by Simon Hawke
“Boat,” said Lucas. “A submarine is called a boat.”
“One this size ought to be called a ship,” said Finn. He began to strip off his wet clothes.
Verne, still in something like a state of shock, caught him by the arm. “What are you doing?” he said.
“Taking off my wet clothes, what does it look like I’m doing?” Finn said.
“But, my good man, have you forgotten? There is a woman present..” His voice trailed off as he saw that Andre had stripped down to the buff and was stepping into one of the jumpsuits. He gaped at her, then quickly turned his head. “Mon Dieu!”
The diving Klaxon sounded and Verne jerked as if stung. “What on earth was that?” he said, alarmed.
“Unless I miss my guess,” said Lucas, “it is the signal the submarine is about to dive.”
The submarine tilted as it began its descent and both Verne and Land, not knowing what to expect, were thrown off-balance. Lucas sat down at the table and caught the tray with the coffee cups. It had started to slide.
“I suggest we all drink some of this coffee,” he said. “You, especially, Jules. You’re shivering like an epileptic.”
“I cannot cease marveling at this!” said Verne, sitting down at the table. “The water outside is freezing, yet it is as warm in here as on a summer’s day. What a superb accomplishment this vessel is! I must know more about it. What is its power source? How is the air stored for us to breathe? How-”
“I’d leave all those questions for later if I were you, and get out of those wet clothes,” said Finn. “Andre, turn your head so Jules doesn’t die of embarrassment.”
“What I can’t figure is how this submarine boat managed to sink our ship,” said Land. “It ain’t likely that it rammed us, because of the explosion. But how could they have fired when they were under the water?”
“It’s called a torpedo, Ned,” said Lucas.
“What, you mean a mine?” said Land.
“No, this is a different sort of device,” said Lucas. “It’s fired from a tube within this boat while-”
“Yes, of course!” said Verne, interrupting him, carried away by his own enthusiasm. “The self-propelled torpedo! Built by the Englishman, Robert Whitehead. I have read of it. Whitehead worked from a design by the Austrian naval officer, Giovanni Luppis. But the Whitehead-Luppis torpedo is still only an experimental stage device. It is 14 feet long and 14 inches in diameter, as I recall, weighing some 300 pounds and carrying 18 pounds of dynamite in its nose. It is powered by a compressed-air engine which turns a small propeller and impels it at a speed of 6 knots for a maximum range of 700 yards.”
“By Heaven, does this man know everything?” said Land.
“Admittedly, I do have a certain eclectic expertise in various fields,” said Verne, “but I am a mere dabbler in such matters, a dilettante. The fact is, my friends, I have recently been giving a great deal of consideration to writing a novel, one of my voyages extraordinaires, about a submarine vessel much like this one. I have been doing a considerable amount of research to that end, but never did I dream I would actually find myself aboard such a craft! To think of the book I shall he able to write after this experience!”
“Assuming we survive it,” Andre said. “And assuming you don’t catch pneumonia from standing around with your pants down around your legs.”
“Sacre bleu!” Verne flushed a deep crimson and quickly pulled his soaking trousers back up. Finn laughed and tossed him one of the jumpsuits.
“Try one of these,” he said.
“I promise not to look,” said Andre, turning around.
Verne quickly removed his wet clothing and slipped into the jumpsuit.
“So that’s what happened to the Scotia,”. Land said. “She was sunk by one of them torpedo devices.” He shook his head. “What ship would stand a chance ‘gainst a vessel with such weapons?”
“I’m afraid this submarine is equipped with weapons far more deadly,” Lucas said. “We were very fortunate. The Abraham Lincoln might just as easily have been obliterated without a trace in less than an instant.”
Land frowned. “How is it that you know these things, Professor?”
