We Shall Sing a Song into the Deep

by Andrew Kelly Stewart

  My throat burns.

  Every breath is tight. Each gasp filled with smoke and oil fume and poison.

  The berthing compartment is full with my fellow brothers, sleeping or trying to sleep, or gasping for breath in their bunks.

  But I’m listening. Ear to the hull. Listening to that lonely strain reaching through the depths.

  One whale is singing. Yes, just one.

  “What are you looking for, Brother Whale?” I whisper. “Your friend? Has he been taken from you? Your family? Were they put somewhere far away? Is there a deep dark even too deep for you?”

  It is a sad song. I hear the bend, the strain. I sing softly with it, with broken voice. I follow its odd, unearthly melody. My voice wants to sing with it, to let it teach me.

  A song of mourning for little Caleb. For all of us.

  I wonder if Lazlo has been injured in this attack. And what of Adolphine?

  It strikes me that now might just be the best time to check on her, when all are silent.

  * * *

  “It was the Liánméng,” Adolphine whispers weakly through the grate. “Would recognize the scream of their torpedoes anywhere. The Chinese have been using old Soviet ordnance since the end of the war. They might have intercepted our transmission.”

  “I thought you said it was a code I was transmitting . . . a secret code.”

  “Even if they couldn’t read the code, they could have triangulated our position. But yes . . . they may have cracked it.”

  “Then Caleb’s death is my fault . . .”

  “Caleb?” She asks. I hear her every breath. Strained, like mine.

  “A Chorister. Like me. Killed during the attack. He was . . . very young,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” Adolphine says. “It wasn’t your fault. It’s my fault.”

  I swallow, take in a slow breath. “I’m beginning to think . . . in trying to survive, we might accidentally kill more people. That sub might be waiting for us at the coordinates I transmitted. Waiting to destroy us . . .”

  “We can’t know, Remy . . .”

  “Why would they be after us in the first place?”

  “They’ve been hunting you for years. This boat is a threat to either side. Plus, they might want what you have.”

  “The Last Judgment?”

  Her silence confirms it.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “There aren’t any nukes left. Not after the wars. At least, none that aren’t sitting in irradiated territories. It would be a commodity—” She stifles a cough. “A way to secure their power. We’ll be sailing into Australian waters soon,” she says thoughtfully. “They might not follow, risk causing an incident with the ceasefire . . .”

  “I heard . . . on the radio, when I sent the message,” I say. “Australia will officially surrender in a few days. They said they weren’t sure about Guam.”

  No word for a moment. “Peace, then.”

  She should sound happier than she does. “Isn’t that a good thing?” I ask. “Isn’t that what the world has been waiting for?”

  “Yes, of course. But peace on equal terms. If Australia gives in, rolls over, then the Liánméng will be the world’s superpower. Communists.” She coughs again. “This air tastes bad.”

  “We’ll have to surface soon,” I say.

  “It won’t be soon enough. This CO2 buildup is getting poisonous,” she says. I think she must be lying down, by the sleepiness in her voice.

  “I think I should get rid of the key,” I say, feeling the hard metal pressing into my chest. “As long as I have it, the caplain could still get his hands on it.”

  “No,” she says sharply. “No, don’t do that.”

  “But even if we survive until we get to the launch location, what if our plan fails?” I ask. “What if we can’t take the engine room?”

  “Then you keep it in order to trade your life for it.”

  Or Lazlo’s.

  “It’s more valuable than you, than me, than anyone else to Marston. Let him launch.”

  “But . . . what about Sydney?” I ask.

  “I’ve almost fixed the missile—it will launch, but I’ve found a way to reprogram the targeting computer. Even if Marston does get the key, the missile will launch into the sea. The middle of nowhere. Where it can’t hurt anyone. No, that key is power, Remy. You keep it. Don’t let anything happen to it until we’re safely off this boat.”

  “Assuming we survive this—that we make it to the Arafura Sea, and the enemy hasn’t tracked us . . .”

  Silence. No comforting word.

