“All hands.” Fulmer looked to Rongo. “I guess that’s you.”
Fulmer took the Kraken’s tongue from his pocket, and set the Nautilus’ direction for the final set of coordinates.
* * *
The sun’s bleeding behind the city’s man-made clouds spattered orange and red across the Terror’s silvered white. Nemo moved around the vehicle, running his hands across its sealed surface, finding no trace of the fins or the retractable tank treads when underwater.
“You helped make that.”
Sara was standing feet away, in the new dress, with lace at the collar and cuffs. Her arms were tight around herself, fighting the wind and her breaking apart.
Nemo said, “So I’ve been told.” He touched the Terror’s side, opening the vehicle. “You have a remarkable family, indeed.”
“Captain, I had nothing to do with any of this.”
“The eternal innocent.”
Nemo ran his hands along the seats, the driving controls, which were now a flat, blank, gray surface. “From the moment your father stepped into my prison cell, every action I’ve taken has somehow been engineered.”
Sara said, “But not by me,” her hands brushing the dashboard, bringing it to glowing life.
At Sara’s touch, Nemo stepped back from the Terror. “You seem to have a great deal to do with all of it, Miss Robur.”
The wind increased, a storm biting from the North. The dirigibles and balloons strained against their anchors, shifting the City’s platform, with the pontoons compensating: a waves-rolling motion.
“I’ve been denying President Grant’s accusations all afternoon. I think he finally believes me. Truly.”
Nemo said, “He probably needs to, but I’m my own man or I’m nothing. I think hanging’s preferable to being a pawn.”
The Lieutenant reached them first, leading the way from the main, with Robur behind him, boasting over the wind. “A fleet of my machines would complement the Nautilus very well.”
Nemo said, “They’re faster on the water than any Navy.”
“Under the water and in the air. With the right commander, ten of these could rule the sea.”
Sara interrupted, “Father—Mr. Robur—what are your intentions for me?”
“This isn’t the right place, daughter.”
Around them, aero-crews threw storm nets around the dirigible, tightened chains and tether lines. Windscreens unfurled like bunting, circling the city and blocking the main area from the storm. This all happened in minutes with Robur silently approving the efficiency.
Clamps fastened to the Terror’s treads, holding it to its launch pad, with Robur saying, “I’m still not satisfied with that system. I need the secret to your operating table, Captain.”
Nemo said, “I would venture there’s nothing you don’t have, Robur.”
“Perhaps, you’re right.”
Sara said, “In the middle of your creation, I think this is the perfect place to know if I’m going to be alive tomorrow.”
Robur regarded Sara, the harsh cold hitting them both. “I saw to it that you received a brilliant education. My obligation to you in that sense is finished, though I hoped you would stay on, working beside me. Your quarters were designed for that.”
Sara realized the Lieutenant had been staring at her, near-targeting with his eyes. She looked suddenly away, to Nemo, but said to her father, “And, what if I just can’t?”
The wind from the storm was building into a sharp edge, cutting around the shields as Robur said, “That would be regrettable.”
* * *
The frigates, iron-clads, battle vessels, and smaller gunboats formed a wide circle, all facing each other, and all flying their different national colors. Lanterns and torches outlined the decks, even as the boats dipped with the churning seas and the beginnings of the storm.
A blue flash of sheet lightning showed up the number of vessels, and their armed crews on deck. Grant observed through a magnifying pane built into the window that was one wall of the massive dining hall, figures of Zeus standing at both ends, lightning from their fingers aimed toward the room.
Grant turned away from the ships, saying, “Not a diplomat in sight.”
“You’re surprised,” Robur said. “All belowdecks, cowering. They’re not you, Sam.”
“Don’t use my first name anymore.”
“I always honored your wishes, sir.”
The City in the Sky’s dining room was formal and formidable, as one would imagine a Viking dining hall. The walls and ceiling reaching out and up, forever. The only break in the structure was the dominating massive window where all eyes fixed. Robur and Nemo sat across from each other, as mirrors, with Grant and Sara placed at the full table, beside them. The lieutenant stayed at the door, smiling, in case of an attempted escape, or assassination.
Robur said, “The world’s gathered to meet about you, Mr. President. They make a colorful target.”
Grant said, “You’re in the sinkhole; attack those ships, you think they’ll give a damn about me? Hell, you know half of them believe I’m part of this chaos you created!”
Robur said, “But you are, because this controlled chaos was created by a member of your own cabinet. You’re soaked in blood, Sam. Mr. President.”
“I’ve never denied my past, but not this. Not what you’re counting on. And my death means nothing. My head gets blown off, somebody else sits at the desk, and the first order’ll be to come after you with guns blazing.”
“How? By air? Or by water?”
Nemo had been fixed in his stare, and Grant turned to him. “You backing him up? Take on all the navies of the world?”
Nemo said, “I have before.”
“And it didn’t get you a damn thing but a death sentence. Maybe the world hasn’t changed to suit you, but you two sons o’ bitches are about to make it a lot worse.”
