“All systems go,” he muttered with a degree of satisfaction.
Up the ladder he climbed, pushed head and then shoulders up through the hatch, and peered into the nearly empty tunnel. A quick low whistle provided the signal. Moments later, Christóbal and Shara were bounding silently from the recess, and through the shadowed narrow edge of the embankment. They disappeared behind the hulks of flooded transports, then reappeared at the foot of the turtle’s quay, unseen.
“Come on, get aboard!” Aladdin hissed. He stood up and offered a hand to Shara as the Spaniard hoisted the girl up by the waist. Shara grasped the hand ladder and came up as fast as she could. Christóbal was ready to follow when the sound of webbed feet on stone caught his attention. Harpoon gun in hand, a fish man was moving toward the turtle. The Spaniard held his breath. They had not been spotted — not yet anyway. But in a few seconds, the guard would reach the quay, and when he did...
Aladdin had seen him, as well. Humming knife in hand, he hung back atop the deck, hunched over. The Amphib came into view. Startled, the fish man stared up at the hovering silhouette. He moved to raise his weapon and shout the alarm. Aladdin leaped. They grappled briefly on the quay, then toppled into the water. Hampered by the scummy water, his blows lost their thrust. He swerved and elbowed the stunned guard in the belly. The fish man’s weapon fell from his hands. Clammy, webbed hands closed around Aladdin’s neck. The fish man was trying to drag him down deeper, to suffocate him. Kicking and squirming, Aladdin felt something snap from his neck. The crystal prism floated by, torn from its chain. Aladdin tried desperately to reach out and snatch it. The Amphib blocked his hand and squeezed harder. A tide of bubbles rose from Aladdin’s mouth. His lungs were bursting. A finger jabbed into the fish man’s froglike eye. Stung, the Amphib loosened his grip just enough for Aladdin to forearm him in the mouth, squirm away, and swim for the murky surface. His head broke the water; he gasped for a lungful of thin air. Beneath the surface, the fish man grabbed Aladdin by the legs and yanked him down again. The sounds of the world diminished around him, as he struggled for life in the black tunnel’s depths. His humming knife lashed; the Amphib danced in the water, avoiding the blade’s white-hot edge. Then the water above broke, and a harpoon shaft came skimming. The spear caught the fish man in the chest. He toppled backward and slowly sank, leaving a trail of blood which rose to the surface.
Aladdin broke to the top, gasping. Alongside the embankment stood Christóbal, with the enemy’s harpoon gun in his hands. Dripping with slime and scum, Aladdin took Shara’s offered hand and stood weakly at the edge of the quay. Christóbal had saved his life. “But how did you know which one of us to aim at?” he asked between gulps of bad air.
The Spaniard grimaced. “I didn’t, capitán. I shut my eyes and squeezed the trigger. It was fifty-fifty I would spear you or the fish man.” As Aladdin blinked, realizing his luck at the blind shot, Christóbal allowed himself a schoolboy grin. “It was lucky for us both, eh compadre?” He tossed the unloaded harpoon gun into the water and turned to climb the ladder. Aladdin rubbed his neck, feeling the tightness of the fish man’s fingers. “The crystal!” he cried, recalling now how the Amphib had yanked the chain from his neck. “I’ve lost the crystal!”
“Capitán, it doesn’t matter...” The Spaniard tried to draw him away. Aladdin rebuffed him. “No,” he said shaking his head. “I can’t leave — not without Fatima. I owe her that at least — ”
“It would take hours to even try to find it,” said Christóbal. “Forget the prism, my friend. There was nothing we could do for the princess anyway.”
Sadly, Aladdin nodded. His friend in adventure was right, of course. Fatima was doomed. Did it really matter if she slept away her life at the bottom of the tunnel or within the Sultan’s palace? Still, the thought of her lost forever at the bottom of the sea was a painful reminder of how badly he had failed in his promise.
“Just give me a minute to search,” he pleaded. “Let me see if I can find her — ”
“By diving back into the water, compadre? It is useless. We have our own lives to think about now. Santa Maria, it will take a blessed miracle just to save ourselves.”
“Wait!” called Shara. She pointed into the water where, bobbing gently beside the quay, the floating prism had lodged between two loose stones.
