by Mike Ashley
“What is your plan for us?” Ludovico demanded.
“Treat you as guests, of course,” Walker replied, “for a while. Our workers are now inside the volcano on this island, preparing to make the first transmutation. You, gentlemen, will be privileged to watch. Until then, however, you will be held in the brig, for everyone’s safety. Take them away.”
Guards took us to a tiny cell in another part of the ship and locked us in. The captain sat quietly and I sat frightened, but Ludovico paced as best he could in the small quarters. “Why could not Father have left well enough alone?” he raged. “We would not be in here if he had never made that discovery.”
“Neither would we be here if you had been able to keep quiet about it,” the captain rejoined. “Since the ability to achieve a great discovery at the exact moment the world is ready for is a matter of chance, not genius, I can forgive Father.”
“So I am to blame for this? I, who nearly lost my life aboard that damned iron barrel of yours?”
“I have lost more because of you and your reckless tongue than you will ever know, Ludovico!”
For a moment I feared the two men would come to blows, but after a few tense and hot moments, both slumped down. “What’s done is done,” the captain conceded. “We must direct our energies toward finding a solution.”
“There is only one solution, Cesaré, you know that,” Ludovico replied. “Let them conduct the experiment and blow themselves into oblivion.”
“And what of us?” I asked, but neither had an answer.
None of us slept that night. Shortly after dawn, Walker and two of his crew appeared to open the doors of the cell and free us – at least as free as one can be with pistols directed at their hearts. We were led to a lifeboat, lowered and rowed to the edge of Rakata Island and then marched up to an entrance to what looked like a small tunnel in the side of the volcanic cone. Walker lit a lantern and entered first, and the guards beckoned us to follow.
After squeezing inside, we descended over an incline of roughly two metres and landed on a natural trail, which we followed downward through heat and closeness that increased with each step. Eventually we came to a gigantic natural chamber inside the cone, on the floor of which was a solid, white hot, steaming line – a crack in the surface of the earth, through which could be seen the magma flow! Saldana and a gathering of workmen were already down there, as close to the crack as they dared get, sweltering, some even staggering, in heavy protective outfits that in some measure resembled diving suits. Surrounding them were hundreds of bars of pure iron. “They are attempting too much, far too much,” the captain uttered. “Neither Father nor I ever attempted more than a few ounces at a time, and that offered danger enough.”
Marching past us now came the other members of the One World League, each one holding a small box, which they lowered down to the workmen. “What are the boxes holding?” I asked.
“It can only be an element called cerilium,1 Louis,” Captain Nemo replied. “Its molecular structure is highly unstable. It is the trigger for the transmutation.”
Walker gave the signal to begin, and Saldana instructed the workmen to edge the iron bars closer to the crack in the earth, which was steaming like a locomotive engine, making the air almost too sultry to breathe. The members of the League looked on intently as the bars and began to soften and glow red, then white. Then in an instant, the iron melted completely, creating a pool of molten metal. With a gasp, I watched as the pool actually caught fire!
Now the heat inside the volcano was almost too intense to bear. “It is time!”, Walker shouted. “Throw on the cerilium!” Beside me, Captain Nemo tensed. Under his breath, he said: “The first concussion will likely result in total chaos and that will be our chance to flee and escape . . . providing we survive the blast.”
We did not have long to wait. One workman opened his box and threw the contents into the pool of molten iron, and what happened next I can only describe in terms of abject horror. An explosion shook the very walls of the cone and a pillar of fire – for that is the only way to describe it – rose up from the floor and consumed two of the workmen, reducing them to bones in seconds, and within another second reduced the bones to ashes. The remaining workmen leapt back in terror, as did Walker and the members of the League. “Now!” Captain Nemo shouted, and the three of us turned and ran back up the trail to the tunnel opening. The path was slick and ashy, making it hard to climb, though I was spurred on by the memory of the workmen’s annihilation. Ludovico, the strongest of us, had the least problem, and once we had reached the steep incline leading out, was able to push the captain and I upwards to safety, after which the two of us hauled him through the opening from the outside.
