Captain Nemo

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Taking Nemo’s hand, Verne climbed into the small boat and sat unsteadily.

  “I . . . I’ve always meant to go on an adventure.” As Nemo rowed back out to the armored vessel, Verne thought of the tiny rented skiff he had taken down the Loire, which had broken apart and stranded him on the isolated sandbar. “I would have gone on the Coralie with you. Honestly.”

  “And now you can go on my Nautilus.”

  After Nemo docked against the iron-plated vessel, the two men stepped onto the wet outer hull. Verne felt wobbly on his feet. Awkward, he leaned forward and embraced his old friend, still numb with shock. Nemo patted him on the back, then laughed with genuine warmth. “Come below into the vessel. You have a grand adventure ahead of you, just like we always talked about.”

  They descended a metal-runged ladder into the sub-marine boat. Verne stared in wonder. A square-jawed British man with a prominent dimple stood at the bridge, calling orders to the crewmen, all of whom wore the same strange uniform. When Verne asked about it, Nemo tugged at the dark fabric on his shoulder. “We kept these outfits as a badge of honor, after we escaped from Rurapente.” Seeing Verne’s confusion, he said, “I hope you brought along a journal to take notes. You are still writing your stories, are you not?”

  Verne nodded, patting his valise.

  One of the crewmen sounded bells, just as on a sailing ship, but the crew had no ropes to tie, no sails to set, no anchors to cast off. The propeller of the Nautilus began to turn with the vessel’s powerful engines. One sailor climbed up to seal the upper hatch, and then the craft headed away from the coast of France.

  Verne stared out the portholes, but could see little in the ocean shadows. A cold shiver crept down his spine as the angle of the deck tilted and water covered the thick windows. His heart constricted with the realization that they were now beneath the ocean. Sweat popped out on his forehead. The Nautilus struck out into the wide Atlantic, and Verne hung on for dear life. For hours he observed landscapes he had never imagined. Fishes darted to and fro, glittering in the illumination from the forward lamps. Rocks never touched by human hands made strange formations and undersea mountains. Nemo stood beside him with a satisfied smile on his face. When Verne’s astonishment had faded to a manageable level, Nemo clapped him on the shoulder. “Come into the salon. Let me tell you everything that’s happened to me in the past ten years.”

  In the large, opulent room they sat at a narrow table and drank a strange-tasting tea. Verne continued to gaze out the broad, thick-paned portholes as his friend began the tale.

  “The Crimean War was terrible, but I suspect no worse than any others. I watched pirates slaughter Captain Grant on the Coralie. I saw slavers in Africa killing innocent women and children. In the Crimea, I was with the Light Brigade when they made their foolish charge on Balaclava. And then I spent time in a hospital, surrounded by all the pain and suffering caused by foolish orders and petty squabbles between officers.”

  Nemo’s face darkened, and he looked down at the table. Several beautiful shells were strewn about, specimens taken during his underwater explorations. Verne glanced away from the porthole, noting the tremble in his friend’s voice.

  “And then the things Caliph Robur did to some of my men.” He drew a deep breath. “It never ceases to amaze me how human beings enjoy inflicting violence upon their own species.”

  As he drank more tea, Nemo’s voice took on a firm resolve. “Here on the Nautilus, we are isolated from the political turmoils of the world. We can be safe. My crew is devoted to me—they are at home on this vessel, more so than in any place in Europe.”

  He scowled. “Their countries sent these men to fight in the Crimea. They saw and did things their families could never accept. Due to bureaucratic error, every one of them was declared dead when Caliph Robur captured them. These men endured fear, and threats, and long imprisonment. They started new lives with new families in Turkey—only to learn that Robur intended to execute us all when we’d done what he wanted.” Nemo’s fists clenched and unclenched. “And now we have escaped, and found peace here . . . until such time as we return to Rurapente to retrieve everyone and everything we left behind.”

  Verne had lived in Paris during the revolutionary years, had been there for the formation of the Second Republic and then the new Empire. “Peace is a hard thing to come by in this world,” he said. “Even the United States of America is now embroiled in a terrible civil war. I’m glad I’ve managed to remain safely away from it all.”

