Cuttlefish

by Dave Freer

  They'd all thought it was a bit of a joke when the girl joined the class. Well, Tim had been less sure it was going to be as funny as they thought. She'd showed him how to calculate that angle. But he laughed with the others. He didn't want to stick out too much. It was hard enough with Banks and Standard picking on him all the time.

  They didn't laugh for long. She was pretty smart. And she'd done things at school that they hadn't. “So if your current is running at 3.3 knots southeast, and the wind-speed is 4 knots northerly, at what minimum speed and on what heading do you have to travel to move due south?” said Mr. Amos. “Write it up on your slates.”

  Clara drew the vectors while the others were still scratching their heads. Mr. Amos stalked about. After a few minutes he took her slate. “It appears, Miss Calland, that you do not know what the minimum speed for steerage is.”

  The other juniors and cabin boys laughed.

  “She does, however, know more than the rest of you. A submarine does need to be moving faster than a certain speed for its rudders to work effectively. Add the fact that the Cuttlefish needs to move at at least two knots to have reliable steerage and explain your method to the class.”

  It got quite competitive after that.

  No one liked being beaten by a mere girl.

  “No classes today. We're running silent in an hour,” said Mr. Amos.

  “What's happening?” asked Clara, ever curious.

  “Just a migrant fleet heading for Greenland that's been sighted. But there might be ships with hydrophones.”

  So that day was a silent, still one. It was still very much better than the early days. Clara spent much of it reading a text on navigation, which, seeing as she was catching up and determined to be better at it than all of the rest of them were…was actually rather interesting. It was odd; they were only five days off the Boston Shoals. They'd be going ashore there. She and her mother would be out of the smelly narrow confines of the submarine and safe and comfortable again.

  She wasn't looking forward to it.

  “So have you kissed her yet, Darkie?” asked Banks, after they finished their cabins.

  Tim blushed. At least it wasn't quite as obvious on him, but he could still feel his face getting hot. He really didn't like being called “Darkie” for starters, but as his mum said, taking any notice just made them stick it into you more. He didn't like Banks at all either, but he had to try to get along with the rest of the crew. He knew just exactly why he was being given a hard time too. Clara was a bit too smart for some of them. Him too, sometimes. But she didn't mock him when he got things wrong. She was fairly merciless otherwise. It was done in fun, but it surely got under some skins and itched. And she was obviously enjoying it. Nav was a game to her, and she was already better at it than Banks would be in ten years. “I don't know what you mean.”

  “Your little up-dweller girlfriend, Darkie. She must like 'em small and rough.”

  “She's not my girlfriend.” Tim rushed off, his ears burning, before Banks went on. He wouldn't mind kissing her. He just had no idea how to even suggest the idea, or what to do about it. Or even how to make any kind of move at all. And he was scared if he did…he'd be in trouble and she'd stay away from him. And he really, really didn't want that.

  Tim was quite glad to think Dr. Calland and her daughter would be getting off the sub soon. Glad, because it was mixing him up, making trouble between him and the others, but sad too. He'd like to have kissed her. At least once.

  Duke Malcolm stood impassive while Prince Albert raged at him.

  “You don't understand, Malcolm. You can't send our fleet into their waters. They're sitting on nearly a quarter of the world's coal. Their consumption is nothing like ours. Yes, I know it's been picking up, they're using more, but we really need access to their stocks. We need to stay on trading terms with them. That is why we are officially neutral in this war the United States is having with the Canadian Dominion. We can't afford to confront them right now. Why, the needs of the Greenland colonies…”

  Malcolm had finally had enough of Prince Albert's going on. And on. “None of that will matter in the event that someone gives the Americans—because that is where it looks like she's going, Albert—a synthetic method of producing nitrates.”

  Prince Albert snorted. “They already have the nitric acid plants in Wyoming and Kentucky. Synthetics will take over, even if they are expensive. They've been getting efficiency of up to 5 percent now. And the best we can do in Manchester is 3.8 percent. I've been telling the Privy Council this for years, but no one listens.”

