*
Everything he’d seen and done today had been a new and wondrous experience. With Crispin as their constant guide, they had explored the marvels of Cinnabar. Now, as he stood before the huge aquarium and pictured the reality of the world in which he found himself, he could for the first time come to grips with where he was and exactly what the undersea world was all about. It was a staggering realisation that Cinnabar and Hellix, so close together in the vastness of the ocean, had never learned to share the resources around them. The brooding eastern half of the miniature Two Plates seemed malevolent indeed. And Aladdin could only conjecture as to how its own civilisation might have altered and adapted, in ways and forms he could still only guess. For as much as he was seeing and learning there was so much more to find out. If Crispin wasn’t going to tell him, then he’d somehow have to find someone who would.
*
“Virtually nothing remains of the original city of Hellix,” the Chancellor of the Privy Council explained in his drawling manner. Dressed in the frosted-blue ceremonial garb of his office, with a beige sash wrapped around his bulging waist, Damian seemed, to Aladdin, to be far more relaxed this evening than he had been yesterday. He conducted his little lecture to his guests with what Aladdin quickly was perceiving to be the typically dry and roundabout Cinnabarian way of expounding upon a point. As he spoke he toyed idly with the medallion hanging from his throat — two writhing silver dragons, identical to the larger bronze figure mounted on the wall behind him. Waning magenta light spilled into the large chamber, marking the coming of darkout. The sculptured marble griffin stood larger than life beside him, casting a deep shadow across half of his view.
“The capital city, established at virtually the same time as the founding of Cinnabar, was short-lived. Now it lies in ruins, with only crumbling walls to attest to its existence.” Pausing, he pointed toward the canvas map spread over the table at which Aladdin and Christóbal sat. “As to their new seat of power, it is not accessible, extending beyond the known reaches of the Hellix empire, and completely surrounded by impregnable walls and embankments.”
Aladdin pondered the dark crescent on the map, its terrain largely uncharted, in contrast to the well-marked areas of the western half of the Two Plates. Twin land masses, Cinnabar and Hellix, sharing a cataclysmic birth, but now as different as — as what?
He glanced at the familiar wedge between them. “What about those birds we encountered in crossing the Outland?” he asked. “Sky hunters, Shaman called them.”
Damian’s mouth twitched. The deformed jester crouched at the side of the Chancellor’s regal chair, grinning idiotically. “I think our military men refer to them as aerial observers,” Damian answered. “Scouring the Outland skies like surface vultures, in search of our movements, they report every finding to their masters.”
“They seemed to be more than observers,” remarked Christóbal as he pushed back his floppy stocking cap, twisting to make himself more comfortable in the undersized chair. “Those birds were killers.”
The Chancellor nodded. “Make no mistake, they are a well-trained corps — skilful and deadly. But easy prey for a heat-seeking humming knife. Attack, however, is not their primary function; they fight only upon command.”
“Then the command must have been given the day of our arrival,” said Aladdin. “They were certainly on the alert for something.”
Damian smiled without humour. “Yes, they certainly were.”
General Flavius, sitting stiffly and holding his silence until now, spoke up for the first time. “Our enemies are all too aware of our vessels plying the surface. Likely as not, they were well aware of Shaman’s return and sought to prevent him from reaching safety. Fortunately, their efforts were unsuccessful.”
“These sky hunters are a menace to us,” added Damian, “but they pose no severe threat. We have our own countermeasures, and the battle for supremacy over the Outland has been stalemated for as long as our war has been fought.”
“A buffer zone between our empires is useful to both sides,” Flavius said. “A battlefield where we can bloody each other’s noses while keeping our respective domains intact. Think of it as a chessboard on a grand scale, upon which our commanders employ their new strategies, a testing ground where we weigh each other’s weaknesses.”
