The Dark Deeps

by Arthur Slade

  The four of them clung to the railing of the little submarine ship, their leaden boots holding them down. Monturiol tapped lightly on the hull and the Filomena sank slowly into the water, piloted by Garay.

  Modo held on, trying not to breathe too hard as they entered the water. At first they moved through darkness, but eventually Modo saw a light under the water that could only be the Ictíneo. They descended until they were underneath the larger submarine ship. How much time had passed? Two minutes? Four?

  The massive hull of the Ictíneo loomed above them. As Modo watched, a crack appeared in the glass of his mask and slowly widened. If the glass shattered, would he reach the surface in time?

  Finally they rose, until the bottom of the Ictíneo was directly above them. They would be crushed against it! But again Monturiol knocked on the Filomena’s hull and the small submarine ship came to a stop.

  Cerdà reached up and used the magnetic palms of his gloves to cling to the side of the Ictíneo. The rest of them followed his lead, climbing like underwater insects. Soon they arrived at the ballast portal. Modo judged that it opened into the forward ballast tank that ran along the bottom of the submarine ship.

  Once there, they all moved aside for Modo. It was up to him. Barely taking the time to consider what would happen when he opened the hatch underwater, he took a deep breath, twisted the handle, and pulled on the hatch, fighting the pressure until it opened a crack. He pulled harder and the water rushed into the chamber, nearly sucking him in. He struggled to keep the hatch open. The submarine ship, suddenly heavier, slipped a few yards deeper into the ocean. First Cerdà, then Monturiol, and finally Colette pulled themselves inside. Modo climbed in behind them and hauled the hatch shut.

  39

  Skeleton Crew

  The forward ballast tank ran half the length of the Ictíneo, along the bottom, and was full of ocean water. With each crawling movement, with each aching breath, Modo wondered how much time had passed. Was he almost out of air? His lungs complained as he pulled himself ahead, periodically bumping into Colette’s feet, all the while trying to prevent the magnets on his hands from clicking on the walls. He knew how that sound would travel through the ship. The light in his helmet revealed several fish trapped in the tank along with them.

  They came to a stop. In front of him he glimpsed Cerdà turning a circular wheel on the side of the tank. Cerdà gave it a final crank and water splashed onto the floor, sweeping all four of them along with it. Modo banged his head on the way out. Once he had regained his footing, he removed the aquahelm but couldn’t find his mask in the neck of his suit. It must have fallen out! The water was up to his knees and sluicing out the door and down the hallway toward the bow of the ship. His mask was somewhere in that mess! At least in this darkness they wouldn’t see his face clearly. He did find an oily rag, which he tied over his nose and mouth.

  “We have entered undetected,” Cerdà whispered. Captain Monturiol flung her hair out of her eyes. She unlatched the shoes and magnets quietly. Modo did the same.

  Cerdà began walking down the hallway, but Modo grabbed his shoulder. “I should go first,” he whispered.

  “Why?”

  “I’m trained for combat.”

  “I’ll be your second-in-command, then, comrade,” Cerdà said lightly as he stepped aside.

  Modo led them down the slick hallway; most of the water had already drained away. He was unfamiliar with this section of the craft but knew they were heading in the direction of the library. The hallway lights flickered—maybe the Guild soldiers didn’t understand the electrical system well enough to control the lights properly. The hardwood floor was relatively quiet, though occasionally their footsteps squeaked.

  He paused at the open doorway of a cabin: the hallway light revealed a cot with the impression of someone’s body on the sheets. Griff! Modo leapt into the room and grabbed at what he believed would be the man’s neck.

  His hand closed on nothing but sheets. He tossed the pillow onto the floor, patted at the foot of the bed. No, it must have been his imagination. He felt eyes on him, looked at the door to see Cerdà staring at him as if he thought Modo had gone mad. Modo shrugged and took the lead again.

  The hall led them to a wider chamber. At the entrance, Modo pulled up short, signaling to the others behind him to stop. A Guild soldier was leaning over an instrument cluster, adjusting knobs and writing notes in a journal. He wore a gray cap, a holstered pistol at his side. Likely an engineer, Modo guessed. The man was intent on his work, so Modo crept toward him.

