Leviathan Rising

by Jonathan Green

  As the Neptune powered on, corkscrew propellers churning the darkness behind it, the blur of suffused light sharpened in focus to become one vast dome connected to others of steadily decreasing size. The main dome of the undersea city was huge, a cyclopean structure of steel and glass, sprouting antenna relays, airlocks and the vent-ports of the cathedral-sized machineries that maintained the life-support systems of the city.

  Closer still and it became apparent to anyone seeing the city for the first time from on board the Neptune that where Atlantis City had been all straight lines and angular outcroppings - its superstructure looking more like a gargantuan version of the only recently reconstructed (and then devastatingly de-constructed) Crystal Palace - the structure of the newer undersea metropolis appeared to have been created in the likeness of a spiralling nautilus shell. The central dome of the city dominated the vista visible from the sub-liner's prow viewing ports, and it was still some miles away.

  Even from outside, and from this distance, it was clear that the internal structure of the city reflected that of a nautilus shell also, with the internal space divided into a number of reducing, separately-sealable, self-contained compartments. The interconnecting smaller contained environment domes followed the same pattern, miniature replicas of the primary biome. Such an architectural structure would provide added rigidity and also an extra element of safety. Should the unthinkable happen, and one of the domes crack, depressurising and letting in the sea, the surrounding divisions of the city could be locked down and kept airtight.

  Closing on the city, the Neptune began to pass some of the outer domes where droid-slaves tended the plantations, whilst outside, automaton machines - rust-red crab-like constructions the size of tug boats - harvested the vegetation of floodlit kelp fields.

  Now those on board the Neptune could no longer see the open sea beyond the superstructure of Pacifica, so colossal was the city's dome. Truly it was a triumph, a temple to man's mastery of the machine and his world.

  Those passengers waiting in the fore airlocks were afforded the most impressive view of the city as the Neptune glided smoothly into its appointed docking bay - just one of many, the piers of which reached out from the city's superstructure like anemone fronds into the ocean depths. Passengers like Ulysses Quicksilver, his female companion Miss Finch hanging onto his arm. The dandy's manservant stood a pace or two behind them carrying with him a bag recently purchased by Glenda to "help her do her shopping", shooting disapproving looks at the couple arm-in-arm before him.

  Glenda Finch might not be the sort of woman that Ulysses would usually take as a companion, and she certainly wasn't going to be the love of his life but, to his mind, it merely enhanced his reputation if he arrived with a single young woman with her own public profile. And the more the press portrayed him as a notorious, fame-hungry womaniser, the more quickly it would forget that other side of his personality - that of agent of the throne of Magna Britannia, for whom espionage and adventure were never far away.

  And Glenda had scrubbed up well for the occasion, Ulysses considered, as he gave her another appraising look. Both of them had dressed to impress for their brief sojourn within the undersea city. He was wearing an off-white linen suit, magnolia waistcoat and verdigris cravat, she an unassuming number picked up in one of the Neptune's many boutiques. It was a Vasa original, broad across the shoulders with an open collar plunging to a V-cut neckline, coming in tight at the waist - and she really did have a very slim waist - before ballooning at the hips again and then coming in tight at the ankles. The outfit accentuated her classic hourglass figure, and Glenda Finch walked - hips rolling lasciviously - like she knew it. The realisation that she was likely to be making the headlines today, rather than writing them, had not been lost on her.

  It looked like those assembled at the docking port with Ulysses and his small entourage - other passengers and even some of the ship's human crew members - were looking forward to a little shore leave, even if it was only for the day, leaving the slaved automata on board to maintain the sub-liner's systems.

  It was an opportunity too good to be missed. It might not technically be terra firma, but at least to walk the parks and promenades of Pacifica was to walk on a steady, unmoving surface. It would take all of them a little time to find their land-legs again, after the subtle yet constant rolling of the decks after a number of weeks on board ship.

  With a hiss of equalising air pressures, the airlocks steamed open and the eager passengers hurried to enter the underwater metropolis. Having passed through all the different failsafe measures from the docks - pressurised airlocks and sealable bulkheads - those 'going ashore' finally passed through customs and entered the city itself.

