The electricity arced as the ocean sprayed in.
Blue sparks exploded from the panel in a wild burst of heat, the cardio machine blowing apart as it sent electricity to the ship’s hull and its beams at the same time. A swarm of blue-hot insects crawling through the Nautilus’ metal guts and skin, making their way along the hull and ripping into the squid’s metal tentacles.
The glass eyes became liquid behind their covering, the electricity traveling along the Nautilus, webbing across the hull, heating the water around it, and blowing apart each tentacle. Steel joints exploded, falling away from the submarine as the skull’s pieces collapsed inside its rubber covering, becoming a deflated, burning balloon sinking to the ocean floor.
Followed by the other pieces. Steel and wire turning in the water, colliding with the wreckage of the Greek ship. Raising the silt and sand, which covered the thing again, as if it never existed.
Above it, the Nautilus’ engines engaged, the lights flickering on at all ports and sides as it aimed for the surface.
In the laboratory, Sara leaned over, cutting the power switch with the broomstick. Jess dropped from his table. “Sorry I manhandled you, Sis, but you’re too important to let go.”
The final burst of power from the cardio ripped across the wet floor, tearing into Jess instantly. His spine stiffened, cracked, the surface of his eyes cooking black before his legs buckled and he collapsed on the laboratory floor.
35
REQUIEM
The waves have now a redder glow,
The hours are breathing faint and low,
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
Nemo let the last of Poe’s words settle as the canvas gunnysacks were brought onto the Nautilus’ forward deck. The crew stood silent, covered by their own shadow, as the Maori Whaler and Jess were wrapped one last time, the edges of the canvas stitched closed with heavy twine, and bound once with a leather tie.
Sara stood between Nemo and Fulmer, wearing Jess’ old jacket, looking out at the miles of Atlantic that surrounded them, the cold gray of the water matching the color of the gunnysacks and the dullness of the sky. Everything was a shroud.
There was no music, nothing other than Nemo’s reciting. The Whaler’s brother, alone by the conning tower, watched his brother’s body lifted by the crew, before being gently rolled into the cold water.
He said, “They both wanted the other one dead. That’s a sad desire, to come true.”
The Whaler went below, as Jess’ body was lifted, and followed the Maori into the waves. Jess floated for a moment, the ocean embracing him, before the canvas soaked through, weighing him down, and he was gone.
Fulmer said, “We are of the waves.”
Nemo said, “There’s the epitaph.”
He started for the hatch, turned to Fulmer, “You’re first mate. Miss Duncan, you’ll be supervising repairs.”
A Crewmen waited for Nemo to descend, then hoisted the last of Jess’ clay rum jug, taking a swig and then passing it on. No words. After the drink, each crewman went through the below hatch, in their own silent ritual.
It reached Sara. She hesitated, but they wanted her to take a drink. As one of them. She did, and passed it on to Fulmer, the last in line. He downed the few, awful drops, then hurled the jug into the water. It landed, floating with the waves longer than Jess himself.
“If that rum tells the tale,” Fulmer was still wincing at the taste, “I don’t think Jess liked me too well.”
Sara said, “He was my friend.”
He touched Sara’s shoulder, which she twisted off before walking toward the bow. Fulmer watched Sara, her hands deep in the pockets of Jess’ jacket. Not wiping wet eyes, but staying fixed on the horizon, on the bleeding gray.
He said, “You can stay, but better be ready to swim.”
Sara pushed her way around Fulmer, into the hatch.
* * *
The boy’s brown arms went around his father’s neck, and the man could feel the softness of his cheek against his. He pulled away from the hug, so his beard wouldn’t scratch, and looked directly into his son’s wet eyes.
Prince Dakkar said, “Don’t fear.”
The boy’s mouth was open, in a smile, when the bullets tore into him, splitting his shoulder blades.
Nemo startled awake, lying on a tangle of sheets. The only light in his quarters was the glow around the edges of the family portrait. He splashed water on his face before moving to his desk and catching the breath he lost to his dream.
