The Dark Deeps

by Arthur Slade

  They joined Captain Monturiol and Colette on the bridge. Both women were clutching handholds to keep from sliding away from their stations. Cerdà explained the situation to the captain. “Your backup system worked perfectly,” he added.

  “You designed it,” Monturiol said. “We shall fill the aft ballasts to keep us pointing toward the surface. Please do so now, Miss Brunet.”

  Colette pulled a lever and the ship slowly vibrated and shifted again; they were at a forty-five-degree angle from the ocean floor. The captain peered through her periscope. “We have left the seabed. Engage the propeller.”

  The Ictíneo shook with the force of the propeller and began to move forward.

  “Return to your stations,” Monturiol said. “Strap yourselves in. We will be making our ascent as fast as possible. We need a massive amount of momentum to penetrate the Wyvern’s steel hull. The trick will be to find them.”

  Modo glanced over at Colette, who turned to look at him. Her hair was out of place, and there was determination in her eyes. And excitement, Modo realized. She’s loving this! “Keep your eyes peeled, Modo,” she said. “You’re the bravest of us all.”

  “You’re brave, too,” he replied. He climbed up the sloping hallway to the crow’s nest, swallowing a lump of fear as he closed the door and strapped himself into the chair. Thankfully, the leak wasn’t any worse. The higher they climbed, the lower the pressure would be on the hull.

  “Leave the light off, Modo,” Monturiol said through the speaking tube. “We travel blindly for a few more minutes.”

  He stared out the portholes above him, into darkness blacker than the night sky.

  45

  Into the Underbelly

  Modo looked from the pressure gauge to the blackness beyond the glass. He couldn’t see more than a few inches out the viewports of the Ictíneo. According to the needle on the pressure gauge, they were slowly rising, the angle of the ship growing sharper and sharper, until Modo felt as though they were traveling straight up. The Ictíneo shook violently. The buoyancy was pulling her toward the surface, and the screw propeller was at full speed. How many knots? He had never traveled this fast before!

  Monturiol’s voice sounded clearly through the speaking tube: “Modo, in a moment I will command you to turn on the hydrogen light. It will illuminate a wide area. If my guess is right, the Wyvern will be circling above where they last spotted us. You will guide us toward the hull. Aim for the center aft of the ship so that we disrupt its engines as much as possible. Icaria’s mace will do the rest. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Please, Navigator, turn on the light now.”

  He reached up and pushed the switch. The light burst into life, filling the ocean as fish darted out of the ship’s way.

  “I don’t see anything,” he said at first. Then he spotted a large hull, glittering with bronze rivets. “I have sighted the Wyvern, Captain. She’s at a forty-five-degree angle to starboard.”

  “Good! Keep calling out, Navigator.”

  “Thirty-five degrees,” he said after a few moments. “Twenty-five degrees.”

  The hull was growing larger and only now did Ictíneo’s actual speed come home to him.

  “Fifteen degrees.”

  At this rate they would plow right through the ship!

  “Five degrees. We’re now in line.”

  “Thank you, Modo. I have her in my sights,” Captain Monturiol said. The Ictíneo picked up speed as it approached the surface. What am I doing here? Modo wondered. I’m at the front end of an exploding spear. He stared at the massive metal ram that had skewered so many ships without even bending. But how would it penetrate something with such a thick hull? The bottom of the Wyvern filled his vision.

  The sailors and soldiers above them could probably see the light coming from below their ship, but there would be no time for them to escape. Nothing could stop the impact now.

  “May I say,” Captain Monturiol announced through the speaking tube, “that it has been a pleasure working alongside all of you. What you do today for Icaria shall always be remembered.”

  She was saying goodbye. Modo shut the valve to the speaking tube as the Ictíneo struck the Wyvern.

  46

  An Act of Charity

  Miss Hakkandottir felt an ache in the palm of her metal hand. She chuckled. How many years had it been since Mr. Socrates had sliced off her real hand with a cutlass? Fifteen? Sixteen? He’d been called Alan Reeve then. None of these fancy code names.

