir. Very, very wise.”

  Sledgehammers cracked heavy bracing. Crews knocked the lumber from under the iron gondola, the balloon holding the command center aloft.

  Duncan took a step back, and a breath, to enjoy his pride. He’d only seen his design on paper, and now it was real. He faced Grant, and threw him a mini-salute.

  It was the only military gesture Grant had ever seen Duncan make. He returned the courtesy, saying to Horace without looking at him, “Every communication reaches that ship. Every one.”

  “I’ve made all arrangements personally, Mr. President,” Horace said, bowing from the waist, his shirt bunching. “It will be as if you and I were in the communications room together.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed, his response a curl of smoke from his nose. He was aware of the pistol under his jacket, the government secrets under his arm, and wished like hell to be night-riding with Efrem.

  Maston stepped between Horace and Grant. “Mr. President, I’ll be providing extra security for this mission.”

  “Sounds like a fit to me, son,” Grant said. “Let’s get the hell out of here before I come to my senses.”

  * * *

  The dawn was colder than the night before, but all preparations were met.

  Julia Grant stood on the White House balcony, the doors to The Shop open behind her, with curtains drifting. On the railing was a tumbler of bourbon, and below, her husband, before the dirigible, addressing the swelling crowd of reporters and cabinet members. Lime’s cameras flashed with his words.

  Onlookers pushed and shoved beyond barricades, the soldiers holding them to the barbed wire and sandbags of the White House drive. Their vo
ices rose, cheering Grant as he assured everyone that the United States would vanquish this new, unknown enemy.

  Julia heard, “There never was a time, in my opinion, some way could not be found to avoid the drawing of a sword. That is my mission. But, if forced to fight, we will, and we will be victorious, as our cause is just, our hearts pure, and our will unbeatable.”

  Grant waved to the exploding flash pans and roar of voices. Julia’s smile was brought by all the quotes and images since West Point, made famous by the man she shared her bed with, that a newspaper declared was, “The warrior who will charge, when no one else is willing, putting duty above everything, except his devotion to family.”

  She told him his sentimental streak would get him killed, that he’d be shot trying to save a picture of their children. Ulysses laughed. He couldn’t deny a truth.

  Julia bit her lip as she watched Ulysses climb into the gondola, its heavy iron doors sliding shut, and trying not to think this would be the last glimpse she would ever have.

  The crowd cheered its loudest as soldiers guided the dirigible, releasing tether lines on command. Each cut of a line brought whistles and applause as the airship rose over rooftops, the flag painted across it taking up the sky.

  Julia didn’t fight tears. She picked up the bourbon and raised the glass to her husband as the President’s Aero Force Ship Number One gained speed, propelling into a violent sky.

  31

  TWO SHIPS

  The Nautilus cruised through a tangle of a coral beds, stretching for miles, the rudders snapping apart pieces of its red and orange rock like ribs from rotting skeletons. The submarine’s wake churned it all into watered dust, spreading as a cloud behind it.

  Nemo was in his quarters, sitting at his desk beneath the luminous portrait of his wife and son, the steady throb of the engines accompaniment as he wrote in a leathered journal, hundreds of pages thick.

  My dearest Valanda,

  I’ve been labeled insane by so many that my ritual of writing every night would certainly add to those claims, but expressing myself to you is the only true soul comfort I have, as I struggle to return the Nautilus to her former glories. Her purpose is being stained by this government mission, hunting for a villain whose techniques, I admit, are intriguing me. But what of his motives? I can hear your voice now, dear, telling me to find my own truth.

  I will never forget the oath I made over your grave, to ultimately destroy the war-makers and their weapons. That goal remains pure, even if the journey to it seems, sometimes, to be compromised.

  This tortures me, but as the one person who knows my heart best, I ask for your forgiveness, and love, so I can endure.

  I shall always be your loving husband,

  Nemo checked the watch on his wrist, then moved to the side-view port, sliding over the magnifying dome to see the petrified Roman trade ship just beyond the Nautilus’ bow.

  A sunken ghost, the ship’s regal shape, oars, and a single seafarer’s helmet had been preserved in the cold currents for a thousand years, fish swarming about the mast instead of tattered sails. Nemo had marked its position with a trident, topped with N, as his own navigational guide.

  His view was suddenly blocked by a swirling orange cloud of destroyed coral, broken pieces spinning, crashing against the port’s outer glass, breaking again.

  Nemo ordered into the crew call, “All engines, full stop. Farming crew report, that means you, Mr. Jess!”

  * * *

  Jess, arms folded, stood outside the crew showers, with Sara toweling off behind the modesty screen. Jess whistled, kept his eyes averted, as Nemo marched the spiral stairs to the lower-deck passageway, heavy boots on iron and a voice from the dark before he could be seen.

  “You didn’t hear the call, Mr. Jess?”

  Jess squinted at Nemo at the far end of the passage, and said, “Well, I’m protecting sis’ virtues, sir.”

  Nemo faced Jess. “I know Miss Duncan’s quite capable of protecting herself, and I’m sure you’re enjoying your view. Mine was just corrupted.”

  “I’m not gettin’ you, Captain.”

  “Didn’t I leave you in charge on the bridge?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re on mechanical pilot. As you would.”

