Captain Nemo

by Kevin J. Anderson

  As they traversed the deep channel to the rocky shore of Rurapente, Nemo kept the Nautilus submerged. Through the round windows they could see dock pilings and other wreckage covered with silt. When he blew ballast to raise the craft and the sea washed clear of the portholes, Nemo and his crew pushed forward, hoping to see cheering, victorious rebels.

  Instead, Rurapente had been devastated. The entire industrial compound, its factories and drydocks, its ore smelters and kilns, its village of dwellings—all had been burned and destroyed. Reduced to charred rubble, nothing more.

  The Nautilus rested against the empty docks, and a moan of despair rose from the crew. Nemo said nothing, jaws locked in a grim expression only partially hidden by his dark beard. His intense eyes stared at the devastation. Somewhere in the dead emptiness of his shock, the fires of anger sparked and blazed.

  He opened the upper hatch and emerged blinking into the sunlight. The air smelled of greasy smoke. “Come with me,” he said to no one in particular. Every member of his crew felt as desperate and shocked as he did. He didn’t try to provide false assurances or unrealistic hopes. “We must learn what we can.”

  After tying up the sub-marine boat, the men stepped carefully across rotting dock planks. When they reached the compound itself, they hesitated, afraid to proceed.

  The foundations of buildings stood like blackened stumps of teeth. The smelting refineries had caved in, windows smashed, bricks crumbled. The living quarters had been burned to ash and slag. Everything . . . destroyed.

  The oppressive silence was broken only by a faint whistle of wind that trespassed in the cove. Nemo thought he could hear the shouts of raiders, the crackle of flames, the clang of scimitars against makeshift weapons . . . or against soft flesh, hard bone. Screams of pain and pleas for mercy from the desperate slaves, the women, the children—everyone who had endured life at Rurapente.

  Auda had allied herself with her father, Caliph Barbicane; she had known about the impending attack and arranged for her own rescue and the safety of the others. . . . But now it appeared that no one had listened to her. Nemo could only pray that she had escaped. Or had she and young Jules been victims of the terrible revolution? Where were they?

  The Nautilus crew picked their way among the rubble, not speaking, searching for some sign to give them hope. Instead, they found skeletons picked clean by carrion eaters and time.

  This massacre had occurred many months ago, perhaps at the same time they’d killed Robur and escaped in the sub-marine vessel. While the captive engineers had fled, masters of their fate and oh-so-pleased with their victory over the bloodthirsty caliph, their families were being slaughtered at Rurapente.

  The men could identify none of the remains, but the faces of wives and friends and children shone in every man’s imagination. Nemo held back the tears in his eyes as he surveyed the charred wasteland. He turned to his second-in-command, and his voice struck fear in even the gruff Englishman’s heart. “Mr. Harding, take teams and recover anything you can find—keepsakes or memories, and then give a respectful burial to these poor people.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Harding said. He had never argued with Nemo’s orders before, but now he hesitated and said, “And what will you be doing, sir?”

  With his chin, Nemo gestured toward the steep cliff paths that led up to the plateau. In her note, Auda said she’d used the shepherds as couriers. Many of them were involved in the plot. “I need to find someone,” Nemo said. He took a pack and food from the Nautilus, then began his long uphill trek. He plodded throughout the hot day until finally, at sunset, reached the top of the plateau. Finding a small windbreak of low bushes, he built a smoky campfire, but remained awake most of the night, staring at the stars . . . and remembering.

  For two days he wandered the Anatolian Plateau, searching for the nomadic shepherds who had acted as secret watchers for the sultan and his advisors in Ankara. At last he came upon a small group sitting crosslegged in front of their patched tents, while women tended a cookfire, roasting cubes of mutton. Seeing a lone man in inhospitable territory, the shepherds brandished their ancient rifles at him, making signs to ward off evil. Indeed, the stricken expression on his face made him look like a vengeful spirit—but Nemo made appropriate placating gestures, then a religious sign of Allah he’d learned during his time in Rurapente. He called out in their own language, claiming to be a friend. He wished merely to share their cookfire and ask them some questions over cardamom-spiced coffee.

