by Arthur Slade
They stumbled as quickly as they could through the adjoining room. Flames were burning in the far corner, catching paintings on the wall, chairs, and desks. The Icarian flag was in ashes. Modo could hear Griff shouting from some distant place, but the echoes made it hard to be sure of the direction.
“He’s gone batty!” Modo said. “He’s burning the place down.”
They stumbled into the bay and discovered that thankfully the Filomena was still there, its hatch open. The room appeared empty.
“No blood on the floor,” Colette observed.
A muffled cry drew Modo’s attention. Then several more voices could be heard behind a nearby door. Modo and Colette crept closer and knocked on the metal surface.
“Hello,” Modo said. “Who’s there?”
“Who’s out there?” a young male voice asked.
“Colette Brunet,” Colette answered. “And Modo.”
“It’s Comrade Garay,” the young man said. “Let us out! Is Captain Monturiol with you?”
Modo lifted the lever and the door opened. Comrade Garay was bleeding from a cut above his eye, and his right arm was in a sling. Behind him stood the women and children and old men Modo had seen before.
“That—that thing drove us in here,” Garay said. “We could not see it, but it broke my arm.”
“You are safe for the moment,” Modo said. “Come out. Come out.”
Modo explained Captain Monturiol’s orders for them to flee and what had happened to her and Cerdà as best he could. The Icarians stood stoically as they learned about the death of their captain and Cerdà, and that many of their fellow citizens had gone down with the Wyvern.
“There is no time to explain much more,” Colette said urgently, taking a child’s hand and leading the people to the Filomena. All the while, Modo kept his eyes and ears open for any sign of Griff. He and Colette helped the women, children, and elderly into the ship, urging them to press as hard as they could against the sides. Garay was the last to board, grimacing as he bumped his arm.
There was barely room for one more person. “You go,” Modo said to Colette. “I’m too big. I’ll find another way.”
“And let you become the hero of Icaria? Never!”
Modo sighed, exasperated. “Go!” he said to Comrade Garay, not wanting to waste time arguing with Colette. “You know how to control this ship. Travel as swiftly as you can to Iceland.”
“We have sympathizers there,” Garay said. “They will resupply us.”
“Then sail with all haste. If you must surface, do so as far from here as possible. Our enemy may have other ships.”
“Thank you,” Comrade Garay said. “Thank you both. We will not forget you!”
“Long live Icaria!” Modo exclaimed, a lump coming to his throat.
Comrade Garay saluted as Modo closed the hatch. The Filomena slowly moved away from the dock and submerged.
51
A Bell That Doesn’t Ring
“Quickly!” Colette pointed down the hallway that led out of the bay. “The fire is getting worse, and I don’t know whether we should be more worried about running out of oxygen, or whether this whole place will collapse around us.”
They dashed into the main hallway and found water swishing across the marble floor and cascading down the steps. “The walls have been breached,” Modo said.
“Not the walls.” Griff’s voice was jovial. He was in the hallway with them, but Modo saw no sign of his blood. “I let the sea in. I’m invisible, so I can’t drown. The sea won’t see me! But you two will drown. I’ll have the pleasure of watching you bob and writhe and choke. Ta-hee!”
“You’ll drown as easily as us.”
“Will not! Will not!” His voice was farther away. If he was still bleeding, it was into the water, so they couldn’t track it.
“Forget him,” Colette said. “There must be another way out.”
They splashed frantically down the hall, the water up to their knees. As they dashed through the kitchen, chairs and loaves of seaweed bread floated around them. Modo led them through another hallway and up the wide stairwell carved into bedrock that took them to Icaria’s National Museum.
He glanced back. Behind him, down the hallway, he saw bubbling water; he heard only the shattering of glass and the groaning of metal girders. His heart beat with fear, but he also felt a momentary sadness. New Barcelona had been such a beautiful place. The Icarians had worked so hard to create it. And now the ocean was taking it back.