  The soldier turned and yelped. Modo chopped him on the temple, knocking him out and catching him before he fell. Modo squeezed against the wall and peered toward the library. Several moments passed and no one answered the man’s cry. Modo lowered the man’s limp body to the floor.

  “We could have questioned him,” Captain Monturiol whispered.

  “He might have alerted others.”

  “His cry may have done that already,” Colette remarked as she removed the six-barreled pistol from the man’s belt. “At least we’re properly armed now.”

  Captain Monturiol thrust out her hand. “I’ll carry that!”

  “Are you familiar with the pepperbox pistol?” Colette countered.

  “No.”

  “I won’t betray you, Captain. I know your word can be trusted. If we aid you, you’ll take us to Iceland. If the Clockwork Guild catches us, I’ll not live much past today.”

  Morturiol nodded. “Then keep the pistol.”

  “What do you suppose he was doing?” Modo asked.

  “The excess water has set the Ictíneo off balance,” Cerdà said. “He was probably attempting to fix that. They do not seem to understand even the basics of buoyancy.”

  “Should we continue?” Modo asked.

  “Yes,” Monturiol answered. “They are most likely in the bridge.”

  Modo pictured climbing the stairs and being spotted halfway up. The pepperbox pistol wouldn’t be much help if there were several armed soldiers above them. Run through your options in your mind, Mr. Socrates had told him several times. Look for weaknesses.

  “I have a plan,” he said. “I go on alone.”

  “Alone?” Cerdà echoed.

  “Yes. They may be armed. I’ll walk right up to the enemy and disarm them. I’m able to change my appearance. I cannot explain how it works, but I must ask that you give me room. Please.”

  “Why?” Captain Monturiol asked.

  “I’m like a magician. I don’t want you to see my tricks.”

  Colette gave him an odd look, but all three of them stepped back. Modo slipped the rag off his face and pulled the soldier’s cap over his patchwork of hair. Then he dragged the engineer into the light and stared down at his face. Modo shuddered and struggled, slowly forcing his face into the same shape as the man’s. Nerves tingled with pain. He’d not had enough rest! His bones shifted, his muscles tightened. He felt as if he might collapse, but he drew a deep breath and concentrated until he was certain he looked enough like the man to fool the other soldiers in the dimly lit submarine ship. As a final touch he replicated the birthmark on the man’s cheek. He then grabbed the soldier’s jacket and trousers and slipped them over his rubber suit. When he glanced at his companions, they gasped and stared back in wonder.

  “Mon dieu!” Colette exclaimed. “That’s amazing.” Modo enjoyed the shock and admiration in her eyes.

  “How is this possible!” Captain Monturiol blurted.

  “It would take too long to explain.” Modo did up the buttons on the jacket. The lights flickered again. “I’ll scout the bridge and send a signal when all is clear. If things go awry, please be so kind as to come to my aid.”

  “We will,” Cerdà said.

  Modo entered the empty library and heard voices at the top of the spiral staircase. Now or never, he thought, then climbed the steps into the bridge. There were three soldiers standing at the helm. One carried a shortened rifle—obviously a marine. The ot
her two were engineers, one with three stripes on his shoulder—a sergeant. In a moment, Modo took in this information; then he stumbled toward them, holding his head. He didn’t know which language they spoke, until the sergeant said in English, “Krippen! Why did you leave your post?”

  “I … electrical shock … hit head,” Modo rasped, hoping to disguise his voice. The marine with the rifle was the biggest danger, so Modo veered toward him. “I—”

  “Did you discover the source of the leak?” the sergeant asked. “Answer me! That’s an order!”

  “No … broken dial … hurt.” He lurched between the engineers and the marine until he was close enough to grab the man’s gun. Just as he was about to do so, a hand snatched his collar and spun him around.

  “I gave you an order!” the sergeant said, then stepped back. “You look ill, Krippen. Your face! It’s misshapen! And why is your birthmark on the wrong side?”

  Modo put a hand to his cheek. “You—you’re mistaken.”

  The sergeant motioned to the marine and pain exploded in Modo’s skull. The rifle butt! Modo turned, caught the marine’s arm, and flipped him over his shoulder and into one of the engineers, sending them both flying. They both lay still.

