FREE DIVE
FREE DIVE
BOOK ONE
OF THE
NAUTILUS LEGENDS
EMMA SHELFORD
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
FREE DIVE
All rights reserved.
Kinglet Books
Victoria BC, Canada
Copyright © 2019 Emma Shelford
Cover design by Christien Gilston
ISBN (epub): 978-1999101916
ISBN (mobi): 978-1999101923
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
www.emmashelford.com
First edition: June 2019
DEDICATION
For all the scientists who inspired and supported me.
MATHIAS
Mathias Nielsen throttled down the engine of his motorboat. Thick fog muffled the noise and made it echo as if in a small, gray room. The shore loomed darkly ahead like a leviathan from the deep. A long dock bisected gently lapping waves. It was a rickety thing, half-eaten away by barnacles, salt, and waves, but sturdy enough to support a shadowy figure standing at the end, scarcely visible in the swirling mists. A foghorn sounded, low and melancholy, in the distance.
Matt’s fingers twitched on the steering wheel in nervous anticipation. This was it, the first step in his plan. He had high hopes, even though it was a long shot. But, like his grandfather always said, fish or cut bait. His girlfriend Bianca deserved more than he could provide on his meager deckhand salary. There wasn’t a lot he could do in Sayward, not with his limited qualifications. Turns out crewing private sailboats in the Pacific for a decade didn’t offer many transferable skills.
When the motorboat was close enough, Matt pulled up to the dock with practiced ease and threw the painter over the side of the dock. The shadowy figure, now resolved as a pot-bellied man with thinning gray hair, secured it. Matt jumped onto the wooden platform.
“Larry Eastman?” he said.
“The one and only.” Larry thrust out his hand in friendly greeting. Matt grasped it and shook firmly. “Tom told me you wanted this.” Larry nudged a Styrofoam container on the dock beside him. “And were willing to pay good money for it. How could I say no?”
Tom Banks, a mutual acquaintance, had a love of beer that was only exceeded by his love of gossip. It hadn’t taken many drinks before Tom had told Matt all about his buddy Larry’s bizarre bycatch and the shenanigans that followed. Matt, whose mind was never far from money-making schemes these days, had immediately seen the possibilities.
“Glad you felt that way,” Matt said. He gestured to the container. “Can I see it?”
“Be my guest. Just don’t touch it unless you’re ready for a ride. Tried it on me and my buddies a few times. It was wild. People will line up for that.” Larry bent down and lifted a corner of the lid. Matt leaned over and peered inside. The container shuddered with movement, and he jumped back. Larry laughed.
“Yep, it’s a frisky one.”
“What kind of fish is it? Any ideas?”
“Hell if I know. Some messed-up salmon, I guess. But not really. Nothing I’ve seen before, and I’ve fished these parts for thirty years. But if you wanted to catch another one, go to the north end of Harwood Island and use this as bait.” Larry held open a plastic shopping bag so Matt could look inside. “I dropped a bit into the bucket and the fish went berserk. Loved it.”
Matt looked at the bait inside the bag with incredulity. If it worked, though, he wouldn’t say a word against it. Having only one fish was a major hole in his plan. If it died, he would have nothing. With more, not only would he have a safeguard, but he could ramp up production. A smile crept across his severe features before he could suppress it.
“Got big plans, hey?” Larry patted him familiarly on the shoulder. “If I were a younger man, I’d think about joining you. But for the right amount of cash, I’m just as happy leaving the mystery to you. You’re a young guy, fill of piss and vinegar. You’ll figure it out.” Larry grinned. “Or figure out how to make some coin off it.”
“Here’s the money, as agreed,” Matt said. He passed Larry a thick envelope. It hurt to let go of the cash, but it took money to make money. If this gamble worked, it would pay off big time. He thought of the bait and frowned, then he slowly pulled out his wallet and thumbed a few bills from it. He passed them to Larry. “Plus a little extra. So you don’t feel the need to tell anyone else about the bait.”
Larry winked at him.
“Say no more. My lips are sealed.”
The container shuddered with movement when Matt picked it up, but he wedged it firmly under a seat. As he roared off, he pulled out his phone to text his cousin Pete.
I got the fish. Buy the equipment. We’re on.
CORRIE
Corrie Duval flicked her dark brown ponytail over her shoulder to get it out of the way. She’d have to remember to tuck it under her lab coat to avoid it contaminating her work. She looked at her immaculate lab bench, every beaker, pen, and pipette in its place. Her sampling equipment lay in neat rows on the bench. It was tidy, but it still irked Corrie that the equipment marred the smooth expanse of counter. She would have to pack it in her bag soon to clean up.
“What else do I need for sampling tomorrow?” she asked Daniel, her lab mate. He was in the last year of his doctorate, so she turned to him as the font of all knowledge. When he didn’t look angrily busy, that is.
“Did you book the department truck?” he said without unfolding his lanky frame from the microscope. “Unless you have your own car. Truck’s easier, though.”