  “Do you think the Coalition will be there? That they even heard us?” I ask.

  “They received the message,” Adolphine says. “But they might not make it in time. Might not be any ships in the area. Should be two days until we reach it now. Maybe three, once we’re under way again.”

  “I heard Brother Roberts say we’re just west of New Caledonia.”

  “Okay, that’s two days away from our launch location, based on the Leviathan’s pace.”

  Two.

  Two more days.

  “Remy,” Adolphine says, her tone one of caution now. “If the plan doesn’t work, like you said . . . if we can’t force the boat to surface, I’d like for you to promise me that you’ll try to escape. Regardless.”

  “How . . .”

  “If we’re close enough to the surface, you can ditch . . . escape through the trunk. Did you ever train on that? Most submariners have.”

  “No. But . . . Brother Calvert told me about it.”

  Ditching. Swimming out from the cold depths. That darkness. It puts a chill in me, just thinking about it.

  “But it won’t come to that,” I say.

  “Like you said, we might not be able to take the engine room, or something . . . something might just go wrong. Just . . . survive, okay, Remy? Try.”

  Her tone makes me feel worse, not better.

  “Promise me?” Adolphine presses.

  “Okay . . . I promise. But I’m not going without Lazlo . . .”

  “Look out for yourself, girl!” Adolphine hisses, almost angry. “Would he risk his life for you?”

  “I know he would,” I respond, equally as sharp.

  This silences her for a time. I hear her labored breathing.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I am tired. They aren’t letting me sleep.”

  “I . . . I understand.”

  The boat groans suddenly. The bilge water sloshes past my feet, toward aft.

  “We’re rising,” I whisper, heart lurching.

  “Thank goodness,” Adolphine sighs. “Air.”

  “I should go. I’ll try to come back soon,” I say. “But I think I’m being watched . . .”

  “Then don’t risk it. Follow the plan. You’ll know when it’s time to come for me. When we surface again. When we arrive at the launch location. Two days.”

  “Yes, two days,” I say, my hand reaching for the hard piece of metal still tucked in my bindings, pressed against my chest.

  * * *

  Between my own collection, and Lazlo’s and Caleb’s, I count forty-six teeth in total, spread out on my bunk. Molars and eye teeth and incisors. Some yellowed, some pipped, but most clean, cream-colored. I wonder if anyone else has gathered so many. I sweep them into a darned wool sock, and, by wicklight, when others are bunked down for second sleep, I write my message with lampblack ink on the very last of the sheaves of scrap parchment Caplain Amita gave to me.

  Lazlo,

  You were right. About everything. Caplain will try to launch the Last Judgment soon, but we have a plan to stop it. We will need your help. In two days, be ready.

  I hesitate a moment over the next words. Only a moment.

  I love you,

  R.

  Simple. I can’t give away too much. Almost none of the younger brothers can read, but should an elder get hold of it, at least they won’t know too much of the plan.

  If found, I would certainl
y be in trouble. Marston would know that it was I sending the message.

  Yet, no matter the risk, no matter what Adolphine says, it’s important that Lazlo know something of what is about to happen. She doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t know him.

  I do.

  After the afternoon meal, I find Brother Dormer heading to the fan room. That’s where I corner him, when St. John and the other brothers are nowhere to be seen.

  He’s about to protest, when his eyes widen at the pouch I’m carrying.

  Even more surprised when I place it directly into his large hands.

  He bounces it, hears the rattle.

  In the speechlessness that follows, I lean in.

  “Inside is something I need for you to give to Lazlo. A folded-up bit of parchment. Don’t let anyone else see it. Don’t talk about it with anyone. Just give it to him.”

  Brother Dormer looks positively torn—such a bounty in his palm. He opens the sock and begins to inspect. “I couldn’t . . .”

  He stammers.

  I see images of extra helpings of stew, of sweet cake, should there ever be sweet cake again, swim in his eyes. “What does it say?” he asks. “This message.”

  “It says that I hope he is okay . . . that I miss him,” I say.

  He nods, silently, weighing the teeth in his hand against his morality.