  Trust Albert to know about anything that smacked of science. To have the figures at his fingertips—figures that meant nothing to anyone but Albert. And yes, no one listened to him. If they did, the Empire would have collapsed long ago. It was a good thing that Ernest was the older, even if he was a vain little peacock. The British Empire under Albert would be Hyde Park. Duke Malcolm looked at him, staring in the way that he had long ago discovered totally discomforted his older half-brother. “This—if the fuss the Russians have made of it is any indication, is a much cheaper method,” said Duke Malcolm. “And we have no idea of how efficient it is, except that the Russians and now the Americans are keen to have her. At a very large price. They do not do this because they think it unimportant or they would not risk our ire. They have. She has something that could change the nitrate problem, take it away from our control.”

  “Then you need to either capture her, or kill her before the Americans or Russians get her,” said Albert.

  Duke Malcolm was surprised. His older half-brother was developing sense.…And then Albert spoiled it all by adding, “But capture is first prize. You must focus on that, Malcolm. Imagine how many more of our people we could feed if we had a better supply of nitrates.”

  Malcolm knew Albert was a fool. It wasn't fertilizer that the Empire needed. It was munitions! They'd been badly wrong-footed on the Faroes having assumed that the submarine was headed east. The famous Winged Hussars had made such a bad landing that they might as well not have tried. But at least he did know, definitely, that they had the right submarine. Calland and her daughter were on that one. That much the freed prisoners had been able to tell them, having heard the voices, as well as being told by the spy on the boat. The folly of letting the prisoners go, instead of executing them, left Malcolm shaking his head. His informer had a hidden Marconi transmitter, but was very loath to use it. It had a relatively short range, and the man seemed terrified the submarine's Marconi man would pick it up. The duke's spy was a deep sleeper agent, supposed to maintain cover at all costs. Well, that status would have to change.

  Malcolm thought about the dossier on their target. He'd have to shake up the Irish Interest section. Yes, she had divorced Jack Calland, and had been living apart from him when he had been arrested. But associating with rebels left its mark. He'd wondered why the man had escaped execution…but he could possibly be used as a lever. Not with the mother, but on the daughter. The dossier had included young Clara Calland's letters to her father. One a month, as permitted. Jack Calland might not have any leverage over his ex-wife. Probably the opposite, in fact. But Dr. Calland was obviously fond of the girl. And in turn, the father could be used as bait for the girl. And the girl as bait for the mother…If they failed to kill them, which Malcolm regarded as more practical.

  It was a pity his informer balked at murder himself. Of course, it would be difficult on a small vessel with no way of escape, to get away with it. But Duke Malcolm was certain he could have done it. The duke had done so before.

  In the meantime he would work on these submariners' American contacts. There'd be some unexplained deaths there. His men had penetrated that part of their organisation very effectively some years ago. Anything happening there…he would deal with, perhaps before the United States could take Dr. Calland into its official bosom, but while she was still in the hands of the submariner scum.

  The only problem was that of course the
American government spied on the submariners and their American sympathisers and contacts too.

  The gossamer sails were checked and packed into their compartments on the outer hull. The masts were not just strapped down onto the deck, but actually taken apart and packed away in the outer hull. Before dawn tomorrow, the submarine would no longer run on the surface, but would start to creep toward the Boston Shoals underwater, sneaking deep into the complicated swamplands to make their rendezvous.

  Clara heard them get under way. The clack of the compression bellows and the ozone smell of the massive warming coils permeated through the submarine, waking her. Now the fireboxes were ignited, and the smell of coal dust burning began to tickle her nose. Most of the smoke bubbled out onto the surface, but there was always a little scent of it inside the sub. The Cuttlefish hadn't run on her Stirling engines much, out in the Atlantic, and getting them going again, properly warm and effective, was quite a process. Gradually, the noise smoothed. Clara knew the greasers would be oiling the flicking shafts, and the coal-heavers filling the hoppers to the filters and pressure vats. The chief would be muttering and looking at dials and gauges in his smoky, noisy little kingdom.

