by Arthur Slade
“Here it’s free. I get particular pleasure from eating something for which the rich pay exorbitantly.”
Modo couldn’t believe that something that sounded so strange could taste so good. He greedily accepted a second piece.
When Modo had eaten, Monturiol took them down an arched hall and up a wide staircase that had been cut into the bedrock. Beautiful fossil shapes had been carved into each step. Monturiol then led them into a large room. Modo looked around to see that they were, in fact, inside a great dome. “Welcome to Icaria’s National Museum,” chimed Monturiol, obviously pleased with herself.
Ship models hung from the ceiling. A model of a submarine, made of wood, sat on a platform. “That is what the Adelaida looked like,” Monturiol said. “It was my father’s first submarine ship, and it held only four people. You had to pedal hard just to get out of the docks.” She laughed. “Oh, the hours I spent pedaling! We would picnic at the bottom of the reef, away from the city and all its politics. My father hated the ‘clay curmudgeons of bureaucracy’!” Sadness crossed her face. “It was named after my older sister, who died of consumption. That was a long time ago.”
Modo searched for words to comfort her, but Monturiol had already moved on, her face no longer showing any sign of emotion.
He glanced away and looked through the portholes on each side of the museum. They gave an impressive view of the rest of New Barcelona. Noticing his gaze, Monturiol said, “This is the highest point of the city.”
Modo peered up at the giant oceanlight in the ceiling. He couldn’t tell if the sun was shining. Somewhere out there was the real world.
“ ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree,’ ” he quoted. “ ‘Where Alph, the sacred river, ran / Through caverns measureless to man / Down to a sunless sea.’ ”
Monturiol and Colette clapped. “Ah, Coleridge,” Monturiol said. “All of his works are in our library.”
Modo tapped his temple. “I keep it up here. It’s as if Icaria has brought his poem to life.” He could see the pride in her eyes. Deservedly so.
“I’ll admit an English monkey can occasionally write a good poem,” Colette said, her eyes piercing his, “but in the end it is still written in English. I shall have to read you a French poem. It’s such a language of romance.” She reached up to touch a large bell-shaped object made of wood and strengthened by metal braces. Weights hung on hooks around the circumference, to make the bell sink deep into water. Its interior was made waterproof by India rubber. “That’s a diving bell,” Colette said. “I’ve seen the marines use these.”
“You have?” the captain asked. “Where?”
“With my father. We were traveling with Ambassador Vernier and we were escorted to Morocco by marines. They used the bell to reclaim the guns from a ship that had sunk. The bell is weighted so it sinks bottom-first and traps air inside. Then divers swim down to the bell and use it as an oxygen station so they can dive even deeper.”
“Yes, a primitive but effective way of traveling underwater. This diving bell was used off the coast of the Cap de Creus, near my childhood home. Come along.”
As they walked out of the museum, Modo asked, “Why are you showing us all this?”
“Because I want you to understand the destiny of Icaria. This is the future of mankind. Rather than fighting over the refuse above us, we’ll work as one, in the womb of Mother Earth. Each of us equal. All of us one. The complete emancipation of men, of women, of the strong and the crippled.” Modo couldn’t help feeling the same desire for such a utopia.
Monturiol pointed out a porthole. “I don’t know if you saw the people welding and working outside the city. Some are elderly, but in the water they shed their years. Some have lost limbs, but with the support of the ocean they can work.” She paused. “We’ll also have historical and archaeological museums about the Old World above us, collections of the greatest works of art that mankind has created, the drawings of da Vinci, the formulas of Galileo. It will all be safe here forever.” She pointed to the statue of a naked goddess with her arms lifted to the sun. “Diana. Discovered in the wreck of a trireme.”
How could they possibly afford to build such a city? The sheer volume of metalwork alone was staggering to Modo. Smaller nations couldn’t finance it: how could so few people find the resources? It became clear in an instant. “You paid for the construction with undersea treasure, taken from wrecks.”
