The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar

by Graham Diamond

  The central compartment was small and claustrophobic. Clinging to the overhead and in the rear was a maze of pipes and tiny shafts, some covered with dark grease, others apparently glowing dimly, but all winding and twisting around a cylindrical iron boiler. A number of strange gauges, dials, and small wheel-like apertures protruded from a central panel located directly below the wide-screened front porthole. Long rods of brass, some as thin as match sticks, ran from the panel to other gears, chains, and levers, running above and alongside the compartments metallic floor. Three comfortable seats were nestled in the compartment, one directly in front of the main control panel, the others behind it, side by side.

  “Strap yourselves in,” the girl said absently, indicating the passenger seats as she fiddled here and there with some dial or gauge. No sooner had Aladdin and Christóbal managed to squeeze into their places than a whoosh of new steam was emitted from one of the larger overhead pipes. The hatch was locked by remote levers, and the cabin quickly started to vibrate. Aladdin glanced behind to watch from the rear porthole. The vessel was sinking, surrounded by an increasingly dark murk through which he couldn’t make out a thing. Then there was the whirring noise again, but this time it sounded as if a typhoon were raising havoc behind the ship.

  “What’s happening, Pilot?”

  The girl replaced her bubble-eye goggles, looked back over her shoulder, and grinned. “It’s only the propeller beginning to rotate. Don’t be alarmed. We run under steam power, driven by the motion of the blades. All very simple when you come to understand it.”

  Christóbal’s knuckles turned white as he closed his hands around the too-small armrests. The submersible began to rock, not violently, but just enough for the Spaniard to feel his stomach chum. “By the holy gates of Saint Peter, this machine would turn the greatest sorcerer green with envy!”

  The pilot leaned forward and pushed on a small stick set into the centre of the panel. “Not magic,” she said with a hint of pride in her voice. “Science. Cinnabarian science.”

  The submersible lurched forward, gliding smoothly through the depths of the canal. With a flick of his hand, the pilot turned to the row of amber lights affixed to the prow, the same lights Aladdin had seen when the craft first made its ascent. The propeller whirred and the vessel hummed. Outside, there was still nothing to see except the blackness, despite the burning amber lights.

  “We’ll pass through the last lock in about a minute,” the girl told them. “Keep your seat belts buckled; we may encounter some turbulence as we pass from the dome to the ocean floor.”

  Aladdin could feel his pulse race and his heartbeat quicken with eager anticipation as he contemplated this impossible voyage. Truly this would be his most wondrous adventure of all — skimming the cold and unreachable depths of the sea, where no man — no surface man, he corrected — had ever been before.

  The light dimmed in the overhead compartment. As the black, cloudy waters of the canal suddenly gave way, the underwater craft passed silently through the final lock. The water world around them exploded into midnight-blue brightness. The cabin was bathed in the soft blue hues of the ocean floor. The pilot flicked a switch and an intense white beam shot out from the top of the turtle, replacing the amber lights. The submersible rocked with the new and powerful current, then steadied, as the girl manipulated the controls and set the ship on an even keel. For the second time, she glanced back over her shoulder and looked at her startled passengers. “Welcome to the bottom of the sea.”

  Aladdin leaned forward and stared through the wide window. Tortuous volcanic terrain loomed outside in stunning majesty; fantastic mountains, so high he could only wonder at their size, the same mountains he had seen displayed in the aquarium, were now an incredible reality.

  The submersible glided in gradual descent across a narrow canyon, toward the desert of the seafloor. Frigid seawater pressed against the vessel with a pressure of more than two tons per square inch — enough strain to crush a non-pressurized craft like a seedless grape. Across the eerie canyon they passed, unimpeded.

  “All these mountains were formed from molten lava,” the pilot explained. “It took aeons to cool, then split into rocks opened into chasms through which the seawater circulated. What you’re seeing now is the product of a million years of evolution.”