  Modo heard the click of a hammer being pulled back. He froze. The sergeant was pointing a pistol.

  Modo turned slowly and offered his empty hands. “I won’t struggle.”

  “You aren’t Krippen—who are you?”

  “I stowed away in the ship.”

  The man’s hand was trembling, but he kept the barrel pointed directly at Modo. “Hans, contact the Wyvern.” The engineer was trying to stand.

  Something hissed past Modo’s ear; then the pistol went off, the bullet ricocheting around the cabin. How did it miss? Modo wondered. Then he saw a spear stuck out of the sergeant’s arm, pinning him to the wooden paneling near the wheel. The pistol had fallen to the floor. The sergeant stared at his arm, then screamed. Cerdà rushed from the stairwell, speargun in hand, and with one blow knocked down the other engineer. Monturiol and Colette were a step behind. Colette aimed her pistol at the sergeant.

  “Are there others on my boat?” Captain Monturiol barked.

  “No. Ahhh, it hurts!” The man grimaced, holding his arm and trying to stop the bleeding. “We, ahhh, were a skeleton crew.”

  “Get them off my ship!” Monturiol commanded, looking at Cerdà. “Modo, go with Cerdà. I’ll take the Ictíneo to the surface. While you are up there, cast off the prisoners and the moorings.”

  “This will hurt,” Cerdà said to the sergeant, then snapped off the protruding end of the spear. He yanked the man’s arm from the shaft and the soldier only let out a small groan. A moment later Cerdà had torn a coat in two and tied up the engineer’s wound. Then, pistol in hand, Cerdà directed the now-groggy soldier and the two engineers up the ladder to the top of the ship. Modo went below and found the third engineer, who was coming to. He carried him up to the hatch and set him on his wobbly feet.

  They waited until Monturiol had brought the Ictíneo to the surface; then Cerdà opened the hatch, letting in a blast of cold air. He pointed upward and the prisoners climbed out one by one. Modo imagined that the pistol shot had alerted the Wyvern, but when he got topside and looked up at the warship, all appeared quiet. Cerdà herded the shivering men to the front of the Ictíneo.

  Six ropes secured the Wyvern to the Ictíneo. Modo raced from one to the next, unlashing them. As he undid the knot on the third rope, Klaxons sounded on the Wyvern. Shouts echoed over the ship, and seconds later lights blazed upon them. Modo yanked the fourth and fifth ropes free before the first shot ricocheted off the deck.

  A splash. Another and another. Cerdà had pushed the prisoners into the water. Modo pulled frantically on the last rope and it came undone. Then he raced for the hatch. A bullet sparked near his feet as he threw himself down the hole, grabbing the ladder halfway to the floor, flipping, and landing on his feet. Cerdà followed, closing the hatch and shouting, “Submergir! Submergir! Submergir!”

  40

  Sleeping Dogs

  A noise had woken Griff, and he opened his eyes to see a hand snaking toward him. He threw himself silently to the corner of the room. The man reached for where his neck had been only a second before. The intruder’s face was hidden behind a rag, but his shape was Modo’s. It was that ugly beast!

  Griff held his breath, slowing his heart and making himself small, exactly the way Miss Hakkandottir had taught him to do it. He was more than invisible. He became only eyes. Yes, it was working. He needed to cough but stifled the feeling.

  After Modo had left the room, Cerdà, Monturiol, and Colette each passed the doorway. They had escaped and somehow gotten aboard the Ictíneo! He hung back for a few minutes. He heard a small noise—a cry for help—down the hall. They’d caught someone else by surprise.

  He had slept on the submarine ship because the room Miss Hakkandottir had assigned him on the Wyvern was far too cold. Not a coal heater to be spared.

  He’d left the door to his cabin closed, but somehow Modo had guessed he was inside. Now that he thought of it, the Ictíneo was listing. Something had happened to a ballast tank, making his door swing open. Stupid Icarians! Not one lock on this ship.

  No, he realized, that couldn’t be true. The engine room was locked.

  Griff stole down the hallway and found the unconscious engineer. He jammed a thumb deep into his ribs, but the man only groaned. Useless.