Modo and Colette stumbled into the large oval hall, and Modo remembered Monturiol saying it was the highest point in New Barcelona.
A rowboat hung above them, alongside a model of a trireme, and the miniature Adelaida. Modo went to it and opened the hatch. “Well, it’s not a working model. Not that we could even fit our heads in there.”
Colette pointed to the other side of the great hall. Hanging from the ceiling was the diving bell.
“Do you think it actually works?” he asked as they rushed over. The wood was thick, strengthened and waterproofed by India rubber. All around the circumference of its base, long tethers hung to the floor, a ten-pound weight at the end of each one.
“Monturiol told us it was a functioning model,” Colette said. “But it wouldn’t be designed for such depths.”
The lights in the room flickered. Modo looked down the steps and along the hallway that led to New Barcelona. It was nearly full of water that now bubbled up into the museum. Already the exhibits were floating; a fleet of toy boats drifted by. “We don’t have much time. It’s the diving bell or death.”
“But how do we get it into the ocean?”
Modo looked up at the large porthole in the center of the oval ceiling. “Through there!”
“But that glass is too thick to break.”
“We won’t have to break it. When the water reaches the ceiling, the pressure will be equal. It’s the pressure of the ocean that is holding it in place. I bet I’ll be able to push it open.”
“We’re going to bet our lives on it?”
“We’ll have to.” The water was up to their hips now and Modo felt himself being driven off his feet by the currents. The bell was already floating, the weights holding its bottom edge in the water, trapping a pocket of air. They stole under its lip and were suddenly in the dark. There was enough room for both of them and more—the bell being at least six feet across. Already his feet couldn’t touch the floor, and Modo had to tread water to stay with the rising bell. He felt around above him and discovered several handles at the top. “Grab hold,” he shouted.
“There! Got one!” Colette shouted back. “How much oxygen is in here?”
Before he could guess, Modo heard clicking above them as the bell butted up against the roof. “I’m going to see what I can do.” He dove under the edge of the bell, kicking, amazed that a few of the lights of New Barcelona were still working.
The museum was now full of water and they were directly below the large porthole. Modo slammed the edge with his fist, the action forcing him down. He kicked his way back and hit it again and the glass moved! The top of the bell was knocking up against the porthole. It needed to float higher, faster. The glass began lifting away from the building.
Modo swam back under the bell. “Colette?” She didn’t answer. His eyes were slow to adjust to the dark. “Colette?”
A barking cough. “I’d rather be back on the surface,” Griff said, landing a blow right on the bridge of Modo’s nose. It knocked him under the water. He sank enough to find Colette tangled on the tethers below, her eyes wide and her mouth gaping. He kicked his way to her, yanked at the ropes, and tugged her up into the bell. They gasped for air, splashing all about, and swinging their fists and yelling. Twice they hit each other, but they couldn’t find Griff.
He heard the bell bang hard against the glass and felt it rising. “Quick! Grab the handles!” he yelled. She did so and all of a sudden Modo felt the pressure on his chest and legs. He unhooked several of t
he tethers, letting the weights fall away. The bell gained speed. Modo imagined that they looked like a jellyfish, their legs and the remaining tethers dangling as they rose.
Something grabbed his hand and slipped away, then latched on to his shirt.
Then Griff’s voice bubbled nearby, “I can’t hold on. The tethers are wrapped around my legs! The weights are pulling me down! Modo, help, I—”
Modo hesitated. Help him? He thought of Tharpa and all the hours of training and strategy. Unless you have complete control of your enemy, do not release him. A dead enemy cannot strike back. This was a battlefield, and Griff would murder both Modo and Colette in a heartbeat.
“Is Griff still here?” Colette shouted.
“Yes. But he’s drowning. The weights are pulling him down.”
“Good!”