He opened his journal, and wrote one line: Dearest Dear. Today I buried two.
* * *
Nemo stepped onto the bridge, examining the splits in the observation dome made by the squid, now patched with hard wax mixed with ground glass. The steel frame had twisted, but held, and the walls had been spattered with ocean foam. But it had survived, and that’s all Nemo could think about, surveying this bit of the damage.
Duncan’s voice seemed to come from nowhere, calling out, “Come in, Nautilus! Sara, it’s your father, can you hear me? Please, respond. Please.”
Nemo bent into the receiver horn. “This is Nemo. We will report when I deem fit to do so. Nemo out.”
He shut the device down. “My invention, and I despise it.”
* * *
Nemo’s words had just cut off as Maston lit the lamps lining the gondola’s first deck. Prudent angled the dirigible’s bow toward the setting sun, the last of the orange splitting apart into evening. Duncan sat by the Phono, as if waiting for another word. Another voice. His head bowed.
The gondola swayed, as if making a lazy turn on a river. Maston set another lamp glowing, paused by a painting of the Battle of Shiloh, the bloody charge, hanging beside a bookshelf of leather-bound volumes.
He adjusted the gas flame to highlight the gold-framed artwork. “Mr. President, I love this painting, the courage of it. If I had the money, it would be the only one I owned. But you should be represented in it, I think. I only see General Buell.”
“Good man, who saved our lives, what was left of them,” Grant said.
“It turned the tide of the war.”
“Cost a lot of men, and a lot of blood, and we were able to push through the Confederate line, but Gettysburg was worse,” Grant said, moving to his desk and sets of rolled battle plans.
“I wish to hell it wasn’t here. That was a time I don’t need reminding of.”
Duncan turned from the receiver horn. “There’s nothing now. You heard the voice, he won’t give up a thing.”
Grant said, “Nemo’s on his own mission, and so are we. We just have to pray that we can tie-up, so we’ll be exonerated.”
Duncan looked to Grant. “You were right, Sam. You said traitors are like drunks, practiced liars who don’t mend their ways so easily.”
Grant said, “Being right doesn’t always bring satisfaction.”
Maston faced Duncan. “Sir, I feel a little caged up here, but you know I’m ready to jump in. At any time.”
Duncan said, “It’s appreciated, Mr. Maston.”
Prudent brought the dirigible through a cloud bank, letting it move around the ship as a white and flowing waterfall, the clouds spilling around them, then separating with the motion of the dual propellers, revealing the Atlantic Ocean below.
Prudent said, “There’s your view, gentlemen, and I will land you exactly where you need to be, by high noon.”
Grant opened the telescope rack, and handed Duncan one of the long glasses, all polished brass. “Take a look, he’s down there. Someplace. Sara, too. Just keep thinking about that, about her. And seeing her again.”
Duncan said, “I never thought I’d hear you defending Nemo, or the Nautilus.”
“Right now, I’m acting as a friend. Not the President,” Grant said. “There’ll be ample time for the other.”
* * *
The Nautilus was a night predator, moving at mid-speed through an ocean bed, swordfish veering away from its jagged-iron snout and the lit ports that were the predator’s fiery eyes. Bearing down, ready for an attack.
On the bridge, Sara welded the edge of the viewing port with the ruby beam from the laser rifle. The swordfish broke in front of her view, then swam off in quick, acrobatic moves, away from the needle of light.
Nemo stepped to the helm, checking the instrumentation. “How bad are the ruptures?”
Sara said, “I wish we had our repair dock at Norfolk.”
“I believe that’s gone in flames.”
“Then Vulcania.”
“Someday, perhaps.” Nemo set the direction. “Can we sustain this depth?”
“You have to understand.” Sara put down the rifle. “That anything I do will be a bandage on the wound, and we’ll have to keep bandaging until we dock and put the ship back together properly. I think she’ll hold, but there better not be any more mechanicals.”
