by Arthur Slade
“Twenty-eight days and four hours, not that I’m counting. I hope you like reading books and looking at fish.”
“I do like reading, though not every hour of every day. Captain Monturiol said that there were soldiers on your ship. Was it a military vessel?”
She narrowed her eyes and Modo suddenly felt like an insect under a magnifying glass. “You may be a photographic artist, but you have a detective’s mind.” She let her gaze linger on him for a moment before continuing. “Like you, I was just a passenger. My father is back in the United States. He’s an attaché to the French ambassador. I was returning home to visit my mother.”
“I assume you sailed out of New York. Wasn’t there a more direct route?”
“We were traveling to Iceland for diplomatic reasons. And smoked cod, of course.”
“And what happened?”
“The Ictíneo rammed our ship below the waterline. The Vendetta, which was two thousand eight hundred tonnes, went down in under five minutes. To my knowledge, I am the only surviving passenger.”
Modo noted that she knew the exact tonnage. “It must have been a frightening experience.”
“Frightening?” She huffed. “No. I reacted to the situation as it unfolded. I was with two seamen in a lifeboat. It had been damaged, though, and it sank. The men were taken by sharks, and the Ictíneo rescued me because I was a woman. At least, that’s what our dear Captain Monturiol said. She thought she’d found another downtrodden comrade, but quickly discovered I had teeth. I’ve been trapped in this metal coffin ever since.”
Colette had delivered her story without a trace of emotion. Modo, trained to detect emotion in the slightest twitch, saw nothing. “A horrible, horrible experience,” he ventured.
She shrugged, and Modo couldn’t help feeling respect for this woman. In the briefing, Mr. Socrates had said she was eighteen years old. The tension in her face made her look older.
“Do you know how they attack the ships?” Modo asked.
“Well, I believe they have some sort of pincers to cut anchor chains. And there must be a battering ram at the bow of the ship that is used to puncture hulls. Who knows how many vessels lie at the bottom of the ocean because of this madwoman. Sacre bleu!”
“It does sound very unsportsmanlike, not to mention illegal, to sink ships without warning.”
“Indeed. Bloody rude, as you English might say.”
Modo grinned. “I must admit that I’m stunned by all of this.” He touched a gold statue of Poseidon used as a bookend. “The likely cost of this vessel astounds me. I have so many questions. Where was it constructed?”
“You may have better luck with the captain than me. I’ve learned little. The men and women who run this ship—the comrades—are tight-lipped. Tell me a bit more about you and your employment, Mr. Walkin?”
“It’s Warkin,” Modo corrected, wondering if she wasn’t trying to catch him out. “I have worked as a photographic artist for three years now, with my wife as my assistant. I’ve captured scenery from the Arctic to Egypt to England. We want to preserve glorious man-made monuments and nature in stereoscopic images.”
“It sounds très excitant.”
He smiled, then remembered his mask. She couldn’t see his reaction. “It’s rarely as exciting as today was. Imagine the pictures I could take through the portholes.” He paused. “I do hope my dear wife is well.”
Modo heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Cerdà stopping at the bottom step. “You are both invited to dine with Captain Monturiol at nineteen hundred hours, Icaria time.”
“That is very kind,” Modo said. “What time is it now?”
“Sixteen hundred hours,” Cerdà said, pointing at a wall in which a clock had been embedded. Its hands were two lightning bolts and there were twenty-four hours on its face. Modo had heard of this style—it was called an Italian clock. “There are clocks in every room; they were my idea,” Cerdà said. “I will have a comrade bring you. Until then, please relax.”
After Cerdà had gone back up the stairs, Modo asked cheekily, “Is Icaria time a real measure of time, or is it imaginary?”
“Ha! Icaria may be imaginary, but the time here is real. It’s Greenwich mean time minus one hour.” Colette grinned and Modo noticed that her dark hair was carefully combed and knotted up on her head. Even though she had been here for weeks, she kept up her appearance. If Monturiol suspected Colette of being a spy, Modo wondered what her fate would be.