“Because he is not a professor, Mr. Land,” said a deep voice from behind them. The door had opened silently without their noticing it. In the doorway, flanked by two men with drawn automatic pistols, stood a tall, heavily muscled man with raven-black hair lightly streaked with white and unusually bright, emerald-green eyes. His face would have possessed a classic, almost Byronic beauty were it not for the knife scar which ran from beneath his left eye in a straight line across his cheekbone to just above the corner of his mouth. His features were Slavic; a high forehead, blade-straight nose and a prominent jawline with a square chin. His posture was elegant; ramrod straight, yet somehow languid. He was dressed in a tailored naval uniform of dark blue cotton with gold captain’s bands upon the sleeves of his coat and shoulderboards. The insignia was incongruously British. The coat had double rows of heavy brass buttons and, in a quite unmilitary touch, he had a deep-purple silk handkerchief neatly folded in the left-hand breast pocket. The handkerchief matched the purple ascot tie held down with a diamond stickpin. That pin was his sole adornment with the exception of a large ruby worn on the left hand.
Andre caught her breath. “Drakov!”
“It’s so nice to be remembered, Miss Cross,” he said with a smile. “And Mr. Delaney and Mr. Priest, as well. Quite a reunion. I had an intuition we might meet again. Tell me, is my father well?”
“He’s better than he would be if he knew you were behind this,” said Finn.
“Would one of you mind explaining what the devil this is all about?” said Land.
“Certainly,” said Drakov. “If someone would be so kind as to introduce us, sir, I would be happy to oblige.”
“Nikolai Drakov, Ned Land,” said Lucas. “Ned is a harpooner by profession. Drakov’s calling, Ned, would be a bit more difficult to explain. I’m not even sure I know what it is, but I can hazard a few guesses. At this point, calling him a pirate wouldn’t be too far off the mark. And this is Mr. Jules Verne.”
Drakov looked surprised. “Not the famous novelist, surely?”
Verne smiled slightly and inclined his head.
“Well, this is indeed an honor,” Drakov said. “I am among your most devoted readers, sir. In fact, I have renamed this submarine in honor of your own creation. I bid you welcome aboard the Nautilus.”
Verne looked puzzled. “But I have never written-”
“Ah, but you shall, Mr. Verne,” said Drakov, with a smile. “You shall.”
“Well, whoever in blazes you might be,” said Land, “you’ve a lot to answer for. I have-”
“I answer to no one, Mr. Land,” said Drakov, curtly. “This vessel is mine and aboard it, I am the sole authority. This is my world and you exist in it at my discretion. I could just as easily have submerged while you sat upon my deck, braying like a drunken dockworker. If you cannot behave in a more civilized manner, I will have you placed in a torpedo tube and ejected from my ship.”
Land swore softly in French.
“You are quite correct, Mr. Land,” said Drakov, tersely. “I am, literally, a bastard. And fluent in French, as well. You have now been cautioned twice. Your next transgression shall be your last.”
Land remained silent, glowering at him.
“You must forgive Ned, Captain Drakov,” Verne said, anxious to placate their host. “His belligerence is… well, after all, sir, you did sink our ship.”
“Only after I was fired upon, Mr. Verne,” said Drakov. “Or do you not regard that as sufficient provocation?”
The author cleared his throat uneasily. “Yes, well, to be sure, you have a point, sir. However, we… that is, Commander Farragut and his crew had no idea it was a vessel they were firing upon. They were-”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Drakov, impatiently. “They were hunting a sea monster of some sort. I do try to
remain au courant, Mr. Verne. I was well aware of the Abraham Lincoln’s mission.”
Verne’s eyes grew wide. “Then you deliberately-”
“I did nothing of the sort, if I may anticipate you,” said Drakov. “Nothing would have pleased me more than to avoid your ship entirely. However, I am Fate’s cats-paw. A living paradox. The forces which move me are not always under my control. As you can see, Fate has reunited me with three old adversaries.” He swept his arm out to indicate Finn, Andre and Lucas.
“Which brings up the subject of what you’re going to do about us,” Finn said.
“I haven’t yet decided,” Drakov said. “I could have you killed, of course.”
“No!” said Verne. “Surely, a man of your accomplishment-”
“Would be more than justified, under the circumstances,” Drakov said. “They were sent to destroy me. There is more involved here than even your imagination could encompass. But we can pursue that another time. Right now, I must decide what to do about the five of you.”