  What awaited them was something not far short of a full-blown ticker-tape parade. Crowds of Pacificans and other visitors thronged the streets beyond the customs checkpoint, contained behind temporarily erected barricades, a brass band in crimson uniforms, polished gold buttons shining, oompah-ing away behind the crowds somewhere.

  The air smelled sterile and recycled - which, of course, it was. But then other, completely contrasting exotic aromas assailed Ulysses' finely-tuned nose. It was said that Pacifica was a truly cosmopolitan hotchpotch of a place, welcoming people from all corners of the globe, who brought with them their own cultures, diets, specialities. It was also said, in more hushed tones by those in the know, that anything could be acquired in Pacifica, no matter how discerning or demanding the customer's tastes may be.

  Bulbs flashed and a number of kinema cameras followed the progress of the great and the good as they disembarked from the Neptune. Glenda was excited to see their own faces looking back at them from a large broadcast screen hanging above the scallop-shell plaza they were now crossing. Those same images would likely be broadcast across the globe, on the Magna Britannia Broadcasting Corporation's official news channel, ad nauseam over the next twenty-four hours. The maiden voyage of the Neptune could still make the headlines, even weeks after leaving Southampton. And since the debacle surrounding the regime-threatening activities of the Darwinian Dawn Ulysses had become something of a celebrity across the Empire. People commented and pointed when they saw him; some boldly approached to ask for his autograph or a photograph, whilst many more simply stopped and stared as he strode past. Ulysses loved every second of it.

  Glenda loved the attention too, making the most of being in front of the cameras, when the opportunity arose, rather than being stuck behind a type-processing Babbage console. Only the long-suffering Nimrod seemed not to be enjoying the attention, a pained expression on his face the whole time which turned to an even more annoyed grimace when he caught a glimpse of himself on screen. Perhaps it was a hangover from his misspent youth, this desperate desire not to have attention drawn to himself, least he be recognised by someone.

  "Nimrod, old chap," Ulysses said, addressing his manservant, "why don't you take some time for yourself? Take a few hours off. I'm sure I'm more than capable of helping Miss Finch carry her shopping."

  "Very good, sir," Nimrod said, without a hint of protest, the tension in his expression already easing. "If you're certain you won't be requiring my assistance?"

  "I think Miss Finch would just like to take in a few of the boutiques on the Strand and we might go for a saunter through the coral parks," Ulysses went on.

  "Sounds almost romantic, like we're courting," Glenda teased, squeezing his arm tighter.

  "So take your time, old chap. No need to hurry back. I'm sure we'll be fine without you. I mean, how much trouble can we get into here?"

  "Then I shall bid you and Miss Finch good day."

  "Good day, Mr Nimrod."

  "See you later, old boy."

  "This place is truly stunning!" Glenda declared, an expression of child-like wonder on her face. Ulysses had to admit that it was a very endearing quality, especially in someone who, by dint of their work-a-day trade one might have expected to be a cynical hack. She might write the gossip column for T
he Times but she had been writing about a world she was viewing second hand; she had never truly been a part of things until now.

  And the worldly adventurer, who many would most definitely have considered to have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and who had seen all manner of wonders the world over, had to agree once again with his awestruck companion.

  Whether the city had been constructed on top of a dead reef which had then had the ocean pumped out of it and the park carved out of the outcropping seabed - the skeletons of a million coral life-forms - or whether the colourful forest of bones had been transplanted here from elsewhere along with every last carefully arranged rocky spur, the result was a thing of beauty.

  The sea-worn rock, also bearing the scars of shellfish erosion, had a grotto-like quality, the stone riddled with hollows, holes and tiny tunnels. Larger cave-like structures had also been purposefully carved out of the rock between florid protrusions of crimson, amber and rose-pink branches of dry, dead coral, and other natural cavern spaces enhanced. Landscape-engineered cascades tumbled between the coral-clung rocks, under bridged pathways and over the sculpted seabed, the gurgling and babbling of water ever-present in the gardens. And, unlike any public garden Ulysses had visited before, those same cascades were salt seawater. Corralled within the flooded hollows of pools and sculpted streams, cuttlefish swan, multi-hued octopi hunted between the waving fronds of anemones and submerged sea-worms, whilst leopard-spotted eels darted from their shaded holes. Brittle stars scrambled over rock-pool floors, azure-bodied sea cucumbers oozed between feeding grounds. Barnacle-shelled crustaceans plucked dainty morsels from their pools, fed to them by the passers-by, shoals of parrot fish coursing between growths of seaweed and limpet-clung rocks.

