CHAPTER 8: TO THE SEA
It wasn’t the first time Dirk had faced a firing line. Given the circumstances, he had a horrible feeling it might be the last. And though he didn’t fear death, the thought that he might have brought it upon his friends filled him with regret. The familiar sound of Blaze-Simms shaking one of his contraptions only added to the melancholy.
“Sorry for getting you into this.” Dirk looked at Isabelle, who glared back at him.
“Do you know how patronising you sound?” She shook her head. “I brought that first tablet halfway around the world, got your club involved, made sure we would come to this island. If I’m about to die, I will do so knowing that my fate was made by me and not some man.”
“I just meant-”
There was a click of guns being cocked.
“Well, I’m still sorry,” Dirk said.
“No need for that yet.” As Blaze-Simms spoke there was a whirring sound.
Turning, Dirk saw a shimmering in the air. It expanded out from the Englishman’s walking stick, forming a halo around them.
“Go on, fire!” Blaze-Simms exclaimed.
The natives looked at each other in confusion, except for Felipe. His eyes narrowed, there was a roar, and smoke belched from his gun.
The air rippled and a bullet clicked against the walking stick. More guns fired, and a moment later a dozen bullets were attached to Blaze-Simms’s device.
“Mark Two Gauss Generator!” He grinned. “Far more portable than the one that burned out in Paris, but only diverts light missiles.”
“Looks good to me.” Dirk stretched his aching arms and tilted his head in a loose circle, warming muscles ready for a fight. One hand instinctively went for his pistol before he realised that the generator made that useless too.
The locals had abandoned their guns, picking up shovels and picks from a pile on the pier.
The statue, released from whatever order had held it in place, rushed forward. It was a foot-tall embodiment of the spirit of war, a figure of cold steel and slashing blades, charging straight at Dirk.
He pulled his leg back and kicked with all his might, hitting the body of the statue. The pain almost made him scream, booted toes slamming against the weight of metal, but it was worth it. The statue went flying, dropping into the sea with a splash and a hiss.
“Listen.” Dirk limped toward the locals. “I hear why the wreck’s important to you, but the world moves on. You can’t keep us here forever, so let us onto our boat.”
Face twisted with rage, Felipe stepped out to meet him. He yelled something Dirk couldn’t understand and lunged forward.
Years of training kicking in, Dirk ducked as a shovel swung over his head. Reaching out, he grabbed the handle, tugged his assailant forwards and onto his upraised knee. Felipe grunted and curled in upon himself. Without pausing, Dirk shoved him back into one of his comrades and turned the shovel on them, hitting both men with one swipe. One slumped to the deck while the other, reeling and clutching his face, stumbled off the pier with a splash.
As Dirk turned, Ubu Peter came towards him, pick in hand.
“We could have worked together.” Dirk hefted the shovel.
“I have seen what most white men mean by working together,” Ubu Peter said. “It is not good enough.”
Moonlight sparkled on the tip of the pick as he swung it up and over, metal spike scything toward Dirk’s head. Dirk swung the shovel up, parrying the blow and sweeping both tools around and down. They hit the ground with a crack, the pick head burying itself in the pier. Before Ubu Peter could tug it free, Dirk darted forward, both fists swinging.
Abandoning the weapon to raise his arms in defence, Ubu Peter backed off. Dodged and diving, he blocked Dirk’s blows while trying to get his own through, aiming high then low, forcing Dirk to slow his assault.
They swayed on their feet, eyeing each other like rival lions, ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness. Dirk feinted left then jumped right, reaching for the abandoned shovel. But Ubu Peter saw it coming. His foot lashed out, striking Dirk in the forearm, stunning his nerves and sending the shovel spinning into the water.
Numbness seized Dirk’s injured arm, the fingers frozen in place. Ubu Peter kicked out again, and Dirk managed to move clear just in time, feeling the breeze of the blow’s passage. His opponent was gaining momentum, shifting nimbly on his feet, pressing Dirk back with a series of swift strikes. He wobbled as his heel reached the edge of the pier. Nowhere left to go.