They were making the bitter struggle sound like a chess game, Aladdin thought. What about the soldiers who were forced to fight and die upon this playing field of battle? They hadn’t mentioned the toll in human suffering these little side wars must exact. His hosts were so quick to explain in the minutest detail the long and arduous campaigns, victories, defeats, provocative actions, and stalemates, which dotted their history. Never, however, did they tell of the futility of it all, the more than two thousand years of bloodshed in a vicious circle. Again he was reminded that something was very wrong in this strange subterranean paradise. More than wrong; it was bizarre.
“In any case,” Damian went on, “the true test for our survival will come not from within the domes, but from without.”
“Without, my lord?” asked Aladdin.
“From the sea itself.”
More than a little puzzled, Aladdin looked over at Flavius. The aging soldier cleared his throat, saying, “For quite some time now we have been put under terrible stress. Hellix forces have constantly attacked and harassed our mines and quarries along the seabed. They have systematically been inching us out of the hitherto free zones from which the bulk of our supplies are drawn. The so-called Hell-ring around Cinnabar becomes tighter with every darkout, until now we find ourselves strained to the limit in repelling the assaults.”
“What you’re saying is that Cinnabar is slowly being strangled, is that it?” asked Aladdin.
Flavius grimaced with discomfort at the choice of words.
“Perhaps our guests would care to take a look for themselves, if they are to fully grasp the conditions of our world,” Damian said, coming to the rescue of Flavius.
“You mean to travel outside the bubble, outside the dome? Is it — possible?” Aladdin was excited.
The Chancellor chuckled. “Certainly. And it’s quite safe, I assure you, during whitetime. Besides, a first-hand view might be of great benefit if you are to be of service to us.”
“An excellent idea,” said Flavius. “I shall have my adjutant make all the necessary preparations immediately.”
Damian thought deeply for a moment and then shook his head. “I think that won’t be necessary. Our own guides can handle the matter well enough, I should imagine, without our having to involve the military.”
“But, my lord,” objected the soldier, “may I point out the obvious risk without proper procedure. I need not explain how important these guests are to us or the possible consequences should anything — er — unexpected, happen outside the dome — ”
“Your advice is well taken, General. Nevertheless, as this is not a military operation, I do not wish to involve Supreme or any field command in the undertaking. A civilian guide shall be ample precaution.”
Again, Flavius moved to protest. To his chagrin, Damian lifted his hand with finality. It was a clear snub, Aladdin realised, a rebuff to old Flavius, who sat smouldering behind his expressionless mask. He had been confident that the adventurers were going to remain under the tutelage of Flavius; now he was learning differently.
“I shall have to protest,” said Flavius, calmly. “Explain in my report to the Legion Commander — ”
“You will explain nothing to Rufio!” Damian’s cold eyes were shooting daggers. “No explanations are required. Our visitors are considered charges of Shaman under Privy Council orders. If and when that status is changed, you shall be duly informed.” He lowered his voice. ‘That will be all, General.”
Flavius rose stiffly from his chair. The deep red light of evening had all but vanished; darkout had taken over the domed sky of Cinnabar. In the shadows of the throne of power, the jester began to cackle, as he glared at t
he rebuffed soldier. Ignoring him, Flavius stood at attention, inclining his head in a respectful gesture. “Good evening,” he said, then threw back his shoulders proudly and strode from the chamber.
“You must forgive us,” said Damian with a sigh. The flicker of anger was gone as he turned to his guests and forced a smile. “Your importance has all factions vying for your time.”
“How are we to make this sojourn, my lord?” asked Aladdin, eager to experience the opportunity offered. Christóbal, meanwhile, took a dimmer view. He was not looking forward to leaving the dome. Man was meant for land, he reasoned, and the sea should be left well enough alone for fish.
“Really quite a simple matter,” the Chancellor replied. “A submersible will take you from the locks. There you’ll don...” He paused, grinning, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I think I’ll let you find out for yourselves. First, though, I’d better find a suitable guide. We want to be sure your first glimpse of the Inner Circle is a memorable one.”