Aladdin’s eyes widened; he kneeled to scoop up the prism, then drew his hand back. Something. was wrong. Something was different. The crystal was no longer glittering. Instead, there were cracks and veins in the crystal, discolorations he couldn’t explain. Again he reached out to take it, but this time it was Shara who stopped him. “Wait,” said the girl excitedly. She bit her thumbnail tensely, as the prism’s cracks began to deepen.
“Salt!” she exclaimed. “Salt was the answer!” Aladdin regarded her with a strange and baffled look. “What are you talking about?”
Shara clasped her hands in a prayerful gesture, then began to laugh through the tears that were freely falling down her face. “Don’t you see?” she cried. “Look at it. It’s disintegrating! Decaying before our eyes. Crumbling while the salt eats away at it.” She took Aladdin’s hand and held it tightly. “We were so blind, so stupidly blind. Don’t you remember what my father said before he died?”
“Something about the water,” recalled Aladdin. “The sea.”
“Yes — seawater! My father played on you one of the oldest tricks in Cinnabar — but I was too preoccupied and baffled to realise it. He used a compound of salt crystal as the base for the prism. He encased Fatima in a prison constructed of underwater properties common in Cinnabar, a compound you could never hope to crack. But beneath the saltwater, it spoils rapidly.”
Aladdin’s jaw hung open as he listened to the yellow-haired scientist and gaped at the dissolving crystal. Its elements were breaking down before his eyes, precisely as Shara said they would. The invulnerable prison that had entrapped Fatima was no more than a concoction of common salt crystals. A hundred wizards had toiled in vain to dislodge its mysterious properties. But the arts of magic and sorcery had never been the solution to the riddle. Aladdin shook his head in grudging admiration for his former enemy, Shaman. How truly cunning the emissary from Cinnabar had been! While he and the prince and Christóbal had wracked their brains for the answer, all that needed to be done was to immerse the prism in the sea, and let nature’s elements take over. Fatima might have been freed long ago.
The crystal was dissolving ever more rapidly. “Hurry,” said Shara. “We’d better get Fatima out of the water before she drowns.”
Aladdin cupped his hands and carefully placed the demolishing prism on the embankment. Then he stepped back, flanked by his companions. To their astonishment, the princess began to grow larger by the minute, until she had returned, sleeping, to her normal size.
Dripping wet, her hands upon a pillow beneath her cheek, Fatima slowly stirred as Aladdin called her name. Yawning, the sleeping princess slowly opened her eyes and looked up at the contorted features of those around her. She blinked, and scratched her head in confusion, as if trying to remember something lost in the fog of her mind.
“Where... Where am I?”
“My lady!” gasped Aladdin. “Are you all right? Did you — ”
She gazed dizzily at the adventurer, as awareness crept back inside her dormant brain. “Aladdin... is that you?”
Aladdin grinned from ear to ear. “It is, my lady.” He bowed deeply and graciously, and the stunned Fatima could only stare in wonder at the strangeness of his wet suit. “But why are you dressed like that? Is this a masquerade party? And who are your friends?” She managed to sit up, with Shara’s helping hand.
“A long tale, my lady,” replied the adventurer. “A very long tale. But to recount it now would be impossible. Suffice it to say that you are safe and sound again. Answers will come later.”
“Capitán, we must get her into the turtle.”
Fatima looked around in confusion.
“Don’
t you remember anything?” he asked gently.
Fatima yawned again, and shook her head. It was difficult for her to breath the thin air. “I — I had this awful dream, Aladdin. I can’t recall it, but it was terrible. I was in a — in a prison. Screaming, but no one could hear me or see me — ”
Aladdin slid his arm around her and coaxed her up. “The nightmare is over, my lady. You are in good hands, I assure you. Now come. Hurry. We cannot linger in this place.”
For the first time, the princess seemed to be aware of what was around her. The stench of the dead and the locks singed her nostrils; the shadows frightened her. “Aladdin, where are we? Where is the prince? What’s happened? What’s happened to Basra?”
