We Shall Sing a Song into the Deep

by Andrew Kelly Stewart

  I know only one thing for certain. He entrusted the key with me, not Marston. He entrusted me with it because he did not trust Marston. Caplain Amita told me as much. That Marston would not hear the call from God when the time eventually came.

  The caplain didn’t destroy the key, though. He could have done that. Could have thrown it into the sea, to ensure the missile would never be fired.

  No, he truly meant, if the time came for the missile to be fired, it should be my choice. But why mine?

  * * *

  “Where are you from?” I ask, looking up once more through the grate, into the darkened cell above.

  I shouldn’t be here. It was risky enough, slipping away once. It’s one thing if Ephraim noticed—he would not go to Caplain Marston. But St. John certainly would.

  Still, it is too important.

  The prisoner stirs. Moves sluggishly.

  “Ah, the little bird returns to my window,” Adolphine says. Maybe an attempt at humor, but a weak one. Weak, strained like her voice. I slip through the gap in the grating a slender slice of fish cake.

  When she realizes what it is, she takes it from my fingers quickly. I hear her chew, savor it.

  Then I snake the water tube up.

  “Thank you, child,” she says after taking a long drink, relieved, some of her energy renewed.

  “I’ve never heard someone talk like you. Sometimes, when new kids join us, they have all kinds of different ways of speaking. Different shades of skin. Do they speak that way on Guam?” I ask.

  “I am not from Guam. I was born on an island in the Caribbean called Martinique. The Caribbean . . .”

  “I have seen charts for those islands,” I say. “Caplain Amita showed them to me.”

  “After the war, my family was evacuated to Panama due to radiation from the Cuba strike. And then my parents joined the American armed services—we heard that there was food and opportunity for those who served. Both my father and my mother were soon engaged in the Pacific fleet, which was based in Guam, and they brought me along.”

  “You have brothers and sisters?”

  “Three . . .” she answers. “Three brothers.”

  “Are they alive?”

  “One is. He’s stationed at Base Darwin, in Australia. One was killed in the battle of Oceania, just last year. The other died when I was very young. Typhus. Child,” she says, after a pause. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “They let women serve . . . they let women serve with men on your boat?”

  “They do. There was a time, before the war, when they did not. But now, every person must serve. In order to survive.”

  A woman.

  I still cannot believe it.

  I cannot remember ever speaking with a woman.

  “My name is Remy,” I tell her. “It isn’t the name I was born with. All those brought aboard, we were given different names. Sacred names.”

  It feels like a confession of my sins, divulging all of this. As though she is playing the role of confessor. The role Caplain Amita often played for me.

  Adolphine doesn’t respond for a time; I hear her shift. I think she is lying down, curled, for there is no room to lie flat in those tight quarters. She presses her face against the grate, like last time. I see one eye in this dimness, looking down at me through the mass of exposed wiring, big, honey-colored, and red-veined.

  “Remy, I think you will get in trouble if you are found speaking with me,” she says, sober, tired.

  “I need for you to tell me about the war,” I say. “And what it’s like Topside. What year is it?”

  Adolphine takes in a deep breath. “The year is 1986. There have been two wars, really . . .” she says, after a moment, her voice, high, but also thick. “The first came in 1963. Not many records survived the first war, but we’ve been able to piece together most of the chain of events, especially thanks to Calvert. Your captain, Amita, was a chaplain in the US Navy, and he, along with an executive officer named Crockett, led a group of about thirty other crewmembers in a mutiny against the captain of this submarine. They felt that war against the Reds . . .”

  “Reds?”

  “The Russians . . . the enemy of the United States—of America. These two countries were almost at war before, you see . . . it was called the Cuban Missile Crisis. Everyone had missiles pointed at each other on the land as well. They thought the Reds were in league with the Devil. That this was the great war, good versus evil. Their mutiny was quick, bloody. Crockett was injured, eventually died from his wounds, but not before he launched all the nukes—except one, which malfunctioned. Calvert was one of those original members.”