  Disturbed, Nemo changed the subject by inquiring into Verne’s life. He told Nemo about his law certificate and his years at the stock market, but how he had continued to write his plays and poems. With some embarrassment, Verne explained about Five Weeks in a Balloon, for which he admitted borrowing heavily from his friend’s exploits.

  “Forgive me, my friend. I believed you were dead, and I saw no harm in it.” Nemo gave him a quixotic smile, and Verne continued in a rush. “The novel has been such a success that my publisher has contracted for three books a year. I am developing a new kind of fiction. Each volume will be a strange and exotic adventure based on technology and the best advances in geographical exploration. We are calling the series ‘Les Voyages Extraordinaires.’ ”

  “I should like to read this Five Weeks in a Balloon.” Nemo looked at his friend with some amusement. “Not bad for a man who has never set foot outside of France—in fact, never traveled farther than from Nantes to Paris.” He chuckled. “Until now.”

  Verne huffed. “I did take a journey to England and Scotland two years ago. An entire week on a boat. And I’ve been to Amiens, too—several times. I think I may even like to live there someday.” At the time, those trips had seemed breathtaking and exotic, but now they seemed . . . embarrassingly inadequate.

  Nemo raised his eyebrows and said nothing for a moment, though his smile spoke volumes. “Perhaps I can give you ideas and background for more stories, Jules. I’ve done quite a lot in the past few years.”

  For the next several days, as the Nautilus cruised the Atlantic, Nemo talked to his friend about being held captive by Caliph Robur. He described the debacle of the gigantic Moon cannon and how it had tumbled into the deep sea. Then he explained how he and his men had designed and built the sub-marine boat, which Verne could now see with his own eyes.

  Standing on the bridge of the Nautilus, Nemo gazed ahead as their journey continued. “There are two types of men in this world, Jules: those who do things, and those who wish they did.” Hearing the words, Verne felt stung. He sensed some implied criticism, but did not challenge his friend.

  One evening as they sat together at a dinner of poached fish and steamed mollusks, Nemo asked in a quiet voice, “Have you heard from Caroline, Jules? How is she? What is she doing these days? Even after I escaped, I . . . I thought it might be better if I let her continue to believe I am dead.”

  Reluctant to talk about the woman they had both loved since childhood, Verne professed to have little knowledge about what had happened to her. “She’s quite successful, I believe, since she moved her merchant offices to Paris. She invested well and keeps busy, probably still writes her own music that she lets few people hear.”

  “And . . . her husband?” Nemo said. “Captain Hatteras. Has he ever returned? Is there any word?”

  Verne snorted. “No, and I doubt there ever will be. It’s been sixteen years. She’ll never remarry now, though she could have done so legally long ago. I think she rather likes being on her own. She’s so independent.”

  “I . . . I am married,” Nemo said, taking Verne by surprise. “Her name is Auda, a Turkish woman. Caliph Robur presented her to me and I had no choice . . . but we’ve come to love each other. The two of us have a son.” He smiled. “I named him after you, Jules.”

  Verne flushed, and admitted his own situation. “I have a wife, myself,” he said, unable to believe that in all the time they’d talked, all the stories they had told, the two men had neglected to mention
their families. “We’ve had a son, too. I named him . . . uh, Michel.”

  Nemo wistfully scratched his dark beard. “My men and I will return to pick up Auda and my son, and their families as well. I’m afraid I have let Caroline down again.” He hesitated a moment, then looked back toward the bridge and his crew. “We intend to live together aboard the Nautilus and never come back to France. I’ve had enough of so-called civilized lands, and leaders with their constant struggles and murderous intents.” A storm crossed Nemo’s face. He picked at his food, then pushed the plate away.

  “Excuse me, Jules. I must go to the helm. I plan to take us deeper into the Atlantic—where even I have not yet explored. Three-quarters of the Earth is covered with the oceans, you know. I could travel”—he waved a hand, making up a number—“. . . twenty-thousand leagues without ever touching land. And I think I just may do that.”

  He left Verne to finish his meal alone.