Salt air never smelled so welcoming!
As we raced for the boat to take us off the island, a cloud of steam rose from the volcano. We leapt into the boat and Ludovico took the oars, rowing like a madman until we reached the Argonaut. Behind us, a white plume of smoke – this one shaped like a toadstool – emerged from the volcano. “They will not be emerging,” Captain Nemo said, climbing on to the deck of the Argonaut.
Ludovico went into the submersible first and I followed next. No sooner had I set foot on the bottom when I heard the crack of a gunshot and saw Captain Nemo plummet through the hatch and crash to the floor below! “Captain!” I cried, attempting to sit him up, and discovering with horror the spreading bloodstain on the back of his jacket.
“The damnable cowards!” Ludovico cried, climbing back on deck, while I attended to the wounded captain. I heard another gun retort, followed by a mighty curse from Ludovico. He sprang back down into the Argonaut bleeding from his shoulder.
“There is still a man on board that damned ship!” he cried, fingering his wound, which was but superficial. Then looking at his brother, he asked: “How is he?”
“I’m afraid . . .” was all I could get out.
Captain Nemo opened his eyes and looked at Ludovico. “A brother shall die for a brother,” he uttered. “It is the law of the Nautilus.” With his eyes still on Ludovico, he smiled wanly . . . then he breathed his last. Cesaré Divenchy, scion of the house of da Vinci, alias Captain Nemo, lay dead.
Ludovico appeared at first to be in a state of shock. Then he rose with a look of determination so fierce that it made my skin turn cold. “How do you operate this bucket?” he demanded.
I led him to the control instruments in the captain’s cabin and attempted to explain their operation, as best I could. At a glance he absorbed their workings, and immediately took charge of Argonaut, pushing it into full speed. “Hold on to something, boy,” was all he said, and, sensing what he was about to do, secured myself as best I could.
Seconds later we rammed into the hull of the schooner, and despite my best efforts, the impact knocked me to the floor. Ludovico reversed direction enough to turn the submersible around, traveled back to where he had started, and then charged and rammed the ship again. It took three punishing impacts before the schooner of the One World League had a hole in its hull large enough to send it, and whoever remained on board, to the bottom.
When he had finished, he ordered me to take over control of the Argonaut. “Where do you wish to go?” I asked, tentatively.
“First, back to the Nautilus,” he said. “Then you may drop me off on land anywhere, and do with this ship as you wish.”
“I believe the captain would have wanted you to take it.”
“The sea holds no interest for me,” Ludovico Divenchy said. “I look upwards into the clouds. It is there I wish to be, and now it appears that I must.”
“You must?”
“What if some of these wretches survived? What if this blasted League of theirs still exists somewhere else in the world? What if they once more attempt to use my Father’s discovery? The world may never be ready for this knowledge. Cesaré was correct in blaming me. I am responsible for this business, so it is now up to me to end it. I must patrol the earth, looking for signs of i
ts misuse. I may have to visit every volcano on the planet to make certain this does not happen again. But for now I must rest. Let me know when we have arrived at the Nautilus.” He strode into the closest cabin – the one that had been occupied by Willett – and I did not see nor hear from him again for nearly two days.
When we had reached the site of the Nautilus, I alerted him, and he emerged from the cabin, asking, “Where is he?” I had placed the body of Captain Nemo in his study, and told Ludovico so. “Get us beside the Nautilus, so close that I can step from one deck to the other,” he instructed, as he went into the study. Once I had so positioned the Argonaut, Ludovico Divenchy reappeared carrying the body of his brother in his arms. He refused any help in lifting the body through the hatch of the Argonaut and down into the Nautilus, where he lay Captain Nemo down to rest with their father. He then opened the reservoirs’ stopcocks and sent the Nautilus back to the realm for which it was designed for the last time, a uniquely fitting sarcophagus for its creator. From there we traveled to the coast of New Guinea, where Ludovico Divenchy muttered a terse goodbye to me and strode out on to land without so much as a backwards glance. I never saw him again.