Chapter Fifteen
“This way, please,” said the soft-spoken, uniformed sentry standing guard at the iron-braced oval door. Warily, Aladdin and Christóbal crossed the threshold and entered the narrow, murky tunnel. They had been roused from their sleep at the crack of whitetime, hurried and harried by a crusty old Pavilion servant. As usual, Christóbal felt his belly rumble and complained about not having time to have his breakfast. Aladdin, however, had been too excited about the prospect of the day’s events to think about food. After checking to make sure the princess Fatima was still comfortably sleeping, he had tucked the prism away safely. Then they had followed the servant down, down, into the Pavilion’s labyrinth of tunnels and marched below ground toward the city locks.
The air was moist and stale in the stone passage. A turbid vapour hissed from overhead pipes and the dull drone of steam-powered machines came from somewhere unseen. The tunnel was long and dreary, the air thinner and increasingly suffocating. Aladdin recalled he had been warned that breathing in the locks might at first be difficult. Shaman had once explained something about sudden changes in pressure, where the sea and the domed world of Cinnabar met. Aladdin found himself sweating profusely; unlike the city above them, the halls of the locks were not temperature-controlled; after a few short moments he felt as though he were in the Sultan’s steam baths. Christóbal was huffing and puffing beside him. Struggling to refill his lungs, the Spaniard muttered in a sepulchral voice, “I think, capitán, I would have been happier remaining in Basra.”
A cubical door barred the exit at the end of the passage. As taught by Crispin, Aladdin passed his hand lightly over the indented slab and, in a reaction similar to that of glowlights, the heat of his palm activated the mechanism. As the lock sprung, the stone cube door slid aside with a groan. Christóbal drew back, startled, when he saw the black abyss before them. “Santa Maria! We’ve entered into hell!”
A rotor hummed in the distance, sending a whoosh of blissfully cooler air at them from the blackness.
“Come on, amigo” said Aladdin, sucking in the fresher but sea-salty air. The abyss was not as dark as they had thought. Dim yellow lights suspended in the distance cast a pall over their new and shadowy surroundings. Before them lay a broad stone walk, beyond which came the sound of water gently splashing against the stone.
“It looks like a canal,” marvelled the Spaniard.
Or at least what appeared to be a canal, thought Aladdin, wondering if this underground river might somehow connect with the vast ocean beyond the locks. Muddy water rolled peacefully for as far as he could see. Aladdin put his hands to his hips and gazed about, in a quandary. There was no sign of life anywhere; no soldiers, no guides, no one at all. They were alone.
A row of glowing amber lights suddenly appeared deep below the water’s surface, “By Allah!” Aladdin stared down as he kneeled at the edge of the embankment. The brightness was barely visible at this considerable depth. As he gazed anxiously, the lights slowly grew larger and more distinct, indicating a rise toward the surface.
Christóbal crossed himself. “Truly this must be hell,” he wheezed.
“I think not, my friend. I think — ”
Waves of dark water swelled and splashed across the embankment. Then a humplike, tenebrous form broke the surface. It rose up like a whale but looked more like a monstrous sea turtle with a murky metallic shell. The amber lights flashed blindingly; Aladdin and Christóbal recoiled and shaded their eyes from the piercing glare. Steam hissed, water churned. Aladdin dimly heard a whirring noise like a purring feline; then it stopped. The lights went out. Forcing himself to look, he gaped at the floating sea monster which had rested silently before him. A single red beam glowed eerily from atop what appeared to be a porthole.
“By the wicked horns of the devil, what is it, capitán?”
“Nothing like we’ve ever seen before,” answered Aladdin, shaking his head. The monster, or whatever it was, seemed to be made of iron — man-made, not much longer than a fisherman’s boat — but the most formidable creation he’d ever seen. Its shell, if he was any judge, was a single construction, like a plate of armour. Heavy and cumbersome. It was a marvel that the thing could float.
“I think it’s a vessel of some kind,” he finally told Christóbal.
“A ship? By God!” The big Spaniard made the sign of the cross a second time, frightened and awed by this hellish creation.