  The elders.

  “They forced the rest to join or die—many stayed. Those who didn’t were thrown into the sea.” She pauses—footsteps crossing above. The grease wick quavers in my hand. When the guard passes, Adolphine continues: “Seems like Crockett’s plan was to catch the Reds by surprise. It worked. He hit a number of key air bases and other essential Russian military infrastructure.

  “America then had no choice but to follow through with the attack once it began, and for that reason, in the first wave of the war, Russia and the rest of the USSR was hit hardest. America was mostly spared, except for a few cities and bases, while other countries in Europe were in closer range to the SSRs. They soaked up most of the retaliation.

  “It was a long war. Two years, it raged on. The Reds weren’t down and out—found a way to get a squad of their bombers through. Took out our defenses. Launched the last of their missiles. That’s when America got hit good. Starvation followed. Civil unrest. Different factions battled each other, in America, but also in Russia, in Europe. That was pretty much the end of the first war.

  “Worst was the radiation poisoning. Most of the people who died in the war died from that.”

  That I know about. The blue poison.

  I see in my mind the Demi, young Bartholomew. A skeleton.

  I think of Lazlo.

  It doesn’t take long for the poison to kill you. To eat you up.

  “How many died?” I ask.

  Silence again. For a moment.

  “No one really knows—estimates are somewhere between one and one and half billion . . . about half the population of the world, some think. Places here in the South Pacific didn’t get the worst of it. Japan, the Hawaiian Islands were hit because they were strategic bases . . . but the wind patterns didn’t deposit the fallout this far south—and over the years, it dissipated. That’s why places like Australia, New Zealand, Malaysia, Papua New Guinea, and Guam survived. That’s why I survived.”

  “What about the second war?”

  “After the fall of the American military command, Australia became the center for the fight against the Reds. Though the Russians were worse off than the US, there were still skirmishes between their remaining forces and US forces in the Pacific. The Chinese, meanwhile, had managed to keep out of most of the war until then—they forced the Russians to hand over their remaining tanks and ordnance, and then used them to aggressively absorb countries like Vietnam, Korea, Thailand, and Laos. All under the flag of communism.”

  “What is a communism?”

  “A communist is someone with a much different perspective than ours. A system where the people should be the ones who have the power, but, in reality, it’s the person in charge who calls the shots. So, in so many ways, it became the same old fight just with different players.”

  “But you said the other day that peace was at hand,” I say.

  She pauses. “It is. The Coalition lost the Philippine islands just weeks ago—there was a key base there—to the Eastern Asian Alliance Navy—they call themselves the Liánméng. It won’t be long until Australia stands down. Guam will probably do the same.” An edge of bitterness. “But the war will be done, finally. Everyone is tired of it.”

  I hear the exhaustion. The defeat.

  “Are your parents alive?” I ask.

  This seems to
take her off guard. “No. They both died of cancer, a few years ago. They were sent out on rescue missions—trying to move people out of the contaminated zones in Japan. They were exposed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Poison. Always the poison that kills.

  I say, “You mentioned that my parents were probably from Guam—stationed in Guam, like yours. Do . . . do you think you knew my parents? What happened to them?”

  “I don’t know, Remy,” she says, voice bent with sympathy. “I don’t think so. If you were taken, then I’m afraid that they may have been killed. Like the others.”

  I swallow. Wipe my eyes. “I don’t know if I believe you and your people would have spared the brothers on our boat. After all we have done.”

  “If you had come quietly . . . surrendered . . . then we would have taken you in. I know that for certain. It was Brother Calvert—he made us understand that many of you . . .” She treads carefully here. “. . . have been led to believe lies. For years and years.”

  “They’re after us now,” I say, sniffling. “The rest of your people. Hunting us. Suppose I understand that.”

  “They most likely are,” she says. “Depending on how fast this boat is moving, what its bearing is.”

  “They’ll catch us eventually,” I say.