“Five?” said Verne.
“Yes, regrettably, your injured companion died moments ago. My medical officer could do nothing for him.”
“Did he even try?” said Andre.
Drakov fixed her with a piercing glare. “I told you once before, Miss Cross. Whatever else I may be, I am not a barbarian. I could, for example, easily have destroyed the lifeboats from the Abraham Lincoln, yet I did not. Your Commander Farrgut will live to be an admiral. I regret the loss of life, but they brought it on themselves.”
“What about the Scotia?” Land said. “Or do you regard that as an impertinent question?”
“The Scotia was a munitions ship,” said Drakov. “She was carrying supplies of war. Sending her to the bottom was an humanitarian act.”
Verne started to speak, then thought better of it. Land’s reply was cut off by Lucas, who reached out and squeezed his upper arm in warning.
“Do we at least get to find out why you took this sub before you kill us?” Lucas asked.
“I did not say I would kill you, only that I could,” said Drakov. “You see, I am giving you more consideration than you would have given me. There are other choices. I could compel your obedience in the same way I have the Soviet sailors’. I would prefer not to have to do that. Fate has delivered you into my hands and until I know the reason, I will not act hastily. If you will agree to be bound by the conventions of prisoners of war, I will allow you the run of the ship so long as you do not interfere with me or with my crew. The first hostile act by any one of you will instantly result in the death of all. Your signal implants will be removed and you will surrender your warp discs to me, of course.”
“And if we don’t accept those terms?” said Lucas.
“I should think them to be very reasonable, all things considered,” Drakov said. “If you find you cannot accept them, you are free to clock out. Having gone to so much trouble to find me, I can see where you might be reluctant to do so until you have at least deduced my plans. Also, you would be forced to leave Mr. Land and Mr. Verne behind. Mr. Land I could certainly do without, but I would be loathe to deprive myself of Mr. Verne’s company. That leaves you with three other choices. Death, re-education, or being left locked in this cabin until I decide what else to do with you. So, which is it to be?”
“How do you know you can trust us?” said Delaney.
“You, Mr. Delaney, I know I cannot trust. However, you are vastly outnumbered and unarmed. Moreover, you will all be responsible for each other’s lives. I do not regard you as a threat, merely as a potential for annoyance.”
“All right,” said Lucas. “We’ll accept your terms.”
“Good,” said Drakov. “You will give Sasha your warp discs, please. Mess will be served in the wardroom in one hour. I would be pleased if you would join me.” With a curt nod of his head, he departed.
“Merde,” said Land. “I understand none of this. What’s this about your being adversaries? How do you know this man?”
Lucas sighed. “Ned, you’re going to think you’ve fallen into a nest of raving lunatics after you’ve heard my explanation, but there’s no way around it. You’re going to have to know exactly what this is all about if we’re going to get out of this, so here goes. Brace yourself…”
5
Land wouldn’t have any of it. If he was unwilling to accept Verne’s theory that a gigantic narwhal could exist, he wasn’t about to listen to any nonsense about time travel. He was not a scientist. He wasn’t even literate. Unlike Verne, he couldn’t look about him and realize the brilliant feat of engineering that was a nuclear submarine could not possibly have been accomplished in the 19th century. If an Englishman and an Austrian could devise a self-propelled torpedo, why then it made perfect sense to him that Drakov could construct a submarine. Lucas tried explaining to him gradually and patiently, with Land listening attentively at first, then scowling and squirming in his chair, then interrupting angrily to demand Lucas stop treating him like a fool and tell him the truth and finally threatening to bust his skull. Exasperated, Lucas was about to try another tack when Finn put a hand on his shoulder and took over.