  The shepherds were dirty and scarred, and looked far older than their actual years. They grudgingly accepted his presence, following the rule of hospitality to wayfarers on the Turkish highlands. Nemo told them that he had spent much time in Rurapente, but that he’d been gone for a year.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” His voice cracked with need.

  The shepherds discussed the matter among themselves, wondering if he might be a spy testing their allegiance, or a deserter from the sultan’s armies. Though Nemo had dark eyes and dark hair, he did not look at all Turkish. But Auda did . . . and so did his son Jules.

  He took a chance, and the grief in his voice softened the men. “My wife lived in Rurapente—and my son. She was Caliph Barbicane’s daughter. I’m trying to find her. I have companions who also wish to find their families. Can you help us? Please?”

  One of the shepherds stood up, stepped away from the smoky fire, and stared appraisingly at him for a long moment. “You were Auda’s husband?”

  Nemo cringed at hearing the past tense. “Yes. She warned me and my men of the uprising, and we managed to survive. Caliph Robur is dead.” Not knowing the loyalty of these men, he did not admit that he himself had killed the warlord.

  “Auda was an infiltrator,” the shepherd said. “She was sold to Robur to become your wife, but she continued to watch Rurapente. Through us, she reported to Caliph Barbicane, for the sultan in Ankara. We were part of the army that came to free them.” He patted his chest, then shook his head. “But there was great bloodshed, much fighting. Another caliph sent forces that swore no allegiance either to Robur or Barbicane—and a slaughter ensued.”

  “Senseless and terrible,” one of the other shepherds said. “The men enjoyed the killing very much.”

  Nemo listened with a heavy heart. Smoke from the cookfire stung his eyes and nose.

  “When it was discovered that Auda was a spy, she and several others loyal to Barbicane took a boat and tried to escape across to the Aegean Islands. But on the way they were attacked. Their boat sank. All aboard were killed.”

  After that, Nemo heard little else as anger and despair clamored in his head. He didn’t care about the changing politics in the Ottoman Empire, or the sultan’s current advisors, or plans for the site of the industrial compound. In a daze, he finished his coffee with the shepherds and thanked them, but refused their offer of a full meal.

  At dusk, he wandered across the plateau into the deepening night. He felt as destroyed inside as the entire city of Rurapente.

  VI

  Aboard the Nautilus, the crew sank into a heartsick silence. The men from a hodgepodge of countries and cultures drew closer together than ever, unified by their circumstances and their losses. They performed their duties like the walking dead, all hope of happiness lost in one cruel stroke of fate.

  Feeling hollow, Nemo stood at the bridge, gripping the metal rail. Finally, out of desperation, he gave the order to depart from the Turkish coast, taking painful memories with him and leaving nothing else behind. With engines at half power, the Nautilus cruised away from the ugly scar of Rurapente.

  He vowed never to return. Never. He’d had enough of warfare, suffering, and death. He wanted nothing to do with humanity’s bloodshed and cruelty. As the ocean folded over the underwater boat, he stared into the blue-green wilderness. Every time he encountered people, every time he tried to make peace with society and live with his fellow man, the results were disastrous.

  He thought of the pirates attacking
the Coralie . . . . They had killed Captain Grant and stranded him for years on the desert island. Then he’d traveled across Africa and been captured by slavers. Next, he’d experienced the horrors of the Crimean War, and then lived as the prisoner of a murderous caliph . . . which caused him to lose Caroline in the bargain. And he’d just seen what had happened to Rurapente, to Auda and Jules.

  Fate hadn’t claimed their wives and children: People had. Warmongers. For years Robur had extolled dreams of benign technological superiority for the benefit of his people. But the Nautilus had been designed for no purpose other than war. The caliph had meant to terrorize peaceful sailing vessels and extort a ransom for all trade entering the Red Sea.