“I must say I find it very curious to be talking to a masked man,” she said.
“I—I have a rash.”
“I hope it’s not too forward, Mr. Warkin, to mention that you have soulful eyes. I suppose a photographer needs them.”
“Uh … I suppose so.”
She laughed, her eyes trained on his. “Well, I shall retire and prepare for le bon repas. One does not get to dine with the captain every day. Remember, a good Icarian is never late.”
Modo watched her wind her way up the stairs until the last of her long skirts disappeared.
16
Under Observation
After spending some time in the library, Modo climbed the stairs to the bridge. Several men and women in blue uniforms stood at various stations. One man was looking through a brass-plated viewing device that had been lowered from the ceiling. A periscope, of course. One woman was at the helm, and another read numbers aloud from a dial. He was fairly certain she was speaking Spanish—it was a language of which he had learned only a few words.
Modo searched his brain for the little he knew about submarine ships. There would have to be some sort of ballast tanks to control buoyancy. He assumed some of those levers emptied or filled the tanks. Mr. Socrates would want to know. And, at some point, such knowledge might be necessary to his own survival.
Modo climbed to the top of the stairs and went down the passage. The door to his room was open a crack. He was certain he had left it closed. He slowly pushed it open. His tiny cabin was empty, the cot still unmade, the drawer on the dresser pulled out an inch. Someone had been through his room, clearly not caring if he knew it. He closed the door, patted under the mattress, and found the wireless telegraph. At least that was safe.
In a code Mr. Socrates would recognize he typed: Agent Modo stop aboard submarine ship stop. There was no way for him to receive a message. And this would only work if the Ictíneo happened to be passing by one of the transatlantic cables. What chance was there of that? He typed the message again, and a third time, then slid the wallet under the mattress.
Mr. Socrates would be pleased to learn of the Ictíneo’s existence. An underwater ship such as this would make Britain the master of the world’s oceans. The Germans, the French, and the Russians wouldn’t dare cross swords with an empire that could sink ships with such stealth.
The Ictíneo thrummed and sat perfectly balanced in the water. Modo’s only complaint was the humid heat, probably caused by the buildup of human expelled air.
Feeling stifled and tired, Modo decided that a short nap would restore his energy—maybe then he’d be able to shift his face. Since there was no lock on the door, he turned his back to it and removed his mask.
He heard a gasp. With his heart racing, he slipped the mask on again. The door was closed, the room empty. Perhaps there was a pinhole and someone was watching him through it. He searched the walls from floor to ceiling, then climbed onto his cot, looking in every corner, shielding his eyes from the light. Nothing.
When he turned back to the door, it was ajar. A spy! Modo shoved the door closed. It was clear someone had seen his face and been shocked, but who? He removed the small oval mirror from the wall. Nothing unusual there. No pinholes. Had the spy been peeking in the door?
He felt betrayed. In his few minutes with Captain Monturiol he had realized that she was ruthless with her enemies but had an honorable side. Spying didn’t seem to be her mode of operation.
At the moment, nothing could be done. He would have to dine with
her soon, and that meant uncovering his mouth to eat. His muscles were tired, and though he no longer felt the chill, he was still weak from his ordeal in the frigid water. Maybe if he concentrated on just his face and hump, he could at least make himself more presentable. And so he worked on his muscles and bones, making his nose rise, smoothing his jaw into the noble line of the Knight, forcing his hump to recede. When he was done, he pulled on a jacket. It was too large, which was good since it hid his imperfections. His reflection in the mirror was respectable enough.
The lightning-bolt hands of his clock pointed to five minutes before 1900 hours. He went out into the hall. One of Monturiol’s men was already waiting.
“Hello, sir,” Modo said. On second glance he saw that the man was in fact a square-jawed, broad-shouldered woman with a grim countenance. She shook her head; either she didn’t want to talk or she couldn’t speak English. “¡Hola!” he said, hoping for a response. She motioned for him to follow her down the corridor toward the bow. They took the catwalk across the Ictíneo’s bridge, where the comrades were still at their stations. He was led down a corridor with a dozen or so cabins on either side. If each held one sailor, Modo calculated, there would be at least twenty on the ship. Unless, of course, there were more cabins on the lower deck. Or more men per cabin.