“There’s the firebrand, not the statesman,” Robur said. “Who better than you understands you must destroy to rebuild, to re-create. I’ve offered the good captain something you can’t. The oceans to cultivate as he sees fit. No more hunger, new sources of energy, control of the skies. A Utopia. Better than just a delayed hanging.”
Grant stood, moving around the table as if he were in The Shop, surrounded by a doubting cabinet. “Won’t work, never does. Each country wants something different, and they’ll never kowtow to you.”
Robur said, “After a month of coordinated assaults, they’ll fall into line, and the new life we offer will seem like paradise. ‘The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving on.’”
“The Art of War. You appropriated the phrase, but the example is yours. Those are your words, Mr. President,” Nemo said.
“Goddamn.” Grant was beside Nemo. “Every instinct I had told me not to trust you.”
Nemo’s manner was unbreakable: “My mission was to find the source of your troubles, and I did. The path I choose now is my own.”
Grant said, “The buccaneer and the madman: killing the world in order to save it.”
Nemo looked to Sara, not Grant, saying, “There will be peace, and no need for men like you.”
Grant said, “Believe it or not, Captain, that doesn’t sound too bad to me. But it won’t happen.”
He took a cigar from his pocket case, bit off the end. “You’ve just declared a world war, and you’ll both rot in hell for it.”
Sara pushed back her chair and stood, carefully defiant, as she moved from the table, saying, “Mr. President, I’ll be going with you.”
“Sara?”
“Father, whoever, this is all beyond me. Everything is a lie. I can’t think—can’t be a part of it.”
“My dear, below us are ships from twenty countries, and not a one sees things the way the other does. It’s all perspective, so yes, it’s all lies. Wouldn’t it be the best to wipe that slate clean, and start again, and with you here?”
Sara shook her head, denying her father’s words. Robur sipped claret, lost in thought. “I will give you some time. Escort Mr. Grant and my daughter to quarters.”
Sara moved around the table, and Nemo grabbed her hand. “Consider carefully what your father’s offering, Miss Duncan.”
Sara pulled away and walked for the massive doors, where the Lieutenant stood, at smiling attention.
“One thing’s clear,” Grant said to him, “I know who the hell you are, boy.”
The Lieutenant opened the doors with artificial flourish. “Mr. President, it might not seem so, but I’m flattered I made an impression.”
Grant and Sara stepped from the room without giving Robur or Nemo another glance or moment. The violence of the storm shook the room; a clap of thunder was cannon fire into a steel drum. Like Nemo maneuvering a typhoon, Robur was unflappable, pouring out two more glasses.
Nemo said, “I want to see how you’ll coordinate this attack.”
“It will be our first masterpiece.”
* * *
The Lieutenant stood at Sara’s door, waiting for her to step through. She regarded him for a moment, studying the blue eyes, the boyishness.
“How many have you killed?”
“I’m showing you to your quarters, miss. That’s all.”
Sara said, “You’ve done all this bidding. He promised you something enormous.”
The Lieutenant said, “My own Army. Now please step back, so I may seal your door for the night. I wouldn’t want you hurt, or sleep disturbed.”
The Lieutenant’s smile was frozen. Sara took the step, and the door was shut, then locked.
The Lieutenant turned to Grant’s quarters, and repeated the ritual, always with one hand on the dagger in his belt, saying, “General, if you don’t mind.”
Grant said, “I don’t. Our time is coming, believe me.”
“And believe me, it will be my honor. I have learned a great deal from studying you. And, sir, feel free to converse with Miss Duncan. Robur does not want you to feel like common prisoners.”
The door shut, and was locked. Grant turned, moved to the large window, which was open again, giving a view of the storm clouds around them, and below, the ships.
Grant watched, and said quietly, “The art of war.”
* * *
Sara sat on the edge of her bed, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. She looked about the room, the books and dolls that her father recalled, and then to the miniature version of the City she used to play with as a girl.
She opened her palm, and peeled away the tissue from the object Nemo had pressed into it. The poison ring.
38
FIRESTORM
A starless night for the Nautilus to surface a mile from the frigates, their decks lit with hanging lanterns, and small craft moving back and forth between the ships.
The submarine’s engines pulled back and slowed, with Rongo in the observation dome. Fulmer stayed the helm, while crewmen climbed back to life, shaking the chemical grog from their heads.
Rongo said, “This is where we’re supposed to be?”
Fulmer said, “It’s the final coordinates that Miss Duncan had, Brigand’s Trench not two miles away, and there’s the armada. Where the hell else should we be?”
“You mean that boat that stole Nemo and her away.”
“This was its direction.”
“To the clouds that don’t move.” Rongo threw a thumb at the giant clouds, building on top of each other, suspended above the international flotilla. “There’s the coming storm.”
* * *
It was a demonic version of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, finely etched in glass, and lit from behind. The perversion of da Vinci was a snake, with human arms, and it stared from the sides of a walled-maze of one sea monster after another, beautifully rendered, with all details of their artificial construction indicated.
“I attended the world exhibition; it was quite an inspiration,” Robur said.