  No matter how much time passed, the ghost of her old hand still had feeling. Cold. Itchiness. Pain. And, sometimes, it even felt the future. It had ached in Egypt a few years earlier, so she had stepped out of her tent, only to have a cannon shell destroy the tent a moment later. Dr. Hyde would laugh and say it was illogical to connect the two events. The hand had ached many other times for no reason at all.

  She acted on this ache now, though, walking from her cabin onto the deck. The sky was dark around her, stars glistening, a hunter’s moon glaring in the sky. It was well after midnight. They had spotted the Ictíneo over an hour ago and lost her to the depths. Now the Wyvern circled. Guild engineers were in cutters next to the warship, scanning for signs of the enemy.

  Something was amiss. She looked down at Hecuba, one of her hounds, and whispered, “Find Griff. If he is anywhere on this ship, find him!” Grace, the other hound, waited. She had been sent to search the ship earlier and had failed; perhaps Hecuba had a better nose. Where was that boy?

  A shout went up. Miss Hakkandottir leaned over the railing to see an engineer on the deck of a cutter, waving a warning. A moment later, Klaxons sounded and soldiers ran out of their bunks, rifles in hand.

  “What is it?” she yelled. The engineer staggered back, shouting, but his words were lost. The other engineers were already scrambling up the ropes to the Wyvern.

  Then Miss Hakkandottir saw a light coming at them from deep below, like a comet. “Engines, full speed ahead!” she shouted toward the helm, though she knew it was too late. The Wyvern rose momentarily as if a giant hand were pushing up from under the hull. Miss Hakkandottir was tossed into the air, then fell against the deck, bracing her fall with her metal hand.

  “Fool!” she hissed at herself. “You didn’t dream of this!” She was confident of the warship taking any blow from the side, but had not expected them to risk their very lives and their submarine ship by attacking directly from below.

  She ran in to the helm, knocking officers out of her way. All the speaking tubes whistled and she flipped one open. “Hakkandottir here. Report.”

  “The engine room is flooded, Admiral. We—we were unable to seal the compartment.”

  “Then seal the next one. Now!”

  “Sir, the damage, it’s …” He was breathing heavily. The sound of water splashing echoed up the tube. “ … massive. I’m afraid the water … We …” She heard gurgling.

  “I need to know how many compartments are flooded!” she shouted at the officers in the helm.

  No one answered. The speaking tubes fell silent. She pointed at a lieutenant. “Go down there. Now! Report!”

  He saluted and ran from the room. The ship rocked violently again and a sonic scream lifted all the lids on the speaking tubes. An explosion! The engine?

  “The rest of you had better dream up a plan to rescue this ship.”

  “We will, sir,” Commodore Truro said.

  The Wyvern suddenly shifted and gave a metallic moan. Miss Hakkandottir recognized the sound. They had been struck to the core. She grabbed the balloon pilot. “Prepare the Etna. If any unauthorized person attempts to board her, shoot them.” She pushed the pilot out the door, then pointed at the surgeon and the commodore. “You two go with him.” They ran after the pilot. “The rest of you keep this ship afloat as long as you can.”

  She kicked open the door, causing one hinge to fly off. Then she strode down the deck. The ship had become a quickly tilting fortress. In the da
rkness, Guild soldiers ran to and fro. There were only a few lifeboats, she knew that. A warship such as this, perfectly designed by the Guild Master, would never need a lifeboat. Who would have dreamed that anything could penetrate its hull deeply enough to sink her?

  Miss Hakkandottir hurried toward her balloon. The Guild Master would be unhappy, perhaps murderously so.

  Grace loped along at her heels. Hecuba had not yet returned. As Miss Hakkandottir arrived amidships, she rounded a gun emplacement and then froze, her hand clenching Grace’s collar.

  The Icarians, eyes wide, a few holding metal bars and makeshift weapons, stood in a clump before her. They had broken free!

  “It’s their captain!” shouted a broad-shouldered female. She raised a jagged piece of metal. “Where is Monturiol?”

  Miss Hakkandottir held tight as Grace strained against her collar, wanting to strike. “You are a very persistent group.”