The Argonaut was now mine, and even though I grew more experienced in its operation, I began to long for life once more on land. I decided to retire the submersible permanently near the Samoan Islands, and after a brief stay there, took a conventional ship back to Scotland (a journey paid for through the discovery of Captain Nemo’s treasury). Years later I returned to Samoa, and it is from here that I write this history.
The world at large continues to endure chaos, strife and war, but remains innocently ignorant of the devilish plot of “President” Walker and his One World League to “solve” the problems. Some years after this adventure, however, the world most definitely heard about the isle of Rakata, which in 1883 was virtually wiped from the map through the violent explosion of its primary volcano, Krakatau. Whether this globe-affecting event was an act of nature, a whim of the Almighty, or the effect of the remaining quantities of cerilium finally reaching that pool of molten iron, I have no clue. All I can state with certainty is that not long after Krakatau’s eruption, the world began to hear reports of an amazing man flying about in a “cloud clipper.” No one knew the true identity of the mysterious genius who called himself Captain Robur . . . no one except me.
I conclude this testimony in the hopes that, for the sake of mankind, this self-professed “conqueror” will be successful in his mission. It is unlikely I will ever know for certain for even now, as I pen these words in my beloved paradise, surrounded by loved ones, I can feel the night coming. I am spending my remaining time in prayer, not for my own soul, but for that of the blustery genius who was the brother of the most remarkable man I have ever known.
Here he lies where he longed to be,
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
The sailor is indeed home, though the hunter will maintain his vigil over the hills. I pray the hunt be successful.
DOCTOR BULL’S INTERVENTION
Keith Brooke
After the creative energy needed to produce 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Verne rested on his mental laurels for a while. He was no less productive. He completed his sequel to From the Earth to the Moon with Around the Moon (1869), plus a short novel inspired by his voyage on the Great Eastern, Une ville flottante (A Floating City) (1870). His next long novel was the uninspiring Aventures de trois Russes et de trois Anglais dans L’Afrique australe (1871/2) – a work almost as tedious as its title. It is sometimes known as Measuring a Meridian, because that’s what the six men are trying laboriously to do. He also began work on a long novel set in the polar regions of northern Canada, Le Pays des fourrures (1872/3), The Fur Country.
In the midst of all this, Verne’s father died and it was almost as if Verne needed some light relief. He wrote a short humorous story, “Une Fantaisie due Docteur Ox” (1872), usually translated as “Dr Ox’s Experiment”. Quiquendone is a small sleepy town where nothing happens and the town council do their best not to rock the boat. Under the pretext of installing street lighting, Dr Ox intends to give the town a jolt in the arm by feeding them pure oxygen and then sit back and enjoy the consequences. The story, all too often dismissed as minor, was a satire on the dull and complacent, those who would hold back the advance of science. Once in a while Verne believed they should be taught a lesson. In the following, Keith Brooke takes a leaf from Verne’s book.
1
How it is pointless to seek, even on the best maps, for the small development of Sunny Meadows
Sunny Meadows? Huh! Don’t give me that Sunny Meadows crap. It’s a dump. Don’t waste your time looking for it: it really isn’t worth it. You could call up a map on your Visionscreen and eyeball it for Sunny Meadows but you’re wasting the effort. It’s just urban-suburban sprawl. Get a satellite view and it’s all the same: Sunny Meadows has nothing to distinguish it from anywhere else. It just is, although nobody really cares whether it is or it isn’t. GPS would find it: this one, and all the other Sunny Meadows in existence – look it up on Routemaster and you’ll find something like eight entries, in the Thames Gateway, the M4 corridor, Coventry, Hemel Hempstead . . .
If you don’t believe me, just go there (nobody goes there, it isn’t worth it). Get in your car and drive to good old Sunny Meadows. You probably won’t realize when you get there, because Sunny Meadows looks much like its neighbouring suburbs, all drive-through fast food churn-outs and identikit houses set back from the roads. You can park in the Wal-Mart car park. Nobody will mind. Nobody much goes there any more, since NutriMent UK came to Sunny Meadows and started piping orders right into the home so you never even need to get off your fat backside if you don’t want to.