  After so much time, Nemo remained appalled at the ability of men to cause pain and suffering. Certain men were bred to be bloodthirsty killers, and they brought crimson shadows to the entire world. Violent conflict had always been abhorrent to him, and now his hatred of it grew even worse.

  He had lost so much already.

  The sub-marine boat cruised through the Mediterranean, as if in a daze itself. The crew remained withdrawn for days, eating just enough food to keep themselves alive. They had no goal now, no destination. Their dreams of utopia with their families had died along with Rurapente. . . .

  Nemo considered abandoning the sub-marine boat, returning to Paris, and trying to recapture peace in the arms of Caroline. Surely she would welcome him again, though it had been so long, so many years. Jules Verne had said she still refused to remarry.

  But in his moments of solitude he could imagine only the death cries of Auda and his young son. He could not bear to rush back to Caroline as if nothing had happened, as if he intended to forget his wife and boy. The thought of trying to fit in with French society terrified him.

  Nemo tried to salve his grief by staring for hours upon end at the bliss beneath the seas. He never wanted to leave here, never wanted to face any aspect of war again. But even as he hid under the sea, warmongers continued their painful march across the canvas of history. No one would ever stop them.

  None of the men even suggested heading for their respective countries. Nemo did not want to return to the world at all. He was through with mankind. He would let the so-called civilized people continue their vicious fighting until they learned their own lessons. . . .

  Days later, at the height of his anguish, it occurred to Nemo that he could strike back, that he need not spend his days in passive misery. The Nautilus itself was a tremendous weapon. It had been designed to inflict terror upon other ships sailing the seas. But while Caliph Robur had intended to prey upon merchant ships or peaceful travelers, Nemo realized he could use the sub-marine boat against another kind of vessel.

  Warships.

  He could sink navy craft filled with weaponry—battleships whose only aim was to wage war. In so doing, he could prevent the slaughter of innocents, stop warships in their tracks, and sink their deadly cargoes to the bottom of the sea.

  He could make a difference, and only the guilty need pay the ultimate price. Nemo felt no loyalty to any particular nation. He had seen patriotism used as an excuse for further bloodshed, and he wanted none of it. No more innocents must die—even if that meant he had to strike against the murderous ones, the invaders, the soldiers. The warmongers. With the Nautilus, Nemo could declare war on war itself.

  VII

  As chance would have it, the first battleship they encountered flew the Union Jack of the British Empire. With running lights extinguished, the Nautilus passed five fathoms beneath the broad wooden hull. Nemo’s crew peered upward through the portholes, assessing the size of the war vessel.

  Standing off at some distance, the Nautilus surfaced like a dozing whale. Her front lights glowed a brilliant yellow. Nemo climbed the ladder and opened the upper hatch. With a spyglass to his eye, he peered toward the warship as the sun set, coloring the distant horizon with yellows and orange.

  “Mr. Harding, prepare for our first . . . statement.” Nemo studied the ship and counted the cannons protruding from hatches above the waterline. Wearing a grim expression, he descended back to the sub-marine’s bridge. As if wearing blinders, he fixed his thoughts on a single point in the future, not allowing himself to think too much on what he was doing. He had made up his mind and would not be swayed.

  “She is a vessel of war, gentlemen,” Nemo said. “Perhaps even a privateer, government-sponsored pirates who are free to attack other ships . . . so long as those ships fly the flags of an enemy nation.”

  Aboard the British warship, men in Royal Navy uniforms marched the decks and gathered to look at the distant metal-hulled sea creature. Lying partially submerged, the Nautilus must have appeared to be a strange monster with a razor back, armored skin, and glowing yellow eyes.

  Nemo’s crew fidgeted, though they had discussed their plans at great length. Scratching stubble on his dimpled chin, Cyrus Harding voiced his reservations, which echoed those of the other men. “Britain was my home, Captain, a long time ago—and that warship carries a good many English sons. Where—”

  Nemo raised a hand to interrupt him, not in a display of temper, but of firm resolve. His anger was directed outward, not at his crew. “The Nautilus is our only country now, men. We have no allegiance and no territories. If that were a war vessel from France, I would be just as willing to strike our blow. We have separated ourselves from the rest of our race. And, ironically, we must become crusaders for the rights of humanity.”