  She wondered if she should go down there. She'd probably never see it again. Her mother said that a woman should be able to be what she wanted to be, but Clara didn't see this door opening easily.

  And then the sound died. The “all quiet” light glowed amber in its Bakelite fitting.

  And someone came knocking at their door.

  It was one of cabin boys. Not Tim. It was that smarmy Banks who had tried to stroke her hair. “Captain requests you come up to the bridge, ma'am.”

  Clara went along as well. Mother didn't notice. She was just too absorbed at the moment to notice anything much.

  Captain Malkis was there, pacing, looking worried. He bowed. “We seem to have blundered into something, Dr. Calland.”

  “What?” asked her mother.

  “Possibly a war,” said Captain Malkis. “Sparks is monitoring the Marconi transmissions. But there is a fleet of Royal Navy warships between us and your destination. There appear to be American vessels about too. At this range it is hard to tell quite what they're up to. But the Boston shallows would be highly risky right now. We'll try sending a coded message to our contacts there at our prearranged time. But we are close to the maximum range for our transmission.”

  The steersman on periscope duty was making a series of notes on a pad, before moving the scope on to another notch.

  Clara's mother looked stricken. “A war. A war with the British Empire?”

  “There is no actual firing at the moment, Dr. Calland. The smoke from ten-inch guns is quite easy to spot. But there are a substantial number of ships. Certainly enough to make a very dangerous blockade for us to try and run. Of course if we can arrange another rendezvous elsewhere, things become much simpler. We will let you know, just as soon as we have some more definite information.”

  “Could…Could I have a look through the periscope?” asked Clara.

  Captain Malkis tugged his neat little goatee. “I suppose you could, Miss Calland. Seeing as you have been learning navigation,” he said, with a slight smile. He was plainly quite worried. “Nicholl, let her have the periscope. Turn it to quadrant four, first sector.”

  On the skyline in the grey of a cloudy morning with the haze of land behind them, Clara saw the smokestacks and sharp square outlines of ships. Ships spiky with guns.

  “There are no less than three dreadnoughts there. That's…unusual,” said Captain Malkis.

  Sparks took his leather headphones off. “They're keeping radio silence, sir. I've only picked up one bit of chatter. American, sounding worried. Asking for orders. They got a station assigned. I also got a public broadcast, sir. About the war with the Canadian Dominion.”

  “So: the British Empire is at war with the United States of America,” said her mother.

  “Not according to the broadcast, ma'am,” said Sparks. “There's some senator demanding the British ambassador be called on to explain what the Fleet is doing in American territorial waters.”

  “Canada is a Dominion of the British Empire,” said her mother with a grim finality.

  The captain shrugged. “I think you'll find the Crown calling it a local border dispute, ma'am. They did that in the Nyassaland–Congo conflict, when they did not want an open breach with King Leopold.”

  Clara's mother said nothing. But the set of her shoulders said a great deal.

  It was several tense hours later that the captain came down to see them. The “all quiet” light was out, and you could feel the faint gentle vibration of the electric motors. “Good news, ma'am. Sparks received a coded message from our friends in the US. It was a bit broken up, but we have a fresh rendezvous off the Florida banks. We'll get the Stirling engines going as soon as we're sure we're well out of hydrophone range.”

  Mother nodded. But you could see the tension in her. “Thank you, Captain Malkis,” was all she said, though.

  When he'd gone, Clara asked what was wrong.

  “I think the Americans lied to me. I want…I wanted this to make a better world. To help grow crops. To feed the hungry. Not for it to be used to make war with,” she said, and sat down on her bunk and pointedly opened a book.