“Yes, Mr. Warkin,” Captain Monturiol said, nodding. “You have come to the right conclusion. Think of all the warships mankind has put to sea over the centuries: triremes and quinqueremes carrying gold for Caesar, the great Spanish armada, British frigates off Cape Trafalgar. I have walked among the wrecks and carried back the Old World’s treasures to build this new world.”
“So thieves do prosper,” Colette said.
Modo expected Monturiol to snap at her, but the captain only smiled. “You cannot steal from the dead. Your world covets gold, not mine. I have been to your Paris, the air blackened by belching coal, the starving children begging for food. New York. London. Ugly, ground-dweller cities with their Babel towers.”
“My mother lives in that ugly city of Paris.” Colette’s voice was breaking.
“I have people I care about too,” Modo said, but it felt as though a year had passed since he had last thought of Octavia. “My wife, Octavia. And … and my father. And I have my photograph collection in London. I’m not a famous artist, but it’s my life.”
“Well, it is gone. Vanished.” Monturiol waved her hand as though the flick of fingers could erase their memories. “You must leave the past behind. Icaria is your new world. This is why I’m showing off our beautiful city. You will come to love it here.”
“I can’t forget my wife!” Modo said, surprised by the depth of his own anger. It wasn’t just Octavia he was being asked to abandon. Mr. Socrates! Tharpa! Mrs. Finchley! “Captain Monturiol, my whole world is out there.”
“A dead world,” she responded nonchalantly. “I understand the loss of loved ones. Do you think I walked away from Catalonia without second thoughts? But it must be done. A clean cut.”
Catalonia—so that was where she was from. A province of Spain. Once its own country.
“Sometimes it’s the cleanest cut that kills,” Colette said, “because you don’t notice you’ve been wounded.”
Monturiol raised her index finger. “Or it severs the limb from the trap. We have room for you both here. We have photographic equipment, Mr. Warkin. Imagine the blue whale, its image taken from the ocean floor. It would be a first!”
“But my wife, she—”
“Would not deny you this opportunity, if she knew. And Mademoiselle Brunet, you must also live as though you had no previous life. That is what all of us surrender. You will not be allowed to return to the Old World to tell them about our creation.”
“So you are imprisoning us for life?” said Colette.
“You can’t do that!” Modo said, shaking his finger at her.
Monturiol laughed. “This is not a prison. This is Utopia.” She glanced at a clock on the wall. “As always, the visits are too short. We should return to the Ictíneo. New Barcelona needs to be resupplied, and we must defend our borders.”
As Monturiol led them down a long hall, Colette pulled on Modo’s sleeve. He slowed his pace so that they were several feet behind the captain. Colette leaned in to Modo and whispered, “I’ll pull out the tubes on her air tank halfway back. No one will keep me a prisoner forever.”
“You can’t do that,” he replied. “The Icarians would kill us both.”
“You’re right. But there will be a time to escape.” Then she paused. “Together,” she added.
When they returned to the lock chamber, Monturiol helped them into their aquasuits. “Where’s Cerdà?” Modo asked.
“He has duties here. I shall send for him when I need him.”
“You can communicate with New Barcelona from the Ictíneo? How?”
> “I send a message in a frequency the dolphins understand and they deliver it by Morse code, tapping on the glass.”
“Really?” Modo asked.
Monturiol laughed. “No, my friend. I was being amusing. My father had quite a sense of humor. I inherited some of it.”
“Some, is right.” Colette wore a grim little smile.
“To answer your question,” Monturiol said as they clomped into the lock chamber, “we communicate between the city and the Ictíneo with sonic messages. It’s similar to an underwater speaking trumpet.”
“But how would Cerdà join you?” said Modo.
“Ah, you ask too many questions, Modo. I suggest you put on your helmet.” Monturiol stood at a bank of levers and began flipping them up, then slipped on her helmet. Modo did too, hoping he had fastened the clasps correctly.
Soon he was following Captain Monturiol across the plateau toward the Ictíneo. Dolphins played around them, and he wondered at it all. A world where he might actually be accepted for who and what he was, if the captain was to be believed. Where he wouldn’t have to change from face to face, shape to shape. No more fighting. No more assignments. A world of peace.