  Griff hadn’t told the crew he was aboard—at least no one would rat him out. A gunshot echoed as he crept into the library. This made him stop for another minute and listen. Voices carried down the stairwell. They had seized the ship! Then a figure in uniform slouched down the stairs, but Griff recognized him at once as Modo. His body was still twisted in that odd shape, though his face had changed. He passed within inches of Griff.

  Griff looked about for something to strike him with, but the library had only books and a few small statues. If he missed, the room was small enough that Modo could lash out and hit him with a lucky blow. Griff stepped back as Modo returned, carrying the engineer.

  He waited, then climbed the stairs. He found himself alone on the bridge with Colette and Monturiol.

  There was a speargun on the ground, unloaded. There was a pistol in Colette’s belt, but it was tucked in too well. He might have trouble getting it out.

  Grab it! Grab it!

  But he only stood there. No matter how much he imagined Miss Hakkandottir’s disappointment, he couldn’t act. He was so used to watching.

  Bah! He retreated to a corner. His moment to strike would come.

  41

  Icaria, My Heart

  The Ictíneo quaked under Modo’s feet and began moving in fits and starts through the water, nearly throwing him down the stairs. Cerdà burst past him and dashed toward the bridge. Modo followed.

  “No, the left lever!” Captain Monturiol snapped. “We must fill the forward ballasts to dive.”

  “Remember, dear Captain,” Modo heard Colette say, “this is my first time with these controls.”

  Modo had taken two more steps when the Ictíneo suddenly struck something with force—the bottom of the Wyvern. He grabbed the railing and waited for the water to come pouring in, but the Ictíneo held. He jumped the rest of the way into the bridge.

  Cerdà took the wheel from Monturiol, who immediately raised the periscope and put her eye to the lens. They’d been driving blind!

  “Push the red lever down and that will fill the ballast tank,” Cerdà said, patiently. “Each click you hear is an eighth of the chamber filling.”

  Colette followed his instructions and the submarine ship dove.

  “Good work,” Captain Monturiol said. “Now bring it halfway up.” Colette moved the levers again and the Ictíneo leveled out. “We’ll make an Icarian of you yet.”

  At that Colette laughed, but she seemed proud of herself.

  “Full speed, Cerdà,” Captain Montu
riol said. “We must return to New Barcelona and warn our comrades to prepare for war. Our comrades imprisoned on the ship will have spoken of our city. It is safe now, but soon our enemy will find a way to reach us. We will defend our city with all our might.” She looked at the instrument cluster. “Forty-five degrees to port,” she said. Cerdà turned the wheel and the Ictíneo responded. “They seem to have repaired the steering apparatus. All systems are functioning properly.”

  The Ictíneo hummed along, now going at full speed. “Is there anything I can do?” Modo asked.

  “Just have a seat,” Monturiol answered. “You’ve worked hard enough today.”

  He sat at the small map table. He noticed that Colette kept glancing at him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I am not used to your new face.”

  Modo had already forgotten. He wouldn’t have enough strength to transform his face into a more familiar one; better to cover himself. He felt in the trouser pockets of the Guild uniform and discovered a black silk neckerchief. It fit snugly over his nose. He adjusted his eyes, and kept the gray cap on. He looked out the porthole as they rose in the water, and saw the underwater plateau that led to New Barcelona. He watched the lights of the city grow closer. The Ictíneo turned straight toward the city and was traveling at such a clip that Modo feared they’d crash into it. He jumped up to warn them.

  “Fill the forward ballasts,” Captain Monturiol commanded; the Ictíneo dove and Modo braced himself, expecting to hit the ocean floor.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” she said. “We constructed a wide tunnel into the plateau.” Jagged rock walls were visible through the window, and several lights burned underwater, making the tunnel bright. Soon the Ictíneo was rising up into an underwater bay. It came to a stop.

  “Why didn’t you enter this way before?” Modo asked.

  “Because I enjoy the walk and I wanted to visit my father.” Monturiol paused. “And vanity, I must say. After two weeks of Miss Brunet’s mocking, I wanted to see her dumbfounded by the sight of New Barcelona.”