  The submersible crossed over a broad lifeless ridge and a fathomless crevice. The beam of white light angled down and startled a huge congregation of white crabs massed atop a milky blue fracture. The floor crawlers scurried from the light in all directions.

  The iron ship veered sharply away from the canyon and came into the vast expanse of open sea. The enormity of it was mind-blowing; behind them were the monstrous mountains and the plateau of the Two Plates; in front, an endless vista of blue. Christóbal blinked as a great form appeared at the starboard porthole. The fish was enormous, grey and brown in the turtle’s glowing light, three meters long, with a squat, flattened body. Its dorsal fin was tall and triangular, and fused, beaklike teeth projected from its small mouth. Its eyes seemed to be studying this strange vessel in its domain, staring straight at the Spaniard, as it passed the porthole — too close for comfort.

  “It looks like a sunfish,” said Aladdin.

  “It is,” answered the pilot. “A deep-water variety. Like the lion of a surface jungle, it’s king of its domain and curious about us intruders. But it’s harmless, I promise; it’s diet doesn’t include humans.”

  A school of silver rattails swam in front of the submersible, and as the craft continued its progressive descent, they peered at the unidentified organisms that clung like algae to the faces of the rising boulders. Pale green and brown slimy protozoa draped themselves everywhere. A peculiar fantasia of colourful fauna appeared along the floor; shooting stalks of blood-red, pink, and honey-hued plants, surrounded by a field of emerald grasses. Eel-like gunnels by the hundreds threaded in and out of the carpet of dandelion blossoms and strawberry anemones. Polyps imparted a blurred image around a colony of soft corals, while beady-eyed scallops fed off the hills of plankton, their colourful bodies a layer of living sponge. Translucent sea slugs glided on paddle-like gills around the turtle, catching the beam and glowing like undersea lamps. Multi-tentacled jellyfish hung motionless in the water, roaming on the submarine winds, suspended as if in mid-air. Aladdin caught sight of an octopus as it propelled itself past the turtle by spewing water away from its eight-sucker-covered arms.

  “The sea is like one huge garden for us,” said the pilot as she navigated the submersible just barely above the long-stalked plants and flowers. “We feed and nourish it with organic soils, and it, in turn, feeds and nourishes us.” The white beam caught the gleam from a pair of large opalescent eyes.

  “Watch that one!” cried the excited pilot. “It’s a ratfish — well-camouflaged and easy to miss.”

  The bony scavenger, sharing many characteristics in common with the shark, cruised away from the light on its wing-like pectoral fins.

  “These beds of plant life are all within what we call the Inner Circle,” the yellow-haired pilot continued, as the turtle traversed new and even more exciting wonderland gardens. “For three leagues in every direction our beds are carefully protected. Military submersibles stand a constant vigil, cordoning off this area from any potential threat by the other side. The Inner Circle is Cinnabar’s heart. It’s here that we make our stand.”

  “And what about the Outer Circle?”

  “Less protected, but still under our domain. Some of our mines and quarries can be found on the perimeters.”

  “Can we take a look?” asked Aladdin.

  The pilot hesitated. “We weren’t supposed to travel that far. Security clearance would have to be given, and without it there might be a problem.”

  “What you mean is that it’s dangerous.”

  The pilot’s eyes flashed. “Not dangerous, just off limits without military approval. The Outer Circle is strictly a military zone these days. I don’t
have a pass from Supreme to clear the sector. Besides, it is dreadfully easy to slip beyond the Limits if you’re not careful — and find yourself out in Freezone.” As she spoke they passed over a large bed of shimmering black coral nestled across the lip of a jagged ridge. Beyond the lacy, swaying branches, the ocean floor dropped sharply. The water turned, cobalt-blue, suddenly featureless and empty.