  “Where is she?” a man rumbled. “Release her!”

  “Your captain escaped several hours ago. She struck the bottom of the Wyvern with your submarine ship. Surely you recognize her handiwork.”

  “That’s not true!” the woman cried. “That’s a lie!”

  “Your captain abandoned you,” Miss Hakkandottir said. Several Icarians glanced fearfully from side to side, and Miss Hakkandottir realized that they weren’t actually soldiers. In the absence of their captain, they had no system of command.

  “Our captain chose to do what is best for Icaria,” the hulking woman said. “We swore our oaths.”

  “Perhaps. But now you have a choice. Some of you may live if you can get off this ship. There are lifeboats behind me.” There were twenty-four prisoners. There would be nowhere near enough boats. “If you pause to join battle with me, you will not make it. Grace here will tear your throats out.”

  They were silent.

  “So,” she continued, “you will let me walk through you. Then you will run to the lifeboats. That is my act of charity for the day. You can fight over which of you will survive.”

  She took a step forward and the large woman backed up. Grace snapped her jaws and a few more Icarians edged away. Hakkandottir strode through them, not giving so much as a backward glance.

  The Etna was waiting at the bow of the ship, the basket straining to be freed from the ropes that bound it to the Wyvern. The pilot, wearing goggles, was adding coal to the steam engine. Both the commodore and the surgeon held the ropes.

  Griff had not shown up, nor had Hecuba returned. The boy would die—a wasted investment. And she would miss him: over the years she had grown attached to him.

  “Up, Grace,” Miss Hakkandottir commanded, and the dog leapt into the basket. With all her metal parts the hound was so heavy that the basket sank closer to the deck. Then Hakkandottir climbed in. She motioned to the other men, but the pilot said, “We can only carry one of them, Admiral, as long as we’re taking the hound. Otherwise we’ll be too heavy.”

  She nodded and pointed at the surgeon. A commodore could be easily replaced.

  “I understand, sir,” Commodore Truro said as the surgeon climbed aboard.

  “The Guild Master thanks you for your service,” she intoned. Then they threw off the sandbags and the Etna began to rise.

  She watched the lights of the Wyvern below her, the ship shifting, heard the groaning of metal and the sounds of panic. It had been such a beautiful vessel.

  They would build another. And she would one day strike a blow to the very heart of the empire.

  The Etna’s steam engine fired, the propeller spun, and the great winds carried them south.

  47

  The Ictíneo Is My Heart

  The impact had been worse than Colette had imagined it would be. She had centered herself in the way her father had taught her and made peace with the fact that she might die in defense of a country made up of fewer than a hundred people. But when the Ictíneo sliced into the Wyvern, Colette was thrown so hard against her straps that one broke and she bashed her head on the levers. For a few moments all she saw were stars, and she fought to keep her thoughts from turning to black. When her vision returned, all the lights on the Ictíneo were flickering.

  A stream of water fell through the grate of the walkway above the bridge and hit her. The hull had been breached! She tried to stay calm; she wanted to undo her straps, but knew she’d only fall backward with the ship at such a sharp angle.

  “I believe we have penetrated the hull,” said Monturiol, who was bleeding from a blow to her cheek. “Crow’s nest, report! Report!” she shouted into the speaking tube.

  “Modo!” Colette yelled. “Report!” There was no sound from the crow’s nest.

  “Report, Navigator!” Monturiol commanded. “Modo, report! Colette, go check on the condition of Comrade Modo!”

  “I will!” Colette said. She let go of her handholds and slid down the floor to the stairwell.

  “Be quick,” Monturiol added. “The mace is about to detonate!”

  The Ictíneo had settled at a sixty-five-degree angle. Colette grabbed the railing and pulled herself along the stairs, until she was in the corridor leading to the crow’s nest. She latched on to doorknobs to help her climb, pulling herself past the captain’s quarters. It took a full minute, thanks to her feet sliding with every step on the wet floor. With each second, she expected to feel the blast.