Taking a deep breath, Dirk leapt forward. He ignored the pain of blows battering his head and shoulders, focused on slamming his whole body against his opponent. They grabbed each other as they fell, rolling across the planks, both trying to end up on top. After a few dizzying turns Dirk found himself pinned, left arm trapped beneath him as Ubu Peter punched him repeatedly in the face.
Focusing all his will on his right shoulder, Dirk heaved his numb arm up and around, smashing it wildly against the side of his opponent’s head. Ubu Peter sagged, his gaze became unfocused, and Dirk seized his moment. With a grunt he hurled Ubu Peter to the floor, hauled himself onto his knees and, with his good arm, delivered a knock-out blow.
Staggering to his feet, Dirk looked around. Several of their attackers were down but three remained, their backs towards him as they pressed Isabelle and Blaze-Simms back toward land. Blaze-Simms had his fists up Queensberry style and was fending off most of the attacks, but half his face was red and blood trickled from one hand. Isabelle, her skirts torn, waved a broken spade handle with exaggerated menace.
Life was returning to Dirk’s his right arm. Stalking forwards, he grabbed an opponent with each hand and slammed their heads together with a resounding thud. The third man turned with a start, only for Isabelle to smash the splintered handle against the back of his head. His eyes rolled and he slumped down next to his allies.
“I see you’re handy with a cudgel as well as a gun,” Dirk said. “Good to know there’s more to an English education than manners.”
One of his teeth felt loose. He turned and spat, trying to get the taste of blood out of his mouth.
“Mr Dynamo.” Isabelle frowned at the sight. “Being assailed by ruffians is no excuse for behaving like one.” She flung her improvised weapon into the water and nodded toward the boat. “Shall we?”
Dawn cast a rosy glow across the taut sails as they scudded out of the harbour. Dirk watched the water peel away in miniature waves as the boat cut a course through calm blue waters. He listened to the whisper of their passage as Blaze-Simms fussed around him, tightening straps and testing seals on the diving suit in which he had Dirk trapped. It was a strange, bulbous thing, made of curved metal plates edged with rubber. The shoulders didn’t fit quite right, causing the helmet to slip back and press against Dirk’s face. His view was restricted to what he could see through a pair of lenses of thick, curved glass, and his own breath echoed eerily around him.
“Don’t you Brits know anything about comfort?” Dirk’s voice sounded hollow, trapped in the echo chamber of the helmet.
“Actually, a lot of the features are American.” Timothy’s muffled voice somehow made it through the suit. “Your Commodore Maury left some notes with the Club while he was in England. Loose ideas for what would help with oceanographic exploration. I’ve made them real.”
Blaze-Simms waved a belt in front of the helmet’s distorting window.
“A couple of extras, just in case.” He held up a series of sheathed objects, explaining each one as he attached it to the belt. “Collapsing spade, in case the tablet’s buried.
“Miniature harpoon gun, radium powered like my rifle so that it will work underwater. Should be handy if you meet sharks.
“Bowie knife, in case the harpoon fails.
“Underwater flares, magnesium and phosphorus compound with a jet funnel base. Pull the tab and release. They’ll self-propel to the surface as they burn.
“Hatchet, for cutting into the wreck.
“Emergency
air. Twist the tube and two compounds combine, reacting to provide oxygen through this hole for about three minutes. I have to admit, I’m rather pleased with that one. Took me hours to get the mix right.”
Blaze-Simms reached around Dirk, clipping the belt into place. Last of all he attached an empty oil-skin bag.
“For the tablet.”
Dirk clumped to the back of the yacht. Behind him there was a clatter of chains as Blaze-Simms readied the winch.
The harness tightened beneath him, lifting him from his feet and swinging him out over the water. He was overcome by a sense of unreality, hanging in mid-air, isolated from the world around him. Seagulls soared by but he couldn’t hear their shrieks or feel the wind that filled their wings. He was the epitome of humanity, cut off from nature by the products of progress. Man, perfected and alone.
He caught a glimpse of Isabelle waving and wishing him good luck. He smiled back, then remembered that she couldn’t see his face, closed in by this cage of glass and brass. He raised a hand in salute, the chain rattled and he dropped into the ocean’s embrace.