“All right, Ned, we’ll tell you the truth. It’s clear you’re nobody’s fool. The fact is, Drakov was a brilliant scientist, a professor on the faculty of Miskatonic University, where Lucas and I were teaching courses in Creative Apathy and Rubber Physics. Andre, here, was a graduate student at Miskatonic at the time, taking her degree in Electronic Onanism. Drakov managed to convince the university officials he could prove a theory first advanced by the eminent acrocephalic, Dr. Nicholas Gambrinous, namely, that interlocutory foreplay, properly applied, could achieve a state of labial penetration of normally recalcitrant subjects. To this end, he was awarded financial backing in the form of a grant and he proceeded to set up his laboratory, staffed with young graduate assistant; eager to help in his experiments. Lucas, Andre and myself were working on a competitive project, and we were able to convince the university its funds would be better spent in supporting our research, instead. Drakov lost the funding for his project and left the university, vowing to revenge himself upon us. And there you have it.”
Verne sat staring at Finn, stunned into speechlessness. Land grunted, then looked at Lucas and said, “Now why couldn’t you say so in the first place? That makes a lot more sense than that other nonsense you were spouting.”
“It does?” said Lucas.
“Just because I never went to a fancy university, don’t think I’m a fool,” he said.
“Of course not,” Lucas said.
Verne made a whimpering sound.
“You all right, Jules?” Land said, concerned.
“Oh, yes, quite, quite,” Verne said, not daring to look him in the face. He cleared his throat several times. “I must have caught a bit of a chill, that’s all.”
They were escorted to the wardroom at the appointed time and entered to find most of the crew, save those on duty, already sitting down to dinner. Neither Verne nor Land had any reference for the scene they were confronted with, but for Lucas, Finn and Andre, it was not at all what they expected. On one level, there was an atmosphere of order to the mess. The men sat at their tables, dining in a reasonably quiet manner, enjoying the food provided by the huge stores of a nuclear submarine. Yet, on the surface, an element of the surreal had intruded. The bulkheads of the wardroom were obscured almost entirely by fabulous Chinese and Persian tapestries and the tables were set with fine china and real silver on ornate cloths. Wine was in evidence, as well as vodka, beer, rum and even mulled ale. Chamber music filled the wardroom.
As for the crew, the, spartan Soviet military veneer had slipped considerably. Beards and moustaches were in evidence, some quite elaborate. Hair was longer. A few of the men wore earrings. Many of the jumpsuits bore marks of individual ornamentation; gold brooches and jeweled clasps, silver pins and hammered bracelets, emerald and ruby necklaces of inestimable worth worn over the shoulders as a
guillettes. Some of the men had their sleeves rolled up or cut off entirely, exposing intricate tattoos, blazing with color. It was a bizarre combination of a medieval feast and a pirates’ mess. The only element lacking was a cadre of buxom serving wenches.
They were conducted to the captain’s table and Drakov rose to greet them. Four men were seated at the table with him and they rose to their feet as well.
“Gentlemen, and lady, please be seated,” Drakov said, indicating the places set for them. He had changed his jacket for a 17th-century British naval admiral’s coat, festooned with gold braid, heavy gold epaulets upon the shoulders. Lace showed at his throat and cuffs. “Allow me to introduce you to my senior officers.”
They sat down and Drakov turned to the man on his immediate right, a thin, dark-eyed, evil-faced Sicilian with coarse black hair and the manner of a Medici poisoner. “This is Santos Benedetto, whose name will be known to you three `academicians.’ Santos, aside from myself, is the last surviving member of the Timekeepers. After our last meeting, in Zenda Castle, I encountered Santos in one of our old rendezvous places. He helped me to begin this venture.”
Benedetto gave them a dark stare and nodded. He wore 27th-century black base fatigues and a warp disc on his left wrist.
“Santos knows you three only too well,” said Drakov, smiling. Then he introduced Verne and Land to his second-in-command. “The gentleman beside Santos is Barry Martingale, late of the 20th-century American Special Forces. When I met Sgt. Martingale, he was pursuing a career as a mercenary soldier and being terribly underpaid. I offered to remedy that situation and he graciously accepted.”
The beefy, sandy-haired Martingale twitched his lips in what might have been a smile and said, “How do?” His mus cular frame was sheathed in khaki-sharply creased trousers and an African bush jacket. He had a pencil-thin moustache, a square chin and foggy gray eyes.