“We have come far from home, Princess,” grunted Christóbal. The Spaniard helped Aladdin guide her to the turtle’s ladder. “I can’t seem to remember anything,” Fatima muttered. Shara smiled at the distraught princess and lent a hand, while Aladdin indicated for her to climb up to the open hatch.
“Home is only a heartbeat away,” he said jovially, trying to underplay the danger they were all in, but constantly keeping an eye out for the patrolling guards.
Fatima was too fatigued and confused by her ordeal to protest. Docile, a little bit frightened, she took hold of the ladder and began the ascent. But no sooner had she reached the hatch than she saw the looming figures of the Amphibs along the opposite embankment. The sight of the webbed water-breathers made her scream — loud enough to attract attention.
Aladdin pounded a fist against the hull. “Damn!”
Shouts everywhere. A siren blared. A harpoon gun sent a spear clanking against and denting the metallic hull of the turtle.
“Get inside!” yelled Aladdin.
More harpoons slashed through the air. Christóbal hurled his humming knife. The white-hot, heat-seeking blade caught a fish man in the throat as he kneeled to fire his harpoon gun. He toppled over the bank and into the water, screaming as he burst into flame.
Aladdin helped Shara to the top, then ducked the flying missiles while Christóbal eased his enormous bulk inside. Down the hatch went Aladdin. He screwed the cover back into place and locked it, while the frantic cries of the enemy grew louder outside.
Shara raced through the darkness to the pilot’s compartment where she flipped the proper switches. With a dull whoosh! the water-clogged generator began to sputter and hum. The rotary blades groaned and spat. As lights flickered on, fresh air from the turtle’s limited emergency supply began to circulate, and Aladdin gulped it in. Amphibs were crawling along the hull, now, hammering away at the hatch, trying to pry it open. The adventurer peered through the aft porthole. Fish men were running wildly through the tunnel and — worse — an Amphib patrol craft was skirting the canal surface in their direction. A squad of fully-armed enemy swimmers, with torches ablaze, bore down fast.
He spun and hurried to the pilot’s compartment. “Get us the hell out of here, Shara!”
“I’m trying!” called the scientist as she played with the controls. “We’ve taken on too much water.”
“Empty the bilges!”
“I am! I am!”
A dozen harpoon guns shot into the propeller blades, bending them. Overhead, the brass pipes creaked and slowly turned. The lights stopped flickering and came on fully. Fish men were streaming topside over the deck. The Amphib vessel was almost on top of them, coming bow-first and ready to ram.
“Dive!” hollered Aladdin. “Take us down!”
The kick of the thrusters sent Aladdin and Fatima reeling. The submersible lurched forward, then descended. Fish men surrounded them. Fatima, horrified, clung to Christóbal and looked on as the turtle sank below the surface of the canal and headed for the mouth of the tunnel and the open sea. But the swimmers were relentless. Fatima fainted in the Spaniard’s arms at the sight of the great goggling eyes and froglike faces of the fish men who swam by the pilot’s screen.
Shara threw on the pod. At such close range, the intense white light temporarily blinded the swimmers, blocking their path. The turtle’s rotary blades spun madly, leaving great waves in their wake. The submersible, still surrounded, went into full overdrive, and banked and skidded through the canal like a diving predator. Left and right, harpoons buzzed by, some missing, others hitting the hull of the vessel.
“We’ve got only limited power,” said Shara, turning to Aladdin and looking distraught.
“How much?”
“Enough steam generated to maybe get us to the sea and perhaps as far as the Inner Circle perimeters.”
“Just get us away from Cinnabar before the last flood hits,” said the adventurer. “When the bubble bursts, there’s going to be a tidal wave across the Two Plates.”
The scientist didn’t have to be told. She knew full well the crushing effect of the sea; knew that all of the western half of the undersea continent was going to rock with the force of a shuddering volcano.
They pushed up through the tunnel’s mouth, banking sharply away from the floating graveyard of destroyed fighting ships, and toward the higher altitude. Aladdin stared out of the starboard porthole. The blurry image of Cinnabar loomed behind them. He could actually see the air-pocket umbrella disintegrate and feel the swells of surging ocean as it pressed down over the crumbling air dome, which surrounded the city. Cinnabar was steadily diminishing, but the turtle was still too close; should the city collapse now, the submersible would be crushed by shock waves.