  "So, where now? What would you like to see next?" Ulysses asked, feeling that their purposeless ambling needed some direction.

  "Oh, we've not seen the Triton Fountain yet, have we?" Glenda suggested excitedly.

  "No, we haven't. It's over this way," Ulysses said, directing with his bloodstone cane.

  The casual couple skirted a wide circular pool where a park-keeper was feeding a cast of pink-shelled spider crabs, much to the delight of the onlookers who had gathered round.

  "There's old Jonah Carcharodon!" Glenda suddenly blurted out. "Mr Carcharodon! Coo-ee, over here!"

  Before Ulysses could stop her, forgetting any sense of decorum, she began waving furiously as she called out to the shipping magnate. Why didn't his near-prescient sixth sense see to warn him of such embarrassing social faux pas?

  Carcharodon was being pushed at a sedate pace through the coral gardens by his ever-attendant PA. The two of them appeared to have been deep in conversation, but now both Carcharodon and Miss Celeste caught sight of them. Ulysses didn't miss the passing look of annoyance the old man displayed before his 'for-the-cameras' smile returned, his public persona taking charge. Miss Celeste, however, immediately directed her timid gaze back towards the ground, hoping her carefully coiffeured fringe would hide her.

  Miss Celeste intrigued Ulysses. Undeniably attractive and yet hampered by her overwhelming shyness, she worked for one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, and yet she appeared to demonstrate no self-confidence whatsoever. Ulysses couldn't help noticing that she was also carrying a portable personal Babbage unit with her, strapped up in a bag slung over her shoulder. It seemed that she was never off duty, always at work, just like her employer.

  Glenda steered Ulysses through the bustling crowds towards the wheelchair-bound billionaire. The poor man, doesn't have a hope, Ulysses thought to himself. He couldn't get away if he wanted to.

  "Mr Carcharodon," Glenda gushed, shaking the old man enthusiastically by the hand, "so this is how a multi-billionaire spends his afternoons off."

  "What? Oh, I see what you mean. I suppose so."

  "Aren't they beautiful?"

  "What?" the shipping magnate blustered, clearly not on the same train of thought as the newspaper writer.

  "Why, the coral gardens, of course," Glenda clarified, an expression of amusement on her face, her tone playfully chiding.

  "Look, if you two would like to be left alone," Ulysses hissed in Glenda's ear.

  "Oh, Mr Quicksilver, you're so amusing," his companion said raucously. Miss Celeste shot her a venomous look.

  Ulysses felt that oh-so familiar itch at the back of his brain. He looked round sharply. The promenading crowds were thick around them now but he could see no threat. It must simply be a feeling of unfamiliar claustrophobia that was getting to him. Perhaps even a touch of jealousy. He really had to get his head sorted out; he seemed to keep getting mixed up with women possessed of a self-serving nature. Perhaps, this should be his last outing with Miss Glenda Finch.

  "Oh my!" Miss Celeste suddenly shrieked, her uncharacteristic outburst surprising everyone.

  An instant later, somebody barged past Ulysses. Instinctively he shot out a hand - only he was encumbered by the fact that it was on the same arm he had interlocked with Glenda's. He caught an impression of a roughly-dressed rogue, keeping his head down, and picking up pace as he broke free of the clustering crowds.

  "My bag!" Miss Celeste cried. "It's been taken. Someone's taken my bag!"

  And the Babbage unit, Ulysses thought as, already practically acting on instinct alone, he broke free of Glenda's clinch and leapt free of the now unmoving throng, curious passers-by stopping to see what all the fuss was about.