  “Just make sure he gets it, and I’ll give you any teeth I get traded for as long as I live,” I say.

  He cracks half a smile. Less teeth than anyone on board, Brother Dormer. Black gaps broken with yellow and brown borders. “We in’t going to be living that much longer, yeah?”

  His voice carries no humor. If anything, it is fear. Uncertainty, at least. The same uncertainty that presses down upon all of us.

  Perhaps it’s that we survived the last attack when so many thought we wouldn’t.

  Some stroke of real humanity, coursing through all of us.

  “Right,” I say.

  He nods, solemnly, bounces the tied sock full of teeth in his palm again.

  “Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll do it.”

  I nod. Take a breath. “Thank you, Brother.”

  He doesn’t know how to react when I embrace him, wrap my arms around his middle.

  “He doesn’t look . . . good, you know,” he says before I take my leave. “Lazlo. He isn’t well. Looks sick. He’s sick like the others get when they work in the reactor compartment.”

  My heart drops. I try not to show it. I can’t, lest I look too suspicious. “Just give him the message. Please.”

  I can’t breathe, even though the boat has surfaced and vented, and even though Brother Ernesto got the oxygen generator operating again.

  The sensation lasts throughout the whole day—me, singing, trying to take a deep breath, but it’s as though my bindings are made of iron chains, keeping me from taking in a proper breath. My voice comes out weak, strained. If anyone notices, and I’m sure they do, they say nothing to me about it.

  * * *

  It’s not until just after Vespers the next day, when I find the moment to break away, informing Brother Ernesto that I am going to check on the pumps in the battery room.

  As soon as I climb down, I remove my robes, still damp and reeking from the attack the day before. Then I unwrap myself, release my chest from the itchy bindings. Take in a deep breath.

  Cry.

  I let myself, key in my hand.

  My shoulder aches from being jarred when the sub bottomed out. My head throbs where it struck the beam.

  Only one more day.

  One more.

  There might still be time to save Lazlo. The radiation might not have gotten to him yet. It might just work. This dangerous, insane plan.

  And then, Topside. Sunlight. Fresh air.

  “Who would have imagined?” a cold voice calls out. “Here, at our final hour, I find our brave Cantor, so broken . . .”

  I whip around to find that St. John has followed me down into the battery well. I didn’t even hear him.

  He seems about to continue with whatever biting words he had begun when he sees the silver key in my hand.

  Confusion. But then his eyes widen. And that wide gaze falls upon me, upon my chest. I close my robes, but it’s too late.

  He’s seen.

  The light of realization dawning on his face, fallen heavy as a hammer.

  The smirk disappears. In its wake, shock.

  Not now. Not so soon! Not when everything is at stake.

  “St. John,” I say, trying to find the words.

  His confusion bends quickly to a fierce, cold malice.

  “What secrets you’ve been keeping, Remy,” he says.

  He’s closed the distance between us in a few steps, snatching the key from my hand before I can even react.

  “Give it back,” I say, reaching for it.

  “And what is this?” he demands, gripping it tight, dodging my darting hand. “Something you stole from the caplain . . . like the sinner you are . . . like the impure creature that was cast from the garden . . .”

  “Not stolen,” I say, angry now. “Given to me. Entrusted to me. By Caplain Amita.”

  “Lies! Tell me what it is. What does it open?” he demands.

  “It’s . . . it’s the key that will launch the Last Judgment,” I blurt out. It might be the only way to convince him. Or at least, it might surprise him. Take him off his guard. “Caplain Amita entrusted it to me.”

  St. John’s mouth grows slack. He squints down at the key. Confused. Disbelieving.

  “The key? To the Last Judgment? He . . . he gave it to a . . . to a female?” he says, almost hissing. “You bewitched him. You’ve bewitched us all . . .”

  “He knew all along,” I say.

  “Lies.” His eyes positively glow. “How Caplain Marston will reward me . . .”

  “Give it back,” I warn.