  “We’re at the frontier now,” said the girl. She deftly flipped the red button and shut off the white pod of light, replacing it with the row of subtly glowing ambers. “A cautionary procedure,” she continued. “Amphibs can spot a white beam at two leagues. An amber glow cuts our glare by a factor of four.” She was about to alter the course of the turtle when a dim beeping light appeared way-off in the unseen distance. Aladdin leaned forward in his chair, looking with curiosity, through the convex screen. The pilot narrowed her gaze and stared.

  “What’s going on?” said the adventurer.

  The yellow-haired girl shook her head; she pulled off the constricting bubble goggles, then placed them in her lap. The flashes came in steady sequence — a code. Damn, she thought. Then aloud to Aladdin, “Looks like we’ll be making a journey into the Outer Circle after all. A military submersible saw us cross the perimeter and is calling us to draw up alongside.”

  She manipulated the controls, and the propellers slowed dramatically to a fanlike chop through the water. Muttering something about silent running, she allowed the craft to virtually drift its way into the security zone. “They’re asking us to identify ourselves,” she informed her edgy passengers.

  A stretch of vast undersea landscape threw shadowy images across the bow of the turtle as it penetrated the encroaching darkness of the deeper depths. The red light slowly grew larger before them. Tense moments passed for Aladdin; he tightened his gaze and tried to make out the form of what lay ahead. Slowly it came into focus, similar in design to the turtle, but longer, hovering stationary and silent above a forest of coral-studded reefs like some dormant iron whale, waiting, watchful, as the smaller submersible approached. Once within view, a strong blue-tinted beam shot out from the hull of the military craft, a powerful light that methodically scanned the oncoming turtle from stem to stern. Then once again the red blinker signal light flashed.

  By tapping her finger against a small raised panel on the control board, the girl flashed a message of her own in response to the identity query. “I’m explaining who we are and what we’re doing here,” she told her mute passengers.

  Time lapsed and another query was made.

  “They want to know under whose command we sailed.” She glanced at Aladdin and smiled. “I said we were cleared by Pavilion to make the crossing between zones.”

  “But you told me we weren’t,” said Aladdin.

  The yellow-haired pilot shrugged. “They won’t know that, at least I don’t think they will.”

  “You mean you’re going to lie to them?”

  “Not exactly lie,” she countered, “just bend the truth a bit. Our military thrives on its endless chain of command. If they think we’ve crossed into the Outer Circle on our own, they’ll make a report and hold us down here until the matter’s been bounced around Supreme by every low-level clerk and his adjutant until tomorrow’s whitetime.” She pulled a face at the thought. Her dislike of such military procedure was evident in her pert features. “This way, if they think the Privy Council itself gave permission for the crossing, they won’t dare deny clearance.”

  For a long while there was no response to her message. With the power on the turtle all but shut down, the climate inside the main compartment became insufferable. The air was stale and the temperature, according to the thermometer gauge behind Aladdin, was steadily rising.

  “What’s taking them so long?” growled Christóbal.

  “They’re a thorough lot, these soldier boys,” replied the pilot. “Likely as not they’re checking their lists for cleared vessels. But don’t worry, my, er — turtle — is well-known. There shouldn’t be any problem.”

  “Then you make these voyages often?” asked Aladdin.

  Her dimples deepened as she grinned. “You really do have a great deal to learn, don’t you?” There was a hint of teasing in her voice, a small gleam in her winter-sea-grey eyes as she met his glance evenly. Then it was gone and she became serious again. “My training is in marine life,” she went on matter-of-factly. “A member of the Science Council. As a child I had more than a layman’s inquisitiveness about the ocean, which supports and gives us life. I excelled in my studies, so my father had me tested and enrolled in our Academy for special aqua-training. By vocation I am a botanist, an undersea expert in plant life, but in practice I’ve become more of a trouble-shooter, taking on whatever hard job needs to be done.” She chuckled. “Like yourselves, perhaps a little bit adventurer as well.” She patted the top of the metal console as if it were a pet dog. “I spend a third of my life in this turtle, and we’ve become inseparable. The rest of the time I’m usually found in a wet suit and tank examining the higher level beds of plant life.”