If only Octavia could be here. The thought of her gave him a pang of guilt, for he’d been thinking more often of Colette. Could Octavia be so easily forgotten? Could the rest of the world be left behind? If he was to be trapped under the ocean, Colette was beautiful and interesting, perhaps even enough to spend a lifetime with.
But what about Mr. Socrates? And Tharpa? What would life be like without them? And what would Mr. Socrates think of New Barcelona? Modo desperately wanted to tell him about it. He pictured Mr. Socrates saying, “You’ve done well, Modo.”
He wheezed, his throat a little tight. He coughed and felt a prickling at the back of his neck. Oh no! He was changing. He tried to slow the process. His bones were shifting and his flesh was pressing against the armor. He was breathing so rapidly, he feared he would pass out.
Finally, he spotted the Ictíneo and lumbered as quickly as possible toward it, pushing seaweed out of his way. The others, recognizing that something was wrong, caught up to him and climbed into the lock chamber after him. Soon the water drained out of the lock chamber and the door opened. Modo threw himself onto the floor, choking for air.
22
Not Worth His Salt
Octavia awoke, her mind made up. She had shed enough tears. Whether Modo was alive or dead, she had a task to perform. She dressed quickly, but took the time to comb her hair properly and tie it up in a bonnet. She pulled on her warmest jacket and gloves and dug into her portmanteau for money. With what she had, plus the funds Mr. Socrates had just wired her, she intended to make her way back onto the ocean, even if she had to buy a boat and sail it herself!
She had woken several times in the night, trying to puzzle out where she’d find a captain. Finally, the solution had presented itself and she’d been able to sleep soundly.
Instead of walking to the docks, she turned and strode into town, past the green-roofed cathedral. She soon found the building she was looking for. The wooden sign was written in Icelandic, so she couldn’t read it, but a ram’s head and a goblet had been carved into the wood. In all languages, that meant one thing: a pub.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open. Peat moss burned in the fireplace, dung-scented smoke clouding the air. Two patrons were slumped across a table. She went up to the innkeeper, who was holding a mug of coffee. “I’m searching for a captain brave enough to sail to Nifleheim.”
The man laughed. He stopped when she handed him a five-dollar American bill; then he pointed to a darkened corner of the room, where a man sat. Well, he’s upright, at least, Octavia told herself. When she got to the table, she discovered that the man was using his detached wooden leg to prop himself up. If not for that, he’d have been slumped across the table like the other two. His eyes, a mass of red veins, rolled slowly toward her. He grunted something that sounded like “Valkyrie.”
“No, I am not a Valkyrie,” she said, “or an angel. I need a captain brave enough to sail into Nifleheim’s circle.”
He blinked slowly. His teeth were crooked, but she could see that he had once been handsome. Time and drink had scarred his face. “Only the dead go to Nifleheim.”
“I mean the place on the ocean. Not the realm of the dead.” Her answer surprised her. Proof she’d actually been paying attention to Mr. Socrates’ lectures on Scandinavian culture. Maybe learning to read would finally pay off.
“Hel awaits in her hall,” the man muttered. “She serves a dish called hunger.”
He was mad! He believed in the Norse fairy tales. “If you were a brave man, you would take me there.”
He let out a raspy chuckle. “Even Hermod could not save Baldur from Hel.”
Octavia recognized it as an argument, one that she must somehow win. She put money on the table and he stared at it balefully, then swept it onto the floor. There was a tattoo above his wrist, the shape of a hammer.
“Well, that’s nasty,” she said. Then she remembered a name from her studies. “Thor would not fear. Thor would go. He would take his hammer and strike a blow.”
That sparked a light in the man’s eyes. He stood abruptly and wobbled on one leg until he had strapped on his wooden leg. He thumped and clumped toward the door.
“Bring my money,” he said over his shoulder.