Sunny Meadows wasn’t always Sunny Meadows. In fact it wasn’t Sunny Meadows until fairly recently, but urban sprawl has a habit of sprawling, bringing places like this into existence. Before it was Sunny Meadows it was what they called a “grey field development zone”: shells of old factories and warehouses, acres of dead tarmac and concrete, a few scraggy patches of bramble and nettle growing where the polluted soil permitted. But now it is transformed: this is a modern place to live and, on the whole, the people are contented here.
Much of modern life here, as elsewhere, is automated: the dreams of early sci-fi made flesh, or rather, plastic and metal. No need to go out, for everything you need comes to you who wait; those still carrying the mixed blessing of working for a living usually do so from home, while the majority live off inherited investments in automated factories and virtual trading cooperatives and other abstruse financial constructs. Such an economy is precarious, built as it is from many layers of carefully-stacked cards, but as yet no-one has found the right card to pull so that – ker-plunk! – down it all falls.
So what to do in this world of inherited leisure? Some might choose to study the arts, or refine their skills of contemplation, dwelling on those philosophical puzzles which still beggar our understanding. Others might devote themselves to physical improvement or to travelling to see the many wonders of the modern world (for not everywhere is as unappealing as Sunny Meadows).
Most, however, watch the vee.
They sit on sofas, with a NutriMent outlet to hand, three, four or even five metre Visionscreens in front of them. They sit and they watch. The Bud and Suze channel is a popular one: 24/7 you can watch the ever-controversial couple, joking and laughing in their any-place-anywhere apartment, the two of them watching the vee and bitching with their friends in buddy windows. You can bitch to your own friends in buddy windows, while you watch Bud and Suze doing exactly the same thing on the vee. Everything’s voice-activated, so you just have to bellow for Trish or Asif or Jeremy and if they’re on-vee you’ll pop up for each other in buddy windows and bitch. You can yell at Bud and Suze, too, along with forty million other yellers, and your input will be calibrated and entered into the s
cript machines guiding the daily lives of your two idols.
It’s not all Bud and Suze, of course – they may be there 24/7 but you can hardly be with them for all of that; you have to spread yourself around. You can flick the vee to another channel with whatever voice-prompt you’ve pre-set. Flick, and you’re on one of the games shows: On which family quiz did Street Throb winner Davey Bruce win three days in a row before getting his last question wrong and losing everything? Flick, you’re on one of the wet channels, anatomy blown up and in your face on the four-metre, so much it takes a few seconds to work out which bit you’re looking at. Flick, animals, all fur and teeth; must be from somewhere far, far away.
Sunny Meadows? Come on . . . why come to Sunny Meadows when you can live this life anywhere you choose? So nobody ever comes to Sunny Meadows.
Apart from Dr Bull, of course, and his bright young assistant Gideon Eden. They came to Sunny Meadows a couple of months ago, but nobody really noticed, at first.
2
In which Maddy and Nicholas consult about the affairs of the town, and Maddy adjusts her position ever so slightly
Maddy Wheatfen sat on her sofa, legs tucked up underneath her. It wasn’t as well-placed as the armchair, but the armchair was just a little too snug a fit these days. She’d been telling herself for weeks that she’d have to rearrange things in here: move the furniture around so she’d have the perfect view from the sofa; or, at the very least, tilt the vee more in this direction. She would take care of it one day. There was no hurry.
“Screw him!” she yelled at her three-metre screen. Then, realizing that her words were open to misinterpretation, and conscientious as ever about her input into the script machines, she corrected herself: “I mean tell him where to get off, Suze. He’s a no good, cheap jerk.”
There. That would show him. She felt good now. “Hey, Nicholas,” she called, and a buddy window popped up onscreen. Her good friend, Nicholas van Pommel beamed out at her.