“I wish I could predict that,” Nemo said.
“Me, too, because I surely couldn’t take another, and I don’t think the Nautilus can, either.”
Sara held the rifle’s bone-stock to her shoulder. “Even this would have been of little use against that thing. The polished steel, it would’ve broken up the beam shooting through the water, bounced off it like rain.”
“I agree.”
Sara said, “It’s like it was created to fight you, to know what you had at hand to battle it.”
Nemo said, “It was a surprise attack. I know about those.”
She fired the rifle, melting the last of the lead stripping around the domed port, sealing the glass tight in its place, then looked to Nemo. “It won, though. That thing, whatever you want to call it. It attacked, and won. Killed those men, and won.”
Nemo said, “This ship was saved, Mr. Jess, sacrificed. It goes with the pay and the rum. The sea’s our home, our work, someday our grave. We accept it, so should you.”
Sara let the rifle drop, putting it aside, and speaking quietly. “I guess you’ve seen more men sacrificed than I have.”
“You’d be correct, but you already know those facts.” Nemo moved to the navigation station. “You can’t pride yourself on your complete knowledge of who I am, what I’ve done, and then be shocked when faced with it. You can’t have it both ways, Miss Duncan, because that only reveals your deceptions.”
Sara said, “I’m still here of my own accord.”
“You’re here because I allow it,” Nemo said. “You wanted me to plot a course, and I followed my own, but getting to Brigand’s Trench would bring us where we are tonight. Either course we followed of the sinkings, we’d be here. What do you see?”
Nemo guided Sara by the shoulders to the glass dome, the lights of the Nautilus cutting through a bleeding of rust, infecting the water from the remains of a battleship, its cannons tilting over from sections of exploded decks or scattered in front of the bow as blasted-apart scrap. Barrels half-buried, the guns housing thousands of fish and crabs, while the salt water feeds on the iron skin of a shattered hull and what remains of its bridge.
Sara said, “Yes, a warship.”
“It is the Abraham Lincoln. What remains of it.”
Sara’s eyes were closed. “A hundred and twenty-five sent to the bottom, at your order.”
“So, you do know. Well. And there’s no mystery here, this is my doing. So, yes, I have seen more men sacrificed than you.”
“And you were to hang for this.”
Nemo said, “Until your father intervened. It’s quite a bit different reading about something in the newspaper, and seeing it, drifting in front of you.”
A shred of a tunic was pulled from a hold by the submarine’s wake, caught up by speed, and dragged alongside. Sara looked away, shaking her head, aware of the sailor who was once inside the jacket. Of the idea of the men trapped in the Abraham Lincoln as it sunk. She had flashes of sailors sleeping and writing letters.
Nemo said, “As always, I gave them fair warning to abandon ship, but they refused. The Nautilus retaliated.”
“Against what? A ship of innocents, who wouldn’t give up their posts?”
“That craft was built for no other purpose than to end human life. It had to be eliminated. Look closely at the Lincoln’s hull: what do you still see there?”
The center of the hull was torn through, a gaping hole jagged on both sides, the tear in the iron matching the Nautilus’ prow.
“We rammed her amidships,” Nemo said. “It was Mr. Fulmer’s brother who was officer of the deck, and gave the order for the sailors to remain on board, instead of abandoning ship. He was killed along with the crew, which is why, when this mission is over, Mr. Fulmer will kill me.”
Sara said, “Your war against war. No matter what, people die. You justify your brutality like everyone else, like every institution.”
“You’re quoting me back,” Nemo said.
“But there are penalties to be extracted, aren’t there?”
“Now you have a dilemma, understanding the real prices to be paid for our choices,” Nemo said. “You have quality Miss Duncan, but you’re sounding more like an editorial, or a Pinkerton, rather than one of my crew.”
Sara looked to Nemo. “What are you saying to me?”
“That on my Nautilus, I am law unto myself, and if I were you, I shouldn’t test those limits.”