“Yep, got it.”
“Carboys, refractometer, thermometer?”
“Thermometer! Thanks, Daniel.” Corrie walked a step then stopped.
“Top shelf,” Daniel said with a tone of patient resignation.
“Thanks.”
Corrie spotted the case of thermometers. She reached up, but even on tiptoes, it was too far for her to grab.
“I hate being short,” she grumbled. A nearby stepstool provided her with a boost, and she laid a thermometer on the lab bench beside two large plastic jugs for holding water. She checked her watch then jumped.
“Damn it! I’m late for my meeting with Jonathan.”
“He’s always late,” said Daniel. “Don’t stress.”
True to Daniel’s word, Dr. Jonathan Chang’s office door was closed when Corrie skidded to a halt before it and knocking yielded no result. A minute later, her supervisor strolled down the hall, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
“Ah, Corrie. Good.” He unlocked the door. “Come on in.”
Corrie sat gingerly on the edge of a wooden chair while Jonathan shuffled papers around on his desk between them. Her fingers itched to sort the mess on his desk, and she sat on them to avoid the impulse.
“So,” he said finally. “Have you progressed on thoughts for your project? We had a few ideas you wanted to explore last time. What looks like the most promising, given your reading of the scientific literature?”
“I’d like to focus on the metabolomics of bacteria in white plumose anemones. There has been some research into the anti-cancer compounds that they produce. I’d like to study both that, and whether environmental conditions affect metabolite production. That could really help if someone decides to produce the compounds in a lab.”
Jonathan nodded slowly and s
teepled his hands.
“It’s an interesting area of study, and certainly, not well-researched. But I sense some hesitancy. Is there something else you want to look into?”
Corrie tried not to grimace. She knew what she would study if it were completely up to her. It wouldn’t fly, though. Not in a million years. But there were other interesting things to study that were still academically acceptable.
“What I would really like to do,” said Corrie. “Is to examine the bacterial phylogenetic tree using metagenomics, and maybe find a new species. Do different strains produce varied compounds in different conditions? I’m sure they could teach us much more about bacterial evolution.”
Jonathan chuckled.
“Everyone wants to discover a new species. You have a name picked out already, don’t you? Let me caution you against making that your sole goal—new species tend to be found by serendipity, not searching. But I like it, you’re on the right track. Start sampling.”
By the time Corrie left Jonathan’s office, she was an odd mixture of deflated and elated. Finally, after six months of her masters’ program, she had a working project idea. She hoped her first solo sampling excursion tomorrow was successful. She had science to do.
ZEBALLOS
Zeballos Artino kicked the sandals off his dusky bare feet and threw himself onto the sand. The ocean glittered under a spring sun that had peered out today after two weeks of incessant rain. The undersides of the driftwood logs that piled along the shore were still damp, but the top layer of sand was dry enough to sit on.
His friend, Jules Elliot, sat with a log at his back and his arms draped over relaxed bent legs. He brushed shaggy brown hair out of his eyes and reached into a paper bag to twist the cap off a bottle hidden inside.
“It’s a bit cliché, isn’t it? Liquor in a brown bag?” Zeb watched Jules through pale-gray eyes, half-closed against the bright sun.
“Cliché for a reason, my friend. Keeps the cops off our backs.” Jules held up the bag. “To your dad. May he rest in peace. Or, failing that, may he party on with all the interesting people down below.”
Jules took a swig, grimaced, and passed the bottle to Zeb. He took it and drank down a mouthful before he could think too hard about why they were drinking. He managed not to cough, but it was a close thing. Jules had bought cheap tequila, barely a step up from drain cleaner. Zeb took another swig and passed the bottle back. Together, they gazed at the rolling waves for a few silent moments.
“Remember that summer when your dad caught us buying beer on our shore leave?” Jules smiled with a faraway look in his eyes. “Nine years ago, maybe. We were, what, seventeen? He ripped into us outside the liquor store. The problem is, you’re too easy to spot.”
Zeb laughed and ruffled his own white-blond hair, cut short over his deeply tanned forehead.
“And then we found the case of beer in my bunk,” Zeb said. “He must have bought it after he sent us back to the boat. That was when we learned to keep legit when everyone is watching. Twisted lessons from George Artino. That beer tasted so sweet.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Zeb stared out to a passing sailboat, lost in memories, while Jules flicked pebbles over a nearby log of driftwood.
“I’m sorry about your old man,” Jules said at last. He threw a larger stone in a high arc. “He was a tough bugger, rode us hard, but he was good to me. Gave me a job every summer for years, no questions.”
“Thanks.” Zeb didn’t know what to say in reply, but Jules didn’t seem to need any more acknowledgement. Zeb was still working through what he felt about his father’s recent death. The suddenness of the accident had shocked Zeb and left him filled with unresolved anger toward his father and guilt at the anger. The man was dead—his father, for all his faults, had still raised him. There was sadness, regret, and questions. So many questions. In darker moments, Zeb wondered whether the old bastard had died deliberately to avoid answering them.