They stopped in front of a large door. The woman knocked, then slid the door aside to reveal a small dining room. Colette was already seated at a shining maple table, set with the finest cutlery, golden goblets at each of the six settings. Having guided Modo to his seat across from Colette, the comrade left.
“Ah, you do clean up well, Monsieur Warkin,” Colette said. “And you aren’t hiding behind your mask.”
“My affliction was temporary.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. I feel much better talking with you now that I can see your face.”
The door slid open and Captain Monturiol walked in. She sat at the far end of the table. “Greetings. First, I feel I must clarify something. I do not want you to think this is the head of the table. I would have placed a round table in here, but that was not feasible with the dimensions of a submarine ship.”
Once more the door slid open. Cerdà and a young comrade with short bristly hair entered the room.
“Ah, here you are,” the captain said. “Comrade Cerdà and Comrade Garay will be joining us tonight. I dine with different members of the crew each evening. No one person is more important than the next.”
The men took their places. Comrade Garay nodded to Modo and his eyes lingered on Colette. She gave Garay a wide smile, which, to Modo’s surprise, left him a little envious. Remember, he told himself, you’re a married man! Besides, why would he feel jealous? Octavia most certainly had his heart.
A side door leading to the galley opened and a female comrade brought in two silver-plate dishes and set them down on the table. “Gràcies,” the captain said. It sounded Spanish, but Modo knew gracias was the proper word. What language was she speaking? Monturiol lifted the lids. “Please, Mr. Warkin, as our newest guest, you may serve yourself first.”
Modo squinted at the steaming meat: some sort of dark organ, cut into six pieces, all exactly the same size. He served himself a section, along with what looked like squid and an unfamiliar red and black leafy vegetable.
“May I ask what this meat is?” he said.
Captain Monturiol laughed. “An Icarian specialty. Please try it. I am curious to hear your thoughts.”
Modo found that it melted in his mouth, leaving a pleasant briny aftertaste. “It’s wonderful!”
“It is seal liver. The other is squid and the salad is dulse seaweed harvested off the coast of Ireland.”
“Seaweed?” Modo poked it with a fork.
“Yes, everything is from our mother the ocean. She is rich beyond all imagination. While the capitalists fight over the carcass of the earth, we live on the ocean’s bounties.”
“Well, it’s certainly a fine meal,” Modo said, sipping his wine.
“That is aged fish wine,” Cerdà explained. Modo didn’t mind the taste, but had no desire to learn how fish wine was made.
“I’m not accusing anyone,” Captain Monturiol said, looking at Modo and Colette, “but some of our stores have gone missing. Fruit, in this case. Rescued from a sunken ship. Aboard the Ictíneo, we are to share all food, all riches, equally.”
“I didn’t take it,” Modo said.
“Nor I,” added Colette.
“I am only making you aware of the theft. It could very well have been a citizen of Icaria.”
Comrade Garay coughed uncomfortably.
“I am not accusing anyone at the table,” Captain Monturiol repeated. Then she smiled, as if to dismiss any unpleasantness, and raised her goblet. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Warkin.”
They clinked goblets and Modo sipped more wine. He rarely drank alcohol, so he wanted to be certain to not have too much. “I have a question,” he said.
Monturiol lifted her goblet again. “Please, ask. We will answer anything within reason.”
“Well, you are the captain of the vessel, correct? But every other—uh—seaman, seawoman I’ve met is called a comrade. I thought ships had coxswains, masters, ensigns, and so on.”
“Ah, there are no ranks here, though every comrade has his or her job. I was elected captain five years ago for a ten-year term. So, in consultation with my fellow comrades, I make the decisions for the Ictíneo and all of Icaria.”
“So it’s like being a queen,” Colette said.