Nemo turned away from the dome and the wreckage. “One day, above, in the so-called civilized world, I’ll be the bloodied one. I know this, and so does your father, which is why I was chosen. Death by hanging weeks ago, or death, after the mission.”
Sara said, “I don’t know what choice I’d make.”
“Your guilt about Mr. Jess is pointless. He was doing his duty, saving your life, and your insulation saved the lives of the crew. There are greater burdens waiting for you, Miss Duncan, so abandon this one. Sometimes it’s preferable to be a mere stowaway.”
* * *
It was a side passageway, with only a small view port, but Fulmer stood there, watching the tunic from the Abraham Lincoln drift by, turning in the water, before entering the laboratory. His hand went to the light switch on the wall, when Sara spoke.
“Don’t put on the electric lights. Please.”
Fulmer said, “All right, Miss Duncan. It helps me to see if my memory can still serve. The switch was over here years ago.”
“It still is. I just can’t see the room right now. Not with all the damage, and the rest.”
Fulmer sidled his way through the strips of shadow from the scientific equipment, following glints of reflection from the maze of counters and glass tanks, to where Sara stood before the vault door.
As he moved, banging his shins, he said, “I understand, but think of the time when you can turn the lights on, see the memories, okay?”
Sara said, “I was told to report here.”
“We’ve a special job. Nemo needs something out of the vault.”
“Oh. I have the combination.”
“So do I. It’s the date his wife and son were killed by troops in Khamar,” Fulmer said, dialing. “If he gave it to you in Hindi, that’s his test. It means he has you all lined up.”
“For what?”
“To stand with him on the Nautilus.” Fulmer opened the vault lock, the works turning over. “For as long as she lasts.”
Sara said, “I don’t know if that applies anymore.”
He pulled the door open, the weight of the thing rolling him back. He stepped in and lit the candle on the holder on the immediate inside shelf.
Fulmer stood for a moment, surrounded by the weapons, pictures, and uniforms. What he hadn’t seen in years. He walked farther into the vault, to the Kraken, still sitting with its mouth hanging open, and the paper ships in its large, wooden belly, sinking.
He said, “I would’ve thought the old Kraken was for the bonfire.”
�
�We got our map coordinates from that machine.”
“I know it works, pretty damn well, I’m just shocked he kept it around. The Captain’s not known for his whimsy. Did you use the coordinates?”
Sara said, “No. We didn’t have to, he went his own way.”
“No surprise. Is that how you found me?”
Fulmer reached around the side of the box, and turning a switch, brought the harpies back, flying and wire-swooping again over the tiny ships. He said, “As the First Mate, I’d say it’s important to see those numbers. Know what y’all have been up to. Or not.”
The Kraken’s tongue rolled out, with the sinking information printed as before. Fulmer tore it off then rolled it into his pocket.
He said, “A little trick I learned from the fella who made it. That was right before he got shot in the head by the army when they seized the ship.”
Fulmer pushed aside a rifle rack, revealing a cache of brass-cased torpedoes, brilliantly polished, and stacked like cordwood for winter. Beside them, boxes of fuses, primers, and timing systems.
Sara said, “I had no idea…”
“You still don’t. Lend a hand.”
Fulmer took one end of a torpedo, five feet in length, and hefted it as Sara took the other side. She reacted, thinking it would be heavier than it was.
Fulmer said, “There’s nothing inside but a guidance system and a little powder to launch. No special deliveries. Yet.”
Sara said, “You can imagine what all the newspapers would make of this bit of—”
They back-walked toward the vault door. “Hypocrisy? If Nemo followed his own philosophy, he’d have to turn these against himself?” Fulmer said. “I’ve heard it a thousand times, and worse.”
“Do you think it so?”
Fulmer regarded Sara. “The business between the Captain and myself is our own, settled in our own time.”
Sara said, “Very elegantly put, and very evasive. Is that you?”
Nemo Rising Page 24