  III

  The Nautilus descended to incredible depths. No daylight penetrated the vast underwater canyons. No ray of sunshine passed through the inky black water.

  The sub-marine’s layered hull groaned from the pressure. Verne paced the bridge deck, glancing sidelong at the thick porthole glass, as if expecting to see cracks appear at any moment. Nemo seemed calm and confident, with complete faith in his vessel. From time to time the crewmen looked at their captain, then returned to their duties. Liedenbrock, the metallurgist, examined the hull plates, then placed his ear against them. He nodded to Nemo, who gave the order to go deeper still.

  Strange, phosphorescent sea creatures swam about in the blackness like glowing candle processions. Tiny cold lamps sparkled from bizarre beasts that no fisherman had ever caught.

  “We will compile charts of this landscape, for the sake of science,” Nemo said. “But I will not provide this knowledge to the world’s governments. Their leaders would find some means to turn it to a violent end.”

  Verne opened his mouth to disagree, then clamped his lips tight. After everything his friend had endured, a mere author had no right to argue with him. After the oppression of Rurapente, Nemo seemed to have lost some part of his heart; his old spark of enthusiasm had turned into a gray ember.

  Nemo said in a distant voice, his face expressionless, “Here, embraced in the womb of the oceans, my men and I can be at . . . peace with the world.”

  Moments after that pronouncement, the sea monster attacked.

  Emerging from the depths, a giant squid darted in front of the Nautilus. The hostile environment had transformed it into a leviathan of incredible proportions. The beast swam backward, pumping its tentacles, attracted by the dazzling lights of the sub-marine boat.

  Liedenbrock gasped in alarm. “Ach! Such a brute.”

  Verne’s eyes widened as he saw the enormous suckered tentacles thrashing toward them.

  Nemo barked an order. “Reverse the propeller screws, Mr. Harding. We must avoid this creature.”

  But the Nautilus could not move as fast as the enormous cuttlefish. Its numerous appendages surrounded the vessel like a net. The Nautilus rocked as the tentacles encircled the plated hull in an unbreakable embrace.

  “Forward—now!” With a groan, the sub-marine’s powerful engines pushed them in the opposite direction. But with an abrasive straining sound, the propellers ground to a halt.

  Cyrus Harding said, “Tentacles are caught in the screws, Captain. We cannot move.”

  The sea beast rocked them like a crocodile trying to shake its prey to pieces. The giant squid’s conical head pressed against the thick portholes, displaying only a cold predatory intent. Its hideous round eyes, larger than serving plates, stared without recognition or intelligence. Verne scrambled away from the thick window with a cry of terror.

  Nemo’s brows furrowed with desperate concentration, and he scratched his close-cropped beard. “We must surface, Mr. Harding. We will bring this thing to the light of day. Out in the open air, perhaps it will release us.” With a clang, the squid raked its sharp, parrotlike beak against the iron-scaled bow, chewing on the metal hull.

  “Brace yourselves!” Harding called. Verne grasped the bridge rail with all his strength and squeezed his eyes shut. The ballast tanks were blown, and the vessel began to rise. Nemo watched the external pressure gauges and the depth indicator. “We are rising rapidly.” The creaks and groans of the hull emphasized his words.

  Verne hoped that a monster from such depths could not survive at the surface, but he had read old sailors’ tales, accounts of titanic battles between giant squids and sperm whales. “This isn’t something a person sees everyday, André,” he said. He cast an uneasy glance to the metal hull plates. “The Nautilus is perfectly sturdy, isn’t she?”

  The sub-marine continued to rise for many minutes, and the uncertain light grew brighter as they climbed toward sunlit levels. But the squid refused to relinquish its suckered hold.

  As if with a sigh of relief, the Nautilus breached the surface—yet still the giant squid did not relinquish its hold. The writhing tentacles flexed and tightened, like a python’s grip. One untangled itself and slammed the top of the hull. The battering sounds echoed like explosions within the vessel’s metal walls.

  “We must put a stop to this.” Nemo’s jaw clenched until Verne could see his muscles move beneath his dark beard. He looked at his crew. “Take your weapons, men. We will go out and face this monster here and now.”