23
The Voice Inside His Head
“Mr. Warkin, what’s afflicting you?” Colette asked. Modo ignored her. He had to act fast—he felt his chest expanding to fill the armor cavities. He unsnapped the helmet and dropped it to the floor, then tore at the buckles that held the aquasuit in place.
“Mr. Warkin! Be careful with the equipment!” Monturiol shouted, holding her helmet in both hands. “Speak! Tell us what is wrong.”
“Too small, too tight!” he hissed. Pain burned in his bones as he tried to make them maintain their shape. He kicked off the leg armor, his mind clouded by the agony of the transformation.
“Mr. Warkin!” Colette cried, and he turned away from her. She mustn’t see him like this!
He tossed the breastplate to the floor and slurred through his thickening lips, “I go to cabin! I must! My affliction!”
He burst past two of the beefy Icarians and down the narrow hallway, scampering through the library and bridge, up to his room, where he slammed the door closed. He threw his back against it and breathed heavily.
There was no stopping the transformation now. It had come upon him so quickly, and earlier than usual. His arms were growing thicker, his hump pressing against the door, his spine curving as each nerve tingled with pain. He tore off the India rubber suit, fearing that it would constrict his arms and cut off his blood. The little mirror reflected his sagging features. One eye was slightly larger than the other. His lovely dark hair was falling out, and tufts of red hair poked through his scalp.
“Mr. Warkin,” Colette whispered from outside the door. “Mr. Warkin, are you well?”
“Go away,” he slurred.
“Modo,” she whispered, “what’s happening?”
“I’m ill,” he said, wanting to slam his fists against his hump. He pressed hard against the door. “I need time alone.” If only he could turn off the light, but the ship was in its daytime cycle.
“Please, let me in.”
“No! No one comes in!” He let out a gasp. It was torture every time he twisted back into his original from.
“Modo!”
He struggled to make his mangled lips and throat form words. “I. Will. Not. Dine. Tonight. Please, Colette, go.”
There was silence on the other side of the door. Modo’s breathing was more controlled now.
“I will go, then,” she said, “but I expect a full explanation.”
“You. Shall. Have. It,” he promised, not exactly sure what he would tell her. He assumed she was gone. He rubbed his shoulder—he’d half dislocated it getting
out of the aquasuit.
Another knock. “Please, go!”
“Mr. Warkin!” Captain Monturiol’s voice was stern. “Explain why you damaged that highly valuable equipment! What is the matter with you?”
“I—I felt smothered. The suit too small. Ocean too deep.”
“That is all in your head. You must get past it. Icarians have no fear of the sea. She is our mother.”
Modo took a deep breath. The pain subsided slightly. “I—I apologize, C-Captain. I really am sorry. Understand, these experiences are new to me.” He sucked in another wheezing lungful of air. “I’ve walked on the ocean floor. I never dreamed of such a thing. It was such a wondrous city.”
“Yes, yes, it is understandable. I should have prepared your minds for the overwhelming journey. Perhaps I am partly to blame. I will have food delivered to you. Soup?”
“I would appreciate that.”
“You rest, Mr. Warkin. Settle your thoughts.”
When he was certain she was gone, he sat on the bed, still catching his breath. His spine had twisted, and he shifted to find a comfortable position.
What to do now? There seemed to be no way out of the submarine ship. New Barcelona had been amazing. Mr. Socrates would want to understand the science that had been used to create the city. Modo pictured such cities all across the Atlantic. Mining kelp, gathering coral, harvesting pearls, deep-sea fishing. A whole new world, much richer than even the Americas had been.
His foot bumped something under his cot. He bent over, picked it up. The wireless telegraph—in two pieces! Was this some mind game the captain was playing with him?
He examined the pieces. Nothing was seriously wrong; he could put it back together. But what was the message in this? Was the captain signaling that she knew about the device, and therefore knew that he was an agent? Or was it someone else who—
“You’re quite the ugly sot, aren’t you?”
A male voice! He snapped his head left and right, but no one else was in the room. He got up and pressed his ear against the door. Only the metallic creaking of the submarine ship. The person must be spying through a pinhole in the wall.