“Did he leave you any money? Or did your sister get it all?” Jules grinned. “I wouldn’t put it past Krista to wrangle that somehow.”
Zeb smiled then sobered.
“He left me the boat. And half the house. I’ll get money once the lawyer deals with the sale. Should be in my account at the end of the month. More money than I’ve ever had in there. My bank will think I organized a jewel heist.”
“That much?”
“Nah, the house wasn’t worth much. More than I’ve ever had, though.” Zeb put his hands behind his head and lounged lower in the sand.
“I knew we should have been investment bankers,” said Jules. “Then your new cash wouldn’t be a shock.”
“Yeah, you should have thought of that before you skipped all our high school math classes.” Zeb kicked sand toward Jules’ foot.
“If they hadn’t been so boring, I might have stuck around.” Jules shrugged. “I know how to count. That’s good enough. What are you doing with the money?”
“Krista wants me to buy a condo, put it back into real estate. That’s what she’s doing.”
“She’s so responsible,” Jules said, rolling his eyes. “What a smart girl.”
“I want to find another troba,” Zeb blurted out. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, hadn’t even known he was thinking about the unformed desire of his heart. The stories his late mother had woven into his bedtime dreams had solidified in the wake of his unanswered questions.
“A troba? Like what your dad made us throw back when we were sixteen?” Jules looked intrigued. “You’re still sure that was a troba from your mum’s stories and not a deformed dolphin?”
“I want to find out.” A half-formed idea started to brew in Zeb’s mind.
“Cool. How?” Jules sat up and snapped his fingers. “Your dad’s boat. You could take it out and…” He paused.
“Yeah. And.” Zeb stood up and dusted off the back of his shorts. Sand sprinkled down. “I need to know where to look. I need to find someone who can help me.”
CORRIE
Corrie shoved the key in the ignition of the university rental truck. It turned over with a chuffing groan and settled into a loud roar. She checked her rearview mirror—her plastic jugs were still there, good—and backed the big vehicle slowly out of the parking spot. A car honked at her and she braked suddenly.
“You try driving this beast,” she muttered then waved off the other car.
The beach was a solid twenty minutes’ drive away, far too far to walk. Even if the lab were beside the beach, she would have driven. When the jugs were full, Corrie could barely lift them.
“Drive to the pier,” her lab mate Daniel had said without taking his eyes from the microscope. “Park wherever, they’re not going to tow you that quickly. Go down to where the boats tie up, and fill your jugs there. Try to avoid the surface layer, hey? Oil from the boats floats.”
Corrie pulled beside the curb near the full parking lot. She was pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to park there, but her official-looking truck with the university logo would deter nitpickers. Hopefully. She swung out of the truck and picked up her bag, equipment and supplies in one hand and a jug in the other.
“Now what?” she said to herself. “Balance the other one on my head?”
She grasped the big container around the middle and shuffled to the pier. Halfway there, her thermometer fell out of the bag and onto grass.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she said then noticed a family walking by with two small children who stared curiously at her. “Shoot, shoot, shoot.”
Nothing was broken, so she tucked it carefully into the bag and carried on her trundling way. Happy shouts floated through the warm breeze. The beach was busy today, with locals enjoying the sun and sand, and the pier even more so. Crab fishermen watched their pots, children ran up and down, and couples strolled and gazed at the view of rugged islands, blue ocean, and bluer sky. Corrie squeezed by a huge cluster of tourists speaking loudly in another language.
“Excuse me,” she said, but no one heard. She pushed through with her bulky plastic jugs and they eventually shuffled aside.
Corrie hitched the central jug higher in her arms. Sweat dampened her face and trickled down her chest. The sun beat down on her.
“I’m starting to seriously regret my life choices,” she said out loud. No one took any notice. “I used to rent jet skis to tourists. It wasn’t so bad. At least it was cool in the water. No one told me science was so much grunt work.”
That wasn’t true, but Corrie was in a grumbling mood. Her father used to make her do plenty of mundane tasks in his chemistry workshop in their backyard shed. He would experiment, often making something burst into flame for her entertainment, and she would help with excitement and awe. Some of her best memories were made in that shed, despite the repetitive tasks he assigned her. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t complain now.
Except, no one was there to listen. She waddled down the ramp to a floating jetty on the water. Halfway down, she almost lost her balance when a seagull spread its wings and soared away from its perch on a nearby piling. Its yowling cry made her jump again.
Finally, she reached the jetty and dumped her equipment gratefully on the wooden slats. Her equipment bag was full of sampling apparatus, and she pulled out a refractometer to measure salinity. A plastic component fell off in her hands.
“Hopefully that’s not important,” she muttered then held the little device up closer. Instructions from Daniel ran through her head. “Oh, wait, that is important. Damn it. Why does Mara get all the good stuff?” Mara, another student in the lab, had taken the best gear for her fieldwork. She was due back tomorrow, which lessened Corrie’s annoyance slightly.
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