It didn’t feel like any kind of diving Dirk had done before. It was strange enough that he had air piped down to him, flowing over his face with each heave of his lungs, instead of having to hold his breath. But on top of that the sense of movement was completely different. Instead of propelling himself horizontally through the water, arms and legs scything through the currents, he was lowered vertically on a chain, his weight carrying him down to the ocean’s floor. He could push himself forward a little but it was hard work, his arms thick and ungainly, padded with layers of air and rubberised suit. His legs hung useless beneath him, weighed down by sturdy boots. And the sea, whose tight embrace supported and smothered a diver as he explored her depths, was now held away, close by and yet cut off.
Dirk shifted his shoulders, straining to move the helmet forward enough to get a proper view of what lay below. Sunlight, warped by the waves above, created a glowing web on the sea floor, a net through which fish happily swam. It fell across low ridges of sand, lines of hills an inch tall, shifting as the waves built them up and cast them back down.
As he settled on the bottom, sand spurted up beneath his feet, a brief murky cloud that scattered nearby fish and then fell away, the water fading once more to clear blue. Sand receded for fifty yards ahead of him before the world faded into a blue-green mass, the sea swallowing everything from view.
Dirk trudged forwards, his legs slowed by the water and the weight of the suit. One step, two, three, gaining as much momentum as he could, sand rising again behind him then settling to fill the memory of his footfalls. He leaned forwards, instinctively shifting towards a diver’s stance. But the weight of the helmet almost tipped him over and he had to stand back upright or risk falling face down on the sea floor.
Ahead, the silvery bodies of fish shimmered in the broken light as they fed on tumbling green balls of weed, darting away at Dirk’s approach. They would dash out of reach, pause to watch him, then dash off again. The moved as they lived, brief and fast, rushing from one moment to another then waiting on the tide. Larger shoals swirled above and around, their many individual movements becoming a single shimmering pattern, an undersea dance whose meaning and purpose eluded Dirk.
For all the life and movement, Dirk found himself enclosed in eerie silence, the only sound his own breath making hollow circuits of the helmet.
A shape loomed out of the green gloom. Three long, straight fingers reaching towards the bright surface and sky. Beneath them two dark mounds, separated by a jagged line of sea. The wreck.
Dirk’s spirits soared as he strode towards the wreck. Soon he’d hold the second piece of the puzzle in his hands, two thirds of the way to unlocking the lost secrets of Alexandria. He thrilled at the thought of what they might find. Forgotten philosophical insights of Plato and Socrates. Histories of nations now lost to memory. Designs of devices that had sat for centuries waiting to be built. The wisdom of the ancients, ready to shed light on the modern world. And he would be one of the first to read it. His head would cradle knowledge absent from the lofty spires of Oxford and Paris. He would show them that anyone could bring insight to the world, even a grubby kid from a Kentucky mining town.
No wobbly tooth could bring down his spirits now.
A shoal of fish swimming ahead of him suddenly froze. Their unity shattered as they turned and darted away from the wreck, dragging other fish in their wake. Dirk found himself alone, the only movement a few strands of weed swaying in the current.
A shadow shifted in the darkness of the wreck.
Dirk reached for the harpoon gun. It looked like Blaze-Simms had been right about the sharks.
Another shape moved at the far end of the wreck. And another. And another. Easing out of the shelter of the ruined ship, they slid across the sand - dark, indistinct forms growing in number as more appeared out of the vessel’s ports and over its top deck. A shoal of shadows, ragged at their edges as the current tried to snatch them away. They seemed to glide forward without fins or limbs, but as they grew closer Dirk made out glittering eyes and pale mouths, drawn back in expressions of anguish. Faces not of fishes or sharks but of human beings. Men, women, children, all with African features, all dangling with ghostly chains.
Voices reached him now, angry hisses growing to a discordant wail as the spirits closed in, and then to a fearsome shrieking chorus that rang round his helmet and sent his head spinning.
He raised the gun, aimed it at the nearest shadow and fired. His arm jolted back as a stream of bubbles exploded into the water. The harpoon shot forwards through the shadow without even slowing. The creature expanded, flowing into the others, until they became a mass of swirling chains and blurred faces, a whirl of pure embodied rage that closed over Dirk, blocking his vision and plunging him into icy darkness.
Guns and Guano Page 9