There was a circular hatch on the back of this sea turtle. Slowly it started to turn, unscrewing. The sound of metal echoed in the dimness. Instinctively the adventurers moved their hands over their sheathed weapons, stepping back, as a gloomy silhouette appeared against the darkness.
The figure crouched to get out of the narrow opening, then stood fully on the turtle’s back, facing the dumbfounded surface visitors.
It had humanlike arms and legs, but it didn’t seem fully human. Its flesh looked green and rubbery in the red beam; instead of feet there were fins, and its head was obscured by a tight elastic-like covering. As for a face, there was none to be seen, only twin bubble-like projections from where its eyes should have been. The strange creature remained erect, with arms folded, as if waiting. Then it spoke.
“Well? Why are you staring?”
“Blessed Madonna, it speaks!”
Aladdin looked in amazement at the Spaniard, then at the fishlike creature. That it spoke was beyond comprehension, but even more incredible was that its voice was the voice of a woman.
“By the beasts of Hades,” growled Christóbal, “who are you? What are you?”
The creature tilted its head in a gesture of puzzlement. “I’m here to pick you up. Your guide.”
“Our guide?” Aladdin continued to gape. The appearance of the turtle and the sea woman piqued his interest, although he remained wary.
The creature heaved her shoulders and sighed deeply. Then, one at a time, she peeled off her rubber gloves, exposing human — feminine — hands. Her right hand moved up to her face and off came the reflective goggles; with her other hand she untied the strap behind her neck and pulled off the banded covering. Waves of long yellow hair spilled from the top of her head as she shook her head, and it cascaded over her shoulders.
“Santa Maria! It’s a woman! A real flesh-and-blood woman!”
And a good-looking one at that, thought Aladdin in sheer amazement.
“Of course. What were you — ” She allowed her winter-sea-grey eyes to roam over the surface visitors, then smiled. “I see,” she muttered. “Damian didn’t tell you a thing, did he?”
Aladdin shook his head bemusedly. “Not a thing. Said he wanted us to find out for ourselves.”
The smile disappeared and she became serious again. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.” She glanced briefly at the time clock strapped to her wrist. “We’re losing valuable whitetime; are you coming aboard or not?” A webbed fin began to tap impatiently.
“Are we supposed to board your — turtle?”
“M
y submersible. Certainly you’re supposed — listen, my instructions were to pick you up at the city locks and guide you across the Inner Circle. I didn’t ask for this detail, and I’ve plenty of my own work to do, so if you haven’t changed your minds — ” She sighed again. “Which of you is the one called Aladdin?” she asked.
“I,” replied the adventurer.
Her gaze poured over the handsome soldier-of-fortune as she nodded. “I should have guessed. And you must be — ”
“Christóbal,” said Aladdin’s companion, inclining his head and making a flourish with his hands. “By all that’s sacred, you startled us, girl!” he boomed. He began to laugh loudly, appreciating the joke on him. “I thought you were a demon.”
She didn’t share his mirth. “This lock is timed to shut in exactly eight minutes. You’d better decide quickly. Do we leave now or cancel the voyage?”
She was tall for a Cinnabarian girl, Aladdin noted. Slim and probably well-proportioned beneath her skin suit. Her high cheekbones and Romanesque nose contributed to her aristocratic bearing. She carried herself with the kind of grace he might expect to find in a Persian princess. Spirited, too, if the clipped assurance in her tone meant anything.
“You must forgive us, but we didn’t expect to find a woman piloting the submersible,” Aladdin said as he proceeded to board the sloping deck of the craft.
“In Cinnabar everyone plays a role in the betterment of our society,” she answered dryly. “Here, women are trained every bit as much as men, specialising in whatever skills or duties are most needed.” She sounded a little like Crispin, Aladdin thought, as she expounded on the virtues of her undersea civilisation. “There is no waste in Cinnabar,” she went on, without a pause to catch her breath. “We are frugal people. Now, please follow me down the hatch, and be sure to grasp the handholds firmly. Once the hatch has been secured, we’ll be underway.”
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 91