  That didn't leave Clara any wiser. Or any happier herself. She went out looking for someone else to talk to. The best she could come up with was Cookie, as everyone else was asleep or busy, or in areas she'd been quietly but firmly told were off-limits.

  The cook and his assistant were dicing onions—his two assistants did work in shifts, but Cookie seemed to be there about eighteen hours a day, anyway.

  “You've come for a cry with us?” said Cookie.

  “It'd be a good place for it,” said Clara, blinking. “No, I was just getting away from my mother.”

  “A boat's a mighty close place. You can't escape anything down here. Not even the onions,” said Cookie, crying with his work.

  “What do you know about America, Cookie?” asked Clara, not even to be put off by the onions.

  “Not much, missy,” he said, not looking up from his cutting. It was just as well, at the speed he used a knife. “It was a pretty closed place for a good many years. There was a lot of bad feeling about the British Empire over the 1914 to 1915 War, a lot of German immigrants there too. It was all a bit iffy as to who they supported during the war, and then, when Germany surrendered, well after that they kind of turned inwards. Kept themselves to themselves. It's a big country, and it mostly came through the Big Melt all right. Grows its own food. Good tucker, even if it is a bit long on corn. It's feeling its oats now a bit. Got lots of coal, and the British Empire is getting short of it. Got oil and a fair number of what they call automobiles over there. I reckon you'll like it. There are a lot of other Irish people there.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she wasn't Irish. At St. Margaret's School no one would have ever admitted to being Irish. They were all British and proud of it! Only now it seemed that the British wanted to capture her and her mother. Maybe even kill them. And these “rebel scum” were a lot nicer to her than her school companions had ever been. And her father was an Irish rebel. A brave man, as Tim had finally let her acknowledge.

  It was quite difficult to get used to all the changes in her life, in the way she had to see things now. Just as difficult as coping with mother not telling her anything. She said so, instead of telling Cookie she wasn't Irish.

  “I reckon,” said Cookie thoughtfully, “she thinks she's looking after you.”

  “Well, she's not,” said Clara, crossly.

  “Ah, well, you don't know that, missy. Also…what you don't know, you can't give away. There might be other people involved, see.”

  “I wish she'd tell me, anyway.”

  “In good time, I daresay she will,” said Cookie, grinning. “My old man did, only by the time he did, I'd gone walkabout.”

  H
e pointed to the amber light that had just come on, and so Clara had to retreat in silence.

  That was the story of the next few days. Constant ship alarms, and silences as they crept south.

  The strain told on all of them. The sergeant-at-arms had to break up a fight between a repair-rating and an engine-room mechanic. The food was not quite what they'd got used to in the Atlantic crossing. Keeping low in the water the boat rolled a great deal too, which did not make life easy or pleasant.

  “We've made contact with our friends in the US,” said Captain Malkis on the third morning, which was really night. Time ran differently in the enclosed world of the submarine, with the main working “day” being night.

  There was something of an edge to his voice. A wariness that made Clara ask, “What's wrong?”

  “They've suggested a rendezvous off the Bahamian shoals. We've only met up in the Okeechobee lagoons before. The shoals are disputed waters, although the United States now claims them, as they took the refugees when most of the Islands were flooded. They were part of the British Empire before that, though. It's odd. It means your pickup will have to run the Straits of Florida. That's quite heavily patrolled. It would be quite a lot safer to run you in on the submarine. I've got Sparks trying to raise them again to change it.”

  “You take very good care of us, Captain,” said Mother.

  “We do our best,” said the captain, with a small smile.

  Sparks, however, got no reply. So they nudged toward Bimini anyway.

  The captain came down to talk to them again, later that day. “It looks like we might be taking you into the Florida wetlands after all. We got a message that they've had engine trouble and are stuck on a sandbar off South Great Abaco, and are waiting for the tide. Tricky waters, those. So we've agreed to rendezvous closer to them, and if they're still stuck, pick them up, otherwise transfer you. We should be there in about four hours. If you can be packed up in case we can trans-ship you?”