  Aladdin was impressed. “It must be hard on your husband and family,” he said.

  This time she laughed more deeply. “The sea is my only husband,” she answered tersely, sounding like a surface sailor devoted to his ship. “In fact, if I hadn’t been sent for by Damian personally and asked to act as your guide and babysitter, I’d be far away from here, near the top at the blue coral beds at the Academy labouratory.”

  Red light shone bleakly through the pilot window, pulling her from her thoughts. The girl read the message aloud. “They want to know how long we intend to stay out,” she said, frowning.

  “What are you going to tell them?”

  “I should tell them it’s not their affair and to — ” She caught herself, groaning with impatience at the time-consuming regulations of the military. “I’ll tell them we’ll be back at the locks well before darkout,” she said to Aladdin. “And that they needn’t fear for your safety because you’re in good hands.”

  Aladdin grinned boyishly. “I never doubted it.”

  As he waited for the next signal to be sent he began to wonder about the men on board the military submersible, who they were and — not unlike the yellow-haired pilot — what was it that made them want to spend their lives in such solitude.

  Once again the red light blinked. The girl let out a long sigh of relief. “They say we can proceed,” she announced, pleased with the success of her bluff. “But to travel with caution and not, under any circumstance, drift too close to the Green Dome.”

  The air cooled swiftly as they returned to full steam power. The propellers started to grind, kicking up dizzying tracks of white foam. The turtle passed over the military submersible.

  “What is the Green Dome?” inquired Aladdin, as the craft angled upward and rapidly gained sea altitude.

  “An airtight military installation on the edge of the Limits. Our final frontier before the mayhem of Freezone. It’s off limits to civilian submersibles.” She shrugged. “Guess they don’t want us to know what they’re doing down there.”

  So strange, Aladdin thought. This whole world. Filled with secrets and enigmas. A wonderland truly, but a forbidding one that he was sure he’d never come to fully understand.

  New mountains and canyons appeared abruptly. The water was growing brighter again as they left the depths and surged toward the shallows. Schools of blacksmiths snapped into formation on either side of the craft, joining them in their upward trek like an escort. Aladdin and Christóbal felt their ears begin to pop.

  “Our pressure is changing,” said the girl knowingly. “It always does when you ascend from the depths. Swallow a few times and your ears will unclog.”

  The turtle was climbing at an accelerating rate; it skittered across the terraces of a smaller range of volcanic mountains, weaving in and out of the alternately narrow and broad channels like an eel. Ahead, a huge jagged grey stone jutted out. The pilot veered th
e craft sharply port-side and avoided the brooding projection. Then they were in the open again, staring down at another wonderland.

  “Life at a thousand feet is far richer than where we’ve been,” she said. And as if to give emphasis to her words the turtle sailed over a treelike forest of branching red coral, which gleamed as though in sunlight. A stunning array of flowery polyps formed an extensive colony before them, forever building upward upon their own skeletal mounds. Everywhere, a veritable jungle of thick growth seemed to flourish. Again the turtle climbed.

  “Hold on tight,” the girl advised playfully. “We’ll soon be feeling the pulling effects of the funnel.”

  Aladdin tightened his grip on the arms of the passenger seat. The submersible fought against a sudden torrent of pulsing current, swaying, bobbing like a cork, as it zipped unscathed directly through an avenue of powerful rippling jets. Christóbal held his breath, certain the iron craft was about to be blown apart.

  Then the maelstrom ceased as abruptly as it began. The pilot glanced behind her and grinned. “Everything okay?” she asked.

  His belly still churning from the unexpected series of jolts, Aladdin managed to grimace and say, “Still in one piece — I think.”

  The girl laughed spryly. “It’s all right,” she said. “I understand how you must feel. My own reactions were quite similar the first time I passed the current. In fact, you both deserve credit; it takes weeks of rigorous training to acclimate to these sudden pressure alterations. A novice would never attempt it.”