  Nemo said, “Do you know how long it takes a coral reef to grow? You destroyed one in seconds. We’re part of the sea, not intruders!”

  Jess said, “But them spikes in the cave—”

  Nemo’s voice was thunder: “A reef’s a living thing, not frozen rock! Your lack of education continues to be a problem, sir. That’s to be corrected.”

  Sara stepped from behind the screen, into the passage, lacing her boots as Nemo said, “You as well, Miss Duncan. You want to see this.”

  * * *

  The reflected light from outside the Nautilus washed back into the diving chamber, forming a pattern of moving starfish across the ceiling and the polished steel access tubes that were filling and draining water.

  Sara held her diving helmet, examining its skull shape, glassed eye sockets, and metal breathing fittings along the bridge of what had once been a snout.

  She said, “Nature and Nemo always prefer flesh and bone. Another shark?”

  Nemo pulled on his deep-water suit, made from the under skin of a manta ray. “That’s large blue tuna, actually. Two skulls split, retrofitted, and joined together. Nothing stronger to withstand the pressure. The air’s recycled through gills of my creation.”

  Sara said, “So you improved on nature. Again.”

  Nemo said, “Always impossible. This is simply using what the sea allowed me.”

  “You don’t never get tired of speeches, Cap,” Jess said, wriggling into his suit. “When my ol’ dad worked his place, I don’t remember him wearin’ a fish head for a hat. But I’m game.”

  “I’m sure your family history would be enlightening,” Nemo said, fitting Jess’ helmet, snapping down the neck-plate. “But it’s not pertinent. You’re on probation for the reef, Mr. Jess. Remember that as you gather our food.”

  Sara said, “I’ve read a great deal about your undersea farms. The newspapers were full of them.”

  “I know.” Nemo handed Sara her gloves, also of manta skin. “Idiotic speculation, most of it, without vision. We’re here for practical reasons, which is the best way to experience anything. This journey’s promising to be a long one, and this is our opportunity to harvest the crops without bombs or guns.”

  “Do you think we’ll be attacked?” Sara asked, securing her helmet, eyes large behind the glassed sockets.

  Nemo tied a harvest sack to her belt, then tied his own. “There’s a chance, but we can travel where no one can follow. Which means a great deal of time on this turtle, Mr. Jess.”

  Jess spoke through his bone faceplate. “A man can get used to anything, Captain. Given enough drink.”

  The Whalers opened the steel chambers. Sara stood perfectly still as ocean filled the tube, waiting for the power of force that drew her into the Nautilus from outside. But the reverse was a pressurizing with the outside, then the tube opening, so she could slide easily from the submarine to the ocean floor.

  Free-falling, like in a dream.

  Sara landed, the heavy boots bringing her to the sand too quickly. She compensated with fast athletic moves, stretching legs and balancing, then drawing herself together, fighting the weight of the ocean, millions of tons above and around her, trying not to slow. She stood straight as Jess and Nemo followed from the submarine’s belly, bringing up heavy silt.

  Jess twisted, legs kicking, and landing in the sand on his back. He tried rolling. Struggling. But the weighted shoes tangled in long strands of seaweed and rocks. Sara glided to him with long swimming-like strides, reaching him in moments and pulling him to his feet. A jellyfish he’d rolled across pulsed around him and away.

  Jess said something in his helmet she’d never hear, fogging his faceplate. Then squeezed her hand.

  Nemo watched, then raised his hand with
the laser rifle, signaling the Nautilus. Lights flared on: the running lamps around the submarine’s side, the lights within every view port, and all the recessed lamps from bow to stern.

  The lamps spread electric white-yellow in a glowing wave that worked through the water to show the expanse of ocean floor beyond the sunken Roman ship. A torch in a cave, showing the way.

  Sara and Jess were standing before the farm beds.

  Traps of lobsters, cold-water shrimp, and rock crabs were mounted on pikes topped with the N that staked Nemo’s farm. Around the pikes, sea cucumbers twisted from the sand with clams growing in beds around them. Sea lettuce, blooming pink coral, and red seaweed stalked like palm trees were planted in rows but had grown into each other, carried by fish and crabs.

  But the abundance stretched father than the Nautilus threw its lights. Nemo opened the lobster traps, Sara and Jess bagging the largest, tying them to a pike, before gathering the cold-water shrimp, scooping hundreds.

  He wrapped his hands around the pike for a moment. Barnacles had scarred it, but it stood straight, his steel initial, that he’d forged in Vulcania, marking his achievement.

  After these years, he didn’t know if the farm would be growing, destroyed by storms, or buried in sandy decay. Until he saw the petrified, carved bow of the Roman ship. If it was here, proudly the same, and not washed away, then he knew the farm would be here as well.

  A great white knifed just above Sara, before diving and swimming back, closer. Nemo rifled a low-level beam, hitting it along the pectoral, turning it suddenly away; not reacting and never stopping, just moving in a new direction. Looking for something easier.

  Sara gestured her thanks to the Captain, and tied more sacks before pulling the nets around rows of rainbow-striped water fruits. Jess pulled sea cucumbers from the sand, tiny brine shrimp bursting from the holes after the cucumbers, like New Year’s confetti.

  Jess batted the brine away, and Sara laughed, then looked to Nemo, moving for the Roman ship, its sides now covered with strips of green and yellow boa seaweed, long leaved and flowing.