He was guiding Nemo through the assembly line of the fantastic nautical creatures. Mechanic-driven eyes, steel claws, brass teeth, and the artificial organs of monsters were laid out. There were Sea Spiders, with exposed pouches of acid ready for insertion, and what look to be giant wasps, stingers filled with poisonous fluid.
Hanging above barrels of whale oil, the giant manta ray was being rebuilt, half of its skin torn away, revealing its fused-metal skeleton and gear works. The center of the assembly line was a great trapdoor for the launching of flying creatures.
“The acid in the stingers can burn through the hull of any ship. There’s no defense against a coordinated attack from my creations.”
Nemo said, “Every single one, a perversion of nature.”
“Why did you create the Nautilus as you did? Your design was to frighten your enemies as much as sink them. How many newspapers labeled you monster? Why not make them real, bring their worst fears, the idiotic editorials, the cartoons, to life?”
Nemo said, “The inspiration for the squid that almost destroyed my ship?”
Robur said, “It was damaged, that never should have happened, but you survived it. No one else could. The reaction from the governments when a mechanical attacks? Chaos, that I can control. They can’t allow themselves to believe what they knew to be true, and don’t know how to react, except to panic, then blame the United States for the atrocities, since none of their vessels were destroyed.”
“Something you made sure of.”
Robur said, “Very easy to manipulate with my influence; it also freed you from Libby prison.”
He opened the trapdoor directly over the international ships. “The leaders of the world, waiting for death from the sky.”
“Which we will provide,” Nemo said.
“For a greater good. These are the very men who cheered when you were sentenced to hang; who better to sacrifice?”
Nemo moved to where the Sea Spiders were in bits and pieces, and said, “Everything you’ve done, every motive behind this, is tied to me?”
Robur said, “‘I will bring these despots to their knees, and then we’ll have a perfect world.’ You said that in a letter you wrote to my office during the Civil War. Here’s your chance.”
Nemo stepped around the illuminated images, locked the door.
Robur said, “I’m offering you half the planet. Take it.”
“The sea isn’t yours to offer. I’m not interested in conquering the world, only living as a part of it, showing others the way, if they open their minds.”
Robur said, “You’re a sentimentalist. You keep memorials to your crew, which I knew you would use to follow my map. And an operating table where your son died, while you tried to save him. All over the Nautilus are signs of a genius, who won’t step away from his past. It’s an anchor.”
“Like your daughter?”
Robur said, “Maybe we are alike in that way, but if you’re going to join me, you have to decide.”
Nemo grabbed one of the acid bottles, smashing it against the door, its material bubbling over and sealing them in. “You can’t build a Utopia on a mountain of corpses. I hate war no matter who wages it.”
Robur said, “Oh, the great hypocrite. So you’ll prove your point by killing me?”
* * *
Grant was holding up the bourbon decanter, admiring the light flowing through the whiskey, and waiting for the door to open. The Lieutenant entered with a Cheshire grin. He didn’t notice the paper door sliding, and the Lieutenant was silent in his entrance.
“Thinking of a last drink, General?”
Grant stood, his leg throbbing. “Thinking that I’d never left a wounded solider behind, until now.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
Lieutenant said, “If I might, sir, I’d much rather sit and discuss with you your technique in Norfolk. You know your weapons, and made admirable shots.”
Grant said, “I didn’t finish you off.”
“No
r I you, at the White House stables.”
Sara stepped in, through the small panel, and the Lieutenant didn’t even turn around, when he said, “Miss Duncan, these cells are adjoined, as part of your humane treatment, but you’re abusing the privilege. What the General and I have to do isn’t for you.”
He turned, suddenly grabbing her arm, and wrenched it, forcing a drop of the knife she was holding. His mouth curled open, to teach Sara the error of her ways, when she stabbed him in the neck with the side of General Sigel’s ring, the tiny needle puncturing his jugular.
Sara punctured again, blood jetting, as Grant pulled back her hand, thrusting the General’s ring close to the Lieutenant’s eyes. There was recognition there, of the seal and decoration, before his eyes clouded blank, and he dropped, red soaked, to the floor.
Grant took his pistol and ammunition.
* * *
Robur moved behind the glass panels, his voice emanating from a creature’s schematic. “I won’t die here. These weapons will be put to use whether you join me or not.”
“If I have to declare war again,” Nemo said, “it’ll be against you, without hesitation.”
Robur was now behind the demonic snake. “No, not against me.”
The glass panels shifted, as stage curtains open, exposing a large, egg-shaped object, more than six feet in length and translucent, with something moving inside. A sharp edge sliced the egg from within, whale oil gushing through the cut. The edge tore away, more pieces shredding, oil flooding. A birthing, as the thing freed itself.
The mechanical’s claws were more than three feet, its stinger tail curled over its body, poised to strike, more than twelve feet when extended. Its multiple eyes were redesigns, and placed lower to the mandibles, accommodating a wiring system protruding from the front of its exoskeleton to receive operating signals. All of black metal, the scorpion moved as a natural one, springing forward on its legs, swiping at the air, and bringing down its stinger with amazing speed, belying its enormous size.
Nemo Rising Page 29