Monturiol set down her goblet so hard some of the wine spilled. “It is nothing like that! We Icarians are from all stations in life—barrel makers, factory workers, soldiers, poets, engineers—and from many different countries. But we all had one dream: to throw off the class-system shackles of the modern world. Our research and actions are all directed toward the creation of Icaria.”
Modo tasted some of the seaweed, which was salty and had a spicy dressing. He decided it would be best to change the topic. “You said you would explain what powers the lights of your craft. I have never been inside such a well-lit ship.”
“May I answer?” Cerdà asked.
“It is only right,” Monturiol said. “You installed the system.”
“Based on your father’s designs.”
“Yes, but you gave it life. Such modesty does a disservice to your contributions.”
Cerdà shrugged. “You want to know about our secret agent?” he said. Modo’s stomach did a somersault—had they seen through him already? Even Colette was gripping her fork tightly, her face momentarily frozen. But Cerdà’s smile was friendly and he spoke enthusiastically. “The agent we use to power nearly every apparatus aboard this ship is electricity.”
“Electricity?” Modo squeaked in relief, then cleared his throat. “But how is that possible? It can only be used to power small devices.”
Cerdà pointed to the light above them. “It was only a matter of being inventive. We have harnessed this power and bent it to our use. No massive stores of coal to carry. No belching steam engines to fill our ship with smoke. Electricity is the very soul of the Ictíneo.”
“But … but…,” Modo said, “how can you produce enough?”
Monturiol laughed. Both she and Cerdà were looking at him as though he were a child. “The answer is all around you,” Cerdà explained. “The ocean itself. We have developed a process that uses the chloride of sodium in the water. It is an endless supply. I can explain no more than that, for the rest is a rather complicated state secret.”
The thought absolutely staggered Modo: ships that could travel the length and breadth of the ocean without stopping for coal! This would change the world. He had to contact Mr. Socrates.
“You are shocked, my friend,” Monturiol said, then stifled a small laugh. She raised her goblet toward Modo again. “It is an honor to have an artist among us. We happen to have photographic equipment that will be of use to you. Mr. Warkin, we would like you to capture
photographs of Icaria.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Modo said, trying to sound pleased, when the truth was he knew little about photography.
“Yes, what sort of photographic device would you use for underwater landscapes?” Colette asked. “What plates would work on the ocean floor?”
“I don’t actually know of any equipment that would work, Mademoiselle Brunet,” Modo said. “Water would, of course, ruin the … the insides.”
“The camera would also require a lens that could capture imaginary countries,” Colette said.
Monturiol smiled coldly. “You mock me still. Tomorrow, you’ll laugh from the other side of your mouth. I’ll show you the real Icaria. Both of you, if you are willing, shall take a walk with me.”
“On an island?” Modo asked.
“No, Mr. Warkin. We are going to walk upon the Icarian ocean floor.”
17
A Message Received
Mr. Socrates was seated at the dining room table of Victor House. He had just finished a late dinner of roast duck, garlic potatoes, and turnips. He sipped his tea. His mind was working on several problems at once. The French had made private inquiries into whether the British government knew anything of the robbery at their embassy. It was obvious they were groping for answers, so Modo had done his work well. Then there was the death of Agent Wyle in New York, which was troubling in a number of ways. First, someone knew that the British were pursuing the Ictíneo. Most likely the French, but it could be the Germans or this new deadly enemy, the Clockwork Guild. Second, Wyle was an experienced agent. This meant that whoever had killed him was likely even more experienced, and therefore dangerous. And finally, Mr. Socrates had liked Wyle. The man had been tough and competent and someone he trusted implicitly. Wyle’s only weakness had been that he was growing too old for the game.
At that, Mr. Socrates smiled grimly. Old? He had at least twenty years on Wyle. Maybe he was getting too old. No, this was a permanent post in the Permanent Association. All the members had sworn an oath to stand guard and defend their country until the last beat of their hearts. The prime minister, the politicians, the military, even Queen Victoria, were all unable to adequately protect it. They could not act with impunity, as there were so many eyes watching them. But the Permanent Association was invisible and could act wherever and whenever it wanted. The order that Britannia had brought to the world was good and necessary.