  "Oi!" Ulysses shouted after his quarry. "Stop, thief! Somebody stop that man, for Pete's sake!"

  Entering a stretch of less-crowded pathways, the thief sprinted away between the coral-clad rocks, Miss Celeste's bag gripped tightly in one hand. Ulysses put on a spurt of speed, feeling the rush of adrenalin flood his body, the old fight-or-flight response doing its bit. The chase was most definitely on.

  Even at the height of the pursuit, adrenal glands pumping their secretions into his bloodstream, his heart racing, a part of Ulysses' conscious mind found time to consider that every city, no matter where it might be or how idyllic it might appear on the outside, had its own criminal underclass. And, of course, Ulysses knew all about the dark underbelly of the undersea paradise of Pacifica already.

  He ran on, shouting again for assistance as he forced his way past meandering clusters of surprised promenaders. There were a number of shouts from startled tourists, not so much at the brusque manner of Ulysses, as he barged past in his mad dash after the thief, but at his presence there at all, his celebrity status well and truly secured.

  The park attendants - both human and automaton - had at last noticed that something was awry and were making taking steps to act accordingly, although they appeared to be as surprised as the general public. Whatever flustered action they might eventually deem to take, Ulysses suspected that it would doubtless be too late to stop the thief from getting away.

  The fleeing scoundrel was steadily descending through the coral-sculpted gardens. Taking a sharp right at a junction, Ulysses doubled back on himself, running hell-for-leather towards a shimmering cascade. There he saw his opportunity to bring the chase to an end.

  Bounding over the low wrought-iron fence surrounding the coral beds he dashed across the top of the cascade, in line with the fleeing ruffian, and leapt. Hitting the pink gravel path six feet below, he winced, feeling his left knee jar as he landed. The rush of adrenalin nonetheless allowed him to put the pain to one side, although he knew he would pay for it later.

  Ulysses managed to regain his composure in time for the thief to round the edge of the cascade and run slap bang into his outstretched arm. The arm, rigid as a steel bar, caught the man across the neck. He went down hard, legs flying out from under him. The bag flew from his hand, a catch unbuckling, a number of dossier files sailing into the air to fall like over-sized confetti onto the path.

  The dandy deftly plucked the bag out of the air, catching it by the shoulder strap and smoothly slinging it over his arm.

 
Ulysses looked down at the pole-axed scoundrel, as the thwarted thief clutched at his throat gasping for air, straightened his jacket and saw to his loosened cravat. "I rather suspect this doesn't belong to you," he said, holding Miss Celeste's bag over the spluttering man. The wretch, unshaven and looking every part the habitual felon, stared at Ulysses in eye-bulging shock.

  Ulysses recovered the loosed files, briefly opening the card folders to make sure that everything was put back in its rightful place.

  With a skittering of boot-steps on gravel, a number of park keepers caught up with the rogue and his captor at last.

  "Gentlemen," Ulysses said, casting an unimpressed look at the tardy attendants, "I think I can leave this unpleasant situation to you to deal with now, don't you?"

  By the time Ulysses returned to the spot where the attempted crime had taken place, Miss Celeste was sitting on a park bench looking flustered, with an overbearing Glenda trying to comfort her, an arm around the woman's tense shoulders. Jonah Carcharodon sat in his chair offering no words of sympathy or optimistic encouragement, a thunderous expression clouding his face.

  On seeing Ulysses striding back along the path towards them, bag in hand, Miss Celeste visibly relaxed, an unexpected smile erupting from her tear-streaked face that was like a brilliant ray of sunshine after the passing of a cloud.

  "Oh, thank you! Thank you, Mr Quicksilver!" she gushed. "If I had lost this... I don't know what I would have done," she said, faltering with the realisation of how close the situation had come to disaster.

  Ulysses had never known her say so much and for a moment the two of them even made eye contact.

  However, as far as her employer was concerned, Ulysses' endeavours might have been for naught, even though Ulysses was sure that the loss of Miss Celeste's difference engine and assorted documents would have been as great an inconvenience for Carcharodon as it would have been for his assistant.

  "Come on, woman. If these histrionics are quite done with, can we get going?" Carcharodon snapped.