A hand grasped at Modo’s belt. He thought of kicking Griff away, but didn’t. Face to face, fist to fist, he believed he could kill an opponent. But he couldn’t do it like this! What would Mrs. Finchley think? He couldn’t leave anyone—even an enemy—to die. Even though he nearly lost his grip, Modo grabbed for Griff with one hand. He caught only a fistful of water. He reached down for the arms that were now around his legs. Briefly he felt fingers, a hand in his; then it slipped away. He took a deep breath and stuck his head under the water. The lights of New Barcelona were already far below them.
He glimpsed an odd sinking shape perhaps thirty feet below them, caught in the tethers. It was yellow, twisting, writhing and expelling bubbles. It soon stopped moving as the bell shot upward.
52
On the Surface
The bell broke the surface with such speed that it flipped over and Modo and Colette were tossed into the air. Modo briefly saw the moon, then fell back into the water, fighting to breathe and stay afloat. It was several moments before, blinking hard, he was able to kick his way over to the upside-down bell. When he grabbed its side, he was relieved to find Colette already hanging on its edge.
They helped each other into the bell, then leaned back, breathing heavily. The moon looked down at them. They shivered and were silent for a time. Modo was just happy to let the air restore his body. Happy to be on the surface! He had more aches than he could count; he was cramping, especially his stomach muscles. Was this what they called diver’s sickness? He pulled the sopping neckerchief over his lips, but left his nose uncovered. He could only see Colette’s eyes and the slight outline of her nose and cheeks.
“Is Griff dead?” Colette said finally.
“He was caught up in the tethers and drowned.”
“Bonnes nouvelles,” she said, though she didn’t sound smug.
Modo felt something like sorrow. Griff had been driven mad by being invisible. What might he have become if he’d been allowed to have a normal life?
Time passed. Modo slept, despite the cold. The sun was beginning to rise. Colette stirred, opened her eyes. “Any news from the crow’s nest?” she asked.
He lifted himself high enough to look over the edge of the bell. “No rescue ships.”
“Captain Monturiol’s penchant for ramming ships has chased all the sea traffic away.”
Thinking of Monturiol and Cerdà made Modo’s heart ache. “At least the Clockwork Guild are gone.”
“Yes, they won’t pick us up again,” Colette said. “That woman, what was her name?”
“Hakkandottir.”
“I won’t soon forget her. She would have torn our hearts out with that metal hand.”
“Yes. She would have.” Modo couldn’t help hoping she had gone down with the Wyvern.
“You look hunched, are you in pain? And your rash is getting worse,” Colette said.
“Yes, maybe.” Modo felt his face shifting, his body elongating as he got warmer. He’d thought the burning sensation in his body was just exhaustion. He poked two holes in his neckerchief and pulled it up over his face.
“This rash, this sickness, what is it?” Colette asked.
“I’ve always had it.”
“And yet you could manipulate your face so you looked like that soldier?”
“Yes.”
“So the face you’ve been showing me is not your real face? The one that lies behind the neckerchief is the face you were born with.”
“Yes.”
She sat back and closed her eyes. He was happy for that; maybe she wouldn’t see that he was growing more hunched, stretching his India rubber suit. It was constricting, but didn’t seem to be cutting off his blood flow. If only there were something around large enough to cover his whole body.
An hour passed, or more. Modo had difficulty measuring time. The winter sun warmed them only slightly.
Colette still lay with her eyes closed, though he couldn’t tell if she was asleep.
Without opening her eyes, she spoke. “They used to tease me at the academy. The other agents hated me. I am an ainoko—half Japanese and half French, accepted by neither. I felt like a monster at times.”
You have no idea what it’s like to be a monster, Modo wanted to say. But instead he said, “That must have been terrible.”
“It was. But it made me stronger. I believe that I understand some of what you feel. We have lived and nearly died together, Modo. I consider you to be my friend. I don’t know why you would be frightened to show me your face.”
“I’m not frightened. It’s a choice I’ve made.”
“I kissed you, Modo. Now, reveal your true face. I dare you.”