  “I don’t think so . . .” he says, beginning to back away. “No, you’ll swim for this, Remy. For this deception.”

  I lunge forward but am met with the hard back of St. John’s hand across the cheek. I’m knocked to the deck, stunned.

  He turns, already climbing up from the well, but I push myself up, lunge for his legs, yanking him down. He topples hard against the bank of batteries. Rolls off, down to the deck. I am atop him before he can spring to his feet. Even though I am slighter than he, he cannot push me away. No matter how much he thrashes, struggles.

  I think of all he has done. What he did to Lazlo.

  I bring my fist across his face.

  And again, with my other fist—more vicious, stronger than I intended. The wet smack. Tears bead hot on my cheeks, down my chin. I can barely see him for the tears. I sling my other fist at him, and then again, each blow stronger than the last. My knuckles sting. They ache. Lazlo’s face swirls in my mind. With it, a white-hot rage. It is this bastard’s fault that Lazlo is back there, dying. It is all St. John’s fault. His nose spouts blood.

  Finally, I stop myself and look down at him, almost as dazed as he. Tears stream down the sides of his face. He tries to roll me from atop him, weakly, one last time, but I pin him down by the shoulders with all my might.

  “You’re wrong. About everything,” I say through gritted teeth. “We’ve been wrong all along!”

  I’m not sure if he even hears me. His eyes are open, but it is as though he’s blinking away a fog. I take the key from his loosened grip.

  Then, with all the strength left in me, I flip him around and, using a length of rope from the tool kit, I bind his hands, his feet. Stuff some of my binding linens into his mouth. Then I drag him to the far corner of the compartment, so that he won’t be seen from the hatch.

  Looking down upon him, at what I’ve done, I gasp. My blood goes cold as the sea.

  There’s no choice now. Nothing to be done. We have to act. A day early. We have to act now.

  * * *

  I go first to my bunk, to gather my small cache of victuals I’
ve been able to stash away. A few bits of dried fish. Sour grey cake. Next, I must journey through the mess hall, past the elders’ wardroom in order to access the lower level of the chapel, where Adolphine is being kept. The mess is abuzz with activity. On the tables, bolts of fresh cloth have been unrolled—they must have been brought on board from the raid on Adolphine’s ship. Or kept in storage. New white robes are being sewn for all. Our final dive is coming soon.

  I nod to those brothers who greet me, keep my eyes down. My bloodied knuckles, just barely hidden beneath the cuff of my robes.

  No one will notice St. John is missing until well after the hour.

  A few minutes. That’s all I need.

  Further down the corridor, I peek through the hatchway into the chapel. Several brothers are congregated around the missile diagnostic panel with Brother Ernesto, just a few feet from Adolphine’s cell.

  There’s no way I’ll be able to release her without being caught.

  I couldn’t have chosen a worse time to set our plan into motion.

  But I also can’t wait.

  I’ll go to engineering first, then. Will go to Lazlo.

  That’s the better plan, anyway, to give him time to figure out how to shut down the engine and hydraulics. Everything must happen fast if this is going to work.

  I’ll come back to release Adolphine when the rest of the plan is in motion.

  * * *

  The auxiliary machine compartment is abandoned. No one sees me wheel open the hatch and pass through the tunnel, crossing a threshold I have never dared before now.

  And so easy.

  The first compartment through the tunnel is the aft machine room—a dim space, filled with the familiar blockish shapes of banks of corroded batteries. Generators. Secondary and backup systems for the boat.

  The maneuvering shack is in the next compartment back, on the other side of the banks of generators. That’s where the reactor and engine functions are controlled. There, Brother Leighton will be on duty. Best to steer clear. Instead, I take the first ladder to the lowest level of engineering and find myself in what must be the main engine room. A great, long machine fills the low, narrow space, its two rows of pistons pumping in a rhythmic, deafening metallic concert. That thrum and rhythm I have known so well, now deafening, so close to the source.

  I turn to find myself standing in front of what must be the reactor containment chamber, for the warning signs adorning the small hatch leading inside. It’s sealed, barred from the outside.