  “I’ve heard you singing, haven’t I, Remy?” Adolphine speaks to me now the way I would sometimes speak with the younger Choristers—the ones recovering from their cutting, doubled over in pain. “You sing the highest melody.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a . . . beautiful voice. It lifts my spirit.”

  “That’s what Caplain Amita always said.” I must keep wiping my eyes. “Said that I would be essential. After we launch the missile, then we will dive. We will dive and we will sing into the darkness, and then the years of tribulation will be done. And we will ascend to heaven—”

  I say these words, but they are empty to my own ears. Empty of meaning, or faith.

  Adolphine doesn’t respond at first, but I feel a question coming.

  “How . . . how have you managed it?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “Keeping yourself hidden for so long,” she says. Her eyes are wide above me. Gleaming by the dim wicklight.

  “I . . . I don’t . . .”

  “The captain must have helped, didn’t he? Someone would have had to. I know what they have done to the little girls they came across. Tossed them into the sea. But they saved you.”

  I can’t breathe. I almost douse the flame in the bilge for my shaking hands.

  She knows. I’m found out! What will she do?

  “I won’t tell anyone, Remy,” Adolphine says. Earnestness in her words. “I promise you.”

  “How . . . how did you know?” I ask.

  “Your voice is different than the rest. Not necessarily higher, but cleaner. Clearer. I can hear it,” Adolphine says.

  “Cap—Caplain Amita,” I say. “He helped me keep it secret. Said he thought . . . he thought that I was meant to serve a purpose. That’s why he spared me.”

  Adolphine has pressed her fingers through the grating. Only the pads emerge. It’s as though she’s trying to comfort me. To place a hand on my shoulder. The way Lazlo would.

  This, a Topsider. A woman. Meant to be corrupt. But not. No, here she is so very, very human.

  “I can’t tell anyone the truth about you,” I say. “The truth about Topside. Lazlo was sent aft for even telling me.”

  “Who is Lazlo?”

  “He’s . . .” I say, trying to find the word for it. But friend isn’t right. Nor is the term brother. “Someone close to me. He was on deck, during the raid. He saw everything that happened to you and your crew. Told me about it. Now he’s being punished. Probably will die. Everyone who gets sent to the reactor room dies eventually. The poison.”

  “I’m . . . sorry, Remy,” Adolphine says.

  “You should fix the missile,” I say, wiping my nose. “Marston will starve you. He’s cruel. Fix the missile so you can eat.”

  “I cannot do that, child. After I am done, I am dead. Doubt I’d be able to escape. I am weak, and even if I got off this boat, I would be stranded. Even if the Coalition is searching for the Leviathan, who knows how far away the closest ship is? No matter what, I die. Most important, I cannot let them launch. I know where the missile is targeted . . .”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Calvert told us. Australia. Sydney. Millions live there. It’s the capital of the southern territories of the Coalition. The last major seat of Western power. There would be no chance for peace after that. It would spark a whole new war . . .”

  “It won’t launch,” I say, clearing my throat. “I have the missile key. Caplain Amita gave it to me. I won’t . . . I won’t launch it.”

  6

  JUBILATE DEO, OMNIS TERRA; servite Domino in laetitia. Introite in conspectu ejus in exsultatione.

  Serve the Lord with gladness. Come before his presence with singing.

  I try. I sing, but some ember inside me has dimmed. There is no gladness left in me. I’m not sure if there ever was.

  It is None. The ninth hour. The hour when man is most tempted. When Adam and Eve were expelled from the garden.

  A watchful hour.

  And I feel the weight of so many eyes upon me now. Ex-Oh Goines. Marston. St. John. Especially St. John. He’s noted my comings and goings. I’m almost positive he woke up when I last slipped out of my bunk. But if he does suspect something, he hasn’t yet informed the caplain. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for, but I know I have to be careful.

  The reading today is again from Jonah.