  While Verne hung back, sure he could be no help whatsoever, the Nautilus crew members grimly followed their captain’s orders. They secured spears, axes, and long throwing knives; four even carried curved scimitars taken from Robur’s overthrown guards.

  Telling Verne to stay clear, Nemo led the way up the metal ladder to the hatch. “Beware of the tentacles. Each one of those suckers has a central hook that can rip your guts out.”

  “I will include such details in my account, André, but I think I’d prefer to avoid first-hand experience.”

  Nemo drew a deep breath—and threw open the hatch. The men scrambled out, carrying their weapons. Outside, the Atlantic was choppy, and a low, cold mist covered the sky. The giant squid quested with its tentacles like deadly bullwhips.

  Nemo jumped onto the outer deck, carrying the jagged spear with which he had killed the hammerhead shark. Cyrus Harding, his dimpled chin thrust forward in determination, set to work with a heavy ax, chopping one of the tentacles. The other crewmen yelled as they attacked—but the deep-sea creature did not seem to hear.

  Two of the squid’s tentacles probed toward Harding, but a crewman sliced off the ends with a scimitar. The oozing stumps continued to flop about. Harding used his ax to sever another tentacle.

  One man, a long-haired Sardinian, plunged a long throwing knife into the round expressionless eye, ducking away from a spurt of jelly. The creature stank of sour slime and half-digested fish. Slippery, oozing gel from the smooth skin covered the riveted hull plates.

  The squid lifted more tentacles, releasing the Nautilus ’s propeller to turn its efforts against new opponents. One of the serpentlike arms wrapped around the Sardinian who had stabbed its eye. The long-haired man screamed in pain, poking his dagger into the rubbery flesh, with no effect. The squid raised him high. The others rallied to save their comrade, but a storm of tentacles rose—and the crewmen had to defend themselves.

  The squid dragged the poor crewman toward the clacking jaws of its parrotlike beak. Inside, a horny, tooth-filled tongue slashed from side to side. His face a mask of fury, Captain Nemo strode into the midst of the tentacles and thrust his spear into the squid’s mouth, jamming the jagged tip past the open beak and thrusting it deep into the soft tissues. With another scimitar, a crewman lopped off a fourth tentacle.

  Terrified at the mayhem above but screwing up his coverage, Verne climbed the ladder, trying to see.

  One man stabbed his splintered spear into the soft conical head, but struck no nerves or brain. Verne had read somewhere that a squid had three
separate hearts, and he doubted a single weapon thrust could kill the beast.

  Snarling like an animal himself, Nemo pushed his spear deeper into the monster’s mouth, until the squid finally let go of its captive. The long-haired Sardinian dropped to the deck, bloody and mangled. The hooks within the squid’s suckers had left long lacerations in the victim’s flesh. One of the other men grabbed the hapless Sardinian by the shoulders and dragged him toward the hatch. The crewman snapped to Verne, “Take him, man! Can’t you see he needs help?”

  Struggling to maintain his calm, Verne carried the injured Sardinian down into the sub-marine. The long-haired man bled profusely from dozens of deep wounds, and Verne’s clothes were soon soaked with scarlet. He felt ashamed that he could do nothing more to assist the man. He wasn’t a doctor, and knew little about first aid—had never even seen such terrible wounds before in his life.

  Up above, the giant squid grew more agitated. The stumps of its severed tentacles thumped against the Nautilus, while the other appendages thrashed like angry cobras. When Nemo tried to tear his spear free from the mangled mouth, the parrotlike beak snapped its shaft, leaving the captain without a weapon.

  One brash crewman, a broad-shouldered Englishman, ran forward and slashed with his scimitar between the squid’s eyes. The monster reached out a huge tentacle as if to swat a fly and grabbed him. Before Nemo or the other men could react, the giant squid released a burst of black dye, spraying clouds of acrid-smelling ink. The terrible fumes stung their eyes and blinded them.

  Then the squid plunged back into the ocean, still grasping the hapless Englishman as if demanding some small victory in payment for its pain. . . .