  “But, Captain, what about the humanity aboard that ship?” Harding persisted. “Do they all deserve to die?”

  Nemo glowered, agonized, but intent on his decision. He heard the dying screams of innocents around his ears like ravens’ wings. “Gentlemen, that vessel was built to serve one purpose alone— to commit acts of war. Her crew is trained to fight and kill. Should we follow her until she fires her cannon, until she spills more innocent blood, and then take our revenge?” He could not drive away the image of burned Rurapente, the thoughts of Auda and young Jules drowning after their fleeing boat was sunk by enemy cannons.

  “We must attack any target we find, any bully of the seas. By doing so, we save every person that battleship would have killed and prevent the destruction those cannons would have caused. The only victims are the warmongers themselves, not the innocents . . . like our families were.” The other men looked away, cowed and ashamed. “Today—now—we remove one more weapon from the hands of the world’s navies.”

  Seeing the blaze in their captain’s eyes, the men went back to their stations. The air stank of nervous sweat. Nemo stood motionless at the bridge and waited, gathering his nerve. Finally, speaking for himself as well as the crew, he said, “Men who make a living by waging war do not deserve our mercy. Remember Rurapente. Remember what happened to your wives and children.”

  He pushed away images of Caroline and his happy times with her, the five weeks in a balloon over Africa, their precious intimate moments aboard the ship on the way back to France. No, those memories would not keep him strong. “Remember.”

  In his mind, Nemo saw it all again: the flames, the screams, the scars . . . the warlords fighting each other. The Light Brigade led into slaughter in the Crimea. The villains like Caliph Robur and the ruthless slavers in Africa. The pirates who had sunk the Coralie and slain Captain Grant—

  Nemo gave the order for the Nautilus to submerge. He had never tested his beloved vessel in such a terrible manner, but he knew the integrity of his design. He knew what the Nautilus had been created to do.

  He closed his dark eyes for just a moment and summoned an image of beautiful Auda and little Jules. He tried to find peace, tried to find a purpose.

  But he could no longer think of them without envisioning the charred bones in the ruins of Rurapente. He thought of Auda murdered, of young Jules pulled beneath the dark water, trying to suck in a breath of air as their ship sank—

  “Full ahead,” he said. “Ramming speed.”

  The
engines growled, and the propellers turned. The Nautilus leaped forward like a hungry shark, spewing a wake just below the surface. Yellow eyes from the forward lamps burned the seas ahead of them.

  “Brace yourselves, mates,” Cyrus Harding said, cool and collected, an engineer to the last.

  The dark shadow of the British warship’s hull loomed closer and closer. The Nautilus streaked toward it, picking up speed. The armored metal saw-ridge on its bow was sharp, ready to eviscerate.

  With a hideous, resounding crunch, the sub-marine boat crashed into the underbelly of the battleship. The impact sent a deafening clang through the hull of the Nautilus, and the shock hurled the crew to their knees.

  The relentless engines continued to roar. The sub-marine boat sawed like a battlefield surgeon’s blade amputating a diseased limb. The hull of the British warship tore open, a mortal wound that shattered its keel and burst the bulkheads.

  “Full stop!” Nemo called and turned to watch, sickened at what he had done and yet refusing to regret his actions.

  The gutted warship seemed unable to grasp what had just happened. An explosion sent a muffled boom through the water, probably from a ruptured powder storehouse ignited by stray sparks.

  At a safe distance, Nemo gave the order to surface again. Several silent, awestruck crewmen climbed up through the hatch to stand on the outer hull of the undersea vessel, where they observed the death throes of the warship. At least they were far enough away that they could not hear the cries of pain and pleas for rescue from the doomed British crew. . . .

  Then, with a morbid fascination, Nemo submerged the sub-marine boat and cruised beneath the wrecked hull. The shattered warship continued its slow and ironically graceful plunge toward the bottom.