  “And the sailors said to one another, ‘Let’s cast lots to discover who is responsible for the calamity that has befallen our ship.’ And it was Jonah who was responsible.”

  Caplain Amita called me his Moses.

  But I feel more like Jonah, swallowed up by the Leviathan.

  These missile tubes, like the ribs of the beast.

  And, like Jonah, I pray now that I might be released, that I be spat onto the shore, alive.

  I sing. The hymn, “Eternal Blue Light, My Salvation.” One of Caplain Amita’s.

  But I have made a mistake. I realize it now.

  I have lost the melody, have been singing half a step lower than the rest of the Choristers and brothers. A sour harmony.

  St. John, standing just beside me before the dais, glances my direction. A smirk on his face. I have made his day.

  This is not my first mistake this hour. I came in late during the versicle.

  Caplain Marston has noticed. Standing before us. He raises an eyebrow at me, even though I’ve corrected. Have slid back up into the proper mode. Have found the motif.

  Even so, he calls me up to the control room to meet with him after the hour has ended.

  There, I find the caplain, along with Ex-Oh and Brother Wasserman, with his stoop, his sallow face lopsided by a massive, purple growth blooming to the left of his nose. Marston is leaning over the large map table, several charts spread out upon it. The topmost one details what seems to be a sea between two large, green-hued landmasses. It is labeled the “Arafura Sea.” Not a sea I have heard of.

  Amidst that expanse of pale blue sea, speckled with drops of green—isles and archipelagoes—a pencil-marked course has been plotted.

  “You have seemed tired of late, Cantor,” the caplain says, glancing up. He dismisses the others with a wave of his hand, leaving the control room vacant except for Brothers Vicanza and Artemis, who are manning the helm, and Brother Alder, the Watch, at the master control panel.

  “Are you feeling well?” Marston asks, stepping around the table, standing between me and the map.

  “I see I cannot hide it,” I say, mouth very dry. “I have had unrest of late. Sleep has . . . not found me easily.”

  “A troubled soul?” he asks. His eyes pore over me, as though scouring my face for secrets. My many secrets.


  He crosses his arms, leans against the table.

  No. If he had found out about my conversations with Adolphine, or about the key, or that I am a girl, then he would not delay in punishing me.

  He tilts his head. Even standing a foot from him, it feels as though he is looming over me. Light eyes, flashing bright as ever with conviction. With energy and fervor. “Perhaps it is the fate of young Lazlo that still troubles you?”

  Here, I know I should not tell the truth.

  “My heart does ache for Lazlo,” I say. My words come out tight, as a croak. “I pray for his soul, as you have allowed. But I know there is nothing to be done. He is where he belongs.” I say these words as resolutely, as confidently as I can manage. I choke back the anger that has been building in me for days. I can’t let on. “I believe I’m just . . . aware of how much responsibility rests upon my shoulders.”

  This, Caplain Marston seems to believe as genuine. Closes his eyes. Nods heavily. Places a bespotted hand on my shoulder. I fight the urge to cringe, to pull away. “Yes, I see. Of course you would feel it. You should go see Brother Dumas and tell him I have given you permission to take a sleeping nostrum. We need you rested and focused in these last days.”

  “Very kind, Caplain,” I say, bowing my head. “I’m sure that will help me. I won’t . . . I won’t make any more mistakes.”

  “Good,” he says. “I know you won’t. Go on, now.”

  When he turns to round the desk once more, I see the chart fully—the course plotted in pencil. A location marked with a dot, an X, and scribbled numbers. -9.48, 136.60. Longitude and latitude. Caplain Amita taught me how navigation is done. That these numbers point to an exact location on the globe.

  -9.48, 136.60.

  I burn them into my mind.

  Remember.

  “Cantor . . .” the caplain asks.

  I’ve allowed my gaze to linger too long. He’s caught me.

  “I . . . I always liked looking at maps. Caplain Amita had them in his office. He would show them to me. I always thought they were quite . . . beautiful.”