“Can’t you get us any more speed?”
“We’re running at top speed already. Throwing the throttle any more might jam the generator.”
“Well, if you can’t get us another few knots quickly, it won’t matter very much. We’ll be compressed like a squeezed grape.”
Biting her lip, Shara looked away from the screen. Cinnabar was reeling. The air bubble hung lopsidedly over the city, contracting, expanding, while riddled with punctures at every pressure point. She wiped the perspiration from her hands, then clutching it tightly, yanked the throttle back as far as it would go. The generator screeched. The rods overhead were spinning and spraying steam. The turtle pitched ahead into the darkness like a drunken man weaving his way down a winding street. Red warning lights blinked on the control panel. The turtle was straining with every ounce of power she could muster.
The Cinnabar bubble burst Shara screamed. A rollicking, thunderous wave of raw sea energy came sweeping down over the Two Plates, obliterating the city, smashing apart the mountain peaks, causing violent repercussions across the bottom of the ocean. The shock wave lifted the turtle and hurled it. A maelstrom enveloped the small craft and sent it careening. Aladdin and Shara were thrown clear across the cabin. Christóbal, holding Fatima in a bear hug, found himself jockeying from one side to the other. Tremors shook the vessel from stem to stern. Shara made it to her knees and threw the throttle into silent running position. The groaning turtle somersaulted and rolled with the punches. A jet stream of ocean pummelled them again, tossing them about like an air balloon in a thunderstorm. The cabin lights dimmed; the motors ceased. Aladdin felt the awful sea pressure building around him, squeezing the fragile craft. He put his hands to his ears and gasped for air. Shara did the same. Christóbal smothered the princess in his massive frame and lay prostrate on the deck. A pipe overhead burst and a torrent of saltwater poured inside. The turtle went into a topsy-turvy dive toward the seabed. A fitting grave, Aladdin mused, as he looked on defencelessly — a fitting grave for the last survivors of Cinnabar.
Chapter Thirty-Two
He wasn’t dead. The aching of his bones and throbbing in his head assured him of that. It seemed a great effort to just open his eyes. As they came into focus, he scrutinised his surroundings. He was still inside the pilot’s compartment of the damaged turtle. But it seemed different. Fresh, cool air was circulating, which felt good against his sweaty flesh. The cabin was brightly lit. The deck was still damp, but no longer flooded. He could hear the hum of the generator, the quiet hiss of
rotors spinning at quarter power.
He managed to sit up. Beside him was Shara, sprawled at his side, breathing heavily. The jolt of the shock wave had caused her to lose consciousness, also. She groaned, put a hand to her splitting head and, like Aladdin, seemed to be struggling to regain her senses. When her eyes opened, the first thing she saw was the concerned face of the adventurer peering down at her.
“Aladdin,” she whispered. Her look betrayed the surprise she felt at being alive. “We — we didn’t die — ”
“Couldn’t have. My body hurts too much.” He extended a hand and helped her to sit up, as well. It was plain that the sea had returned to tranquillity. The last of the tremors was over. In the light of the pod, he saw a school of catfish swimming by. With dumb curiosity, a few of the fish stared inside as they passed.
“What happened?” Shara asked feebly.
Aladdin shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “The last thing I can remember was being thrown around the cabin like a rag, and pressure bursting my ears, splitting my brain.”
“Me, too.” Shara forced an impotent smile, and sucked in the clean air. “But we should have been crushed. At best, floating listlessly without any power — ”
“You’re the scientist, not me. You explain what’s going on.”
Shara shrugged her shoulders and flexed her hands as she stared at the control panel. Everything was in working order. “I guess the skin of this old turtle must be a lot more resilient than I realised.”
Rubbing his chin, Aladdin said, “Perhaps. But where did the fresh-air supply come from? And what happened to the seawater that was flooding us?” He glanced up at the overhead rods and pipes. The pipe that burst was still broken, but inexplicably, the conduit no longer discharged rivers of cold ocean. The rotors were spinning harmoniously. The propeller blades were chopping the sea smoothly. The submersible was functioning perfectly.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 106