“It’s not a game.”
“I never play games.”
Only a few short months ago he had refused Octavia this same request, and his heart still ached when he remembered her reaction. Colette had saved him, had fought side by side with him. What would it hurt? She wanted to see him. To know him.
He hadn’t the strength to create another face.
“I—I am disfigured. Horribly. I warn you.”
“Modo, I’m not a child.”
He breathed in, the air whistling through his flattened nostrils. Slowly he pulled the neckerchief away.
Colette stared directly into Modo’s eyes; then her eyes wandered over his face. He could see that she was fighting to keep her expression impassive. She was forged in fire, made of steel, yet he saw revulsion rising inside her. She grimaced and looked away, then squeezed her eyes shut. “Please cover your face,” she whispered. “Please.”
He did.
“I am sorry,” she said after several minutes. “I thought I was stronger than that. I have let you down.”
“It’s the way I am, that’s all.”
They floated along and Modo slept on and off. The sun was too far away to warm them. Colette shivered, but he knew she would not want him to hold her.
Despite being cold, he wanted to drink from the ocean, but he knew that would only quicken his death. “ ‘Water, water, everywhere,’ ” he whispered hoarsely. “ ‘Nor any drop to drink.’ ”
“I suppose that’s one of your British poets,” Colette said. They were the first words she had spoken since he’d revealed his face. “Poetry cannot be written in English.”
Modo did not have the strength to defend Britain or its poetry. He looked to the horizon. The world became four things: the sky, the water, the sun, and the cold. Where would the currents take them? As he watched Colette close her eyes and drift off, he wondered how long they could last without water. His throat was a parched tunnel.
He slept. Awoke. Slept. He dreamed about sweet biscuits. In the distance someone called his name—Mrs. Finchley calling him to dinner. There was always a pitcher of lemonade.
But it wasn’t her voice. Still, it was familiar. A shadow fell across the diving bell. “Ho there! Ho there!” a woman shouted.
Modo blinked. A fisherman’s boat, sails flapping, sat a distance away. But right next to them was a rowboat with two bearded men at the oars. Standing at the stern, like a figurehead, was a young woman.
“Is that you behind that neckerchief, Modo?” O
ctavia said. “I’ve come to take you home.”
53
A Fellow Agent
“Is Modo well?”
Octavia looked across the boardinghouse table at the woman who had spoken. When they’d found Modo she hadn’t recognized the French agent, but on the return voyage to Reykjavik, Modo had said her name repeatedly and Octavia had drawn her own conclusions. Many conclusions.
“You mean Mr. Warkin?” Octavia said with a raised eyebrow.
“No. I mean Modo. He told me his real name. In confidence.”
“Hmm. He’s well. No thanks to you.”
Colette calmly sipped her tea. Octavia remembered that Colette was three years older than her and had done much with her life. She had an intensity in her eyes that even Octavia found disconcerting.
“You are protective of Modo,” Colette said. “I understand your hostility.”
“He’s a fellow agent.”
“You English are such poor actors.”
What was that supposed to mean? Octavia wondered. “If I were a doctor, I might say he is suffering from extreme exhaustion.”
“He did many brave things,” Colette replied casually. “He is a remarkable and gifted individual. And he spoke highly of you.”
“Of me?”
“Yes, he said you two were married. A ruse, I know, but he often mentioned his wife. He worried about you. Did not want to be parted from you.”
“He said that?” Why did Octavia feel a blush coming on? Her eyes were drawn to her wedding ring.
“Yes, he did.”
Octavia looked up, steely. Whatever her thoughts toward Modo, this Frenchwoman wasn’t going to know them. “We were acting. I am certain an expert agent like you has been ‘married’ numerous times.”
Colette shook her head. “I’ve never gone that route, myself. I work better alone.”
“No one wants to work with you?” Octavia asked.
“Ah, such naked hostility. I understand it.”