  When she got to the door of the crow’s nest, she peered through the porthole, fearing the room would be filled with water. It was lit by one dim, fitful light, enough to see Modo, his head bowed, in his straps. She spun the wheel that opened the door, and water washed across her shoes and down the hallway. Two of the observation ports were cracked; one was leaking water. The others wouldn’t last much longer.

  “Wake up!” she said when she’d crawled up to Modo. She grabbed his wrist. It was cold, but there was a pulse. He must have hit his head or something must have struck him—she saw several broken pipes on the floor, any of which could have taken his head clean off. Through the portholes she could see that the submarine was right up against the hull of the Wyvern. They would never extricate themselves.

  Not knowing what else to do, she slapped him. “Wake up, Modo. Wake up, you English dog!”

  Modo blinked and looked at her, stunned. “Stop yelling!” he slurred. “What’s happening?”

  “We pierced a hole in the ship. Get out of those straps! The mace is about to explode.”

  She helped him undo his clasps, then grabbed his arm to prevent him from tumbling down the hall.

  “Quickly! Quickly! Help with the door!” she shouted. This seemed to rouse him finally, and they worked together to close it, fighting against the draining water.

  The door closed, and a heartbeat later the mace exploded, the sudden jolting shock knocking them backward. Colette skidded halfway down the hall before grabbing a handle. Modo was clinging to one several feet farther along. She stared up at the door into the crow’s nest. The door had held.

  “Let’s go,” she said. They slowly climbed down to the bridge.

  “Ah, you are alive! Report,” Monturiol said.

  “We fully penetrated the hull,” Modo said.

  Colette added, “We were lucky to get out of there before the mace exploded.”

  Monturiol nodded. Her eyes had an empty look. “Good work. While you were gone, Cerdà and I tried to extricate the Ictíneo.”

  Cerdà was moving the wheel, grunting. “The engine no longer has enough power to loosen us. We are lodged in the ship.”

  “Well then, we will drag them down to the bottom with us,” Monturiol said emphatically.

  “I’d prefer not to go to the bottom,” Colette huffed. “If it’s all the same to you.”

  There was a long silence.

  “It’s done,” said Monturiol finally. “The Ictíneo has struck the last blow for Icaria. I shall go down with my ship.” She paused. “Cerdà, return to New Barcelona with our companions. You are released from your duties.”


  Cerdà set his jaw. “No.”

  Monturiol’s eyes widened. “No?”

  “My duty demands I stay by your side.”

  “But what of Icaria?”

  “New Barcelona cannot survive without the Ictíneo to resupply the city. Those who remain will have to return to the old world, to dream of another Icaria, another day.”

  “Very well.” Monturiol held out her hand and Cerdà took it, moving closer to her. Colette was surprised to find tears in her eyes. Such love and loyalty between the two of them. They were insane, but admirable.

  Monturiol saluted. “Comrade Modo and Comrade Brunet, you are officially relieved of your duties. There are four pods in the engine room, designed for escape. You have my permission to pilot one. Cerdà, give them the key to the engine room.”

  He reached into his pocket and produced a silver-colored key, which he handed to Modo.

  “I appreciate your contributions,” Cerdà said softly. “You have both been extremely brave.”

  “It was an honor serving on the Ictíneo,” Colette replied, surprised by her own sincerity.

  “But Captain!” Modo exclaimed. “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself. The Ictíneo’s secrets will be safe at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “You do not understand,” Monturiol said. “The Ictíneo is my heart. Without it, I am a ghost. Icaria is dead. I cannot live in a world without my ship or my country, so I will join my father. It is not the right time for me. For Cerdà.” Her voice caught in her throat. “The obscurity of the deep; my father used to speak about it all the time. Now it waits for us. Farewell.” She turned her back to them and began flicking switches and dials. “Go! Now! Both of you!”

  Colette pulled Modo to the stairs. They made their way aft, slipping and sliding down the hall.

  “They are quite mad,” Colette whispered. “Incurably, idealistically mad.”

  “Yes,” Modo agreed, then looked her in the eye. “Or, perhaps, they’re the sanest of us all?”