Captain Nemo

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  I could have been with Caroline all this time.

  The sawblade spine of the Nautilus struck the hull of the American battleship. The impact ripped the vessel’s keel open, breaching the lower decks. Within moments, the wooden-hulled ship exploded, spewing debris into the unexplored waters of the Atlantic.

  Nemo didn’t even know the name of the ship. Nor did he care . . .

  * * *

  Within an hour, the American war vessel had fallen over on its side and began to go down, dragging victims to the bottom. Nemo remembered the wrecked Cynthia at the docks in Nantes, his father trapped in a sealed stateroom as the boat sank. He thought of Auda and the boy Jules, trying to flee Rurapente, drowning after their ship was attacked. . . .

  But somehow the fury was gone now. He saw only more misery caused by others, caused by him. He had not helped at all, merely made the situation worse.

  After dark, Nemo ordered the Nautilus to surface. With engines humming at low speed, the vessel crept toward the floating debris. A few fires glowed in the ocean’s night, and he wondered if the sharks would come. He stood in silence outside the hatch, inhaling the tang of smoke, gunpowder . . . and death in the fresh sea air.

  He felt no exhilaration at what he had done, no triumph at striking another blow against the warmongers. Evil men would always find evil things to do, and innocent men would always become cannon fodder. By destroying so many warships, he had only added to the number of victims sent to their deaths by incompetent commanders or politicians.

  Nemo wondered if he should isolate himself, take the Nautilus and go somewhere away from the world. Surely, he deserved a respite from his dark quest by now? What more must he do?

  And then there was Caroline.

  As his eyes adjusted to the distant firelight and the pale moon, Nemo saw a lone human figure clinging to the wreckage. The man waved a long, angular arm, trying to draw attention to himself. Nemo froze, considering options before finally calling down to the bridge deck and ordering Cyrus Harding to pick up the castaway.

  In all their attacks, never before had Nemo chosen to take prisoners or pick up survivors. But now, with his heart heavy, the silhouette of the single refugee made him think of how he himself had clung to flotsam after pirates had captured the Coralie. This man would die out here if the Nautilus didn’t pick him up . . . and somehow turning his back on that one soul seemed even more cold-blooded than destroying the ship itself.

  When the Nautilus drew up to the wreckage, Nemo remained outside, looking down at the bedraggled survivor. He and two crewmen reached over to help the spluttering man onto the metal-plated hull.

  The stranger had dark hair, a trim mustache, and gangly legs that seemed even more awkward in his wet, though dapper, clothes. His face was gaunt, his eyes close-set. The survivor’s expression and his huffy demeanor puzzled Nemo. He expected the refugee to express either terror or outrage—or even pathetic appreciation for being rescued. Instead, the man stamped his feet on the hull plates of the Nautilus to shake the water from his drenched clothes. With long-fingered hands he wrung out cupfuls of water, and then neatly arranged his hair. He met Nemo’s gaze with a stern look and didn’t seem the least bit curious about the Nautilus or its wonders. He looked more ruffled and indignant than frightened.

  “My name is Phileas Fogg, sir.” He sniffed with great displeasure, then looked over his shoulder at the remains of the sunken warship. “You and this abomination of a vessel have just cost me a very large wager.”

  II

  Though space was at a premium in the sub-marine, the ornate salon was large enough for Nemo and the odd-tempered refugee to stretch their limbs and make themselves comfortable. Fogg looked as if he had settled into a dark and smoky gentleman’s club, perfectly at home.

  As the Nautilus departed from the wreckage of the American warship (a vessel ironically named the Invincible ), Nemo saw to it that his lanky passenger recovered, was well fed, and received new clothes. This done, he found himself in a dilemma as to what to do with Mr. Phileas Fogg. Nemo did not want to keep this tall and fastidious man a prisoner aboard his underwater craft forever.

  He intended to keep the Nautilus a secret, mainly to make sure that no other warlord like Robur decided to build such a vessel for his own ambitions. Though the sub-marine had been observed numerous times, most people still considered it a sea monster. Even after his friend’s novelistic account in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, no one suspected that Verne’s “extraordinary voyages” had any basis in reality.

  Fogg accepted his situation with grace and lounged in one of the chairs in the salon. He folded his long right leg over his left and sat at an angle, ignoring the undersea wonders that passed by the salon’s circular viewing window. He seemed entirely uninterested in the armored underwater vessel.

  Anxious to learn more about his new guest, Nemo stayed close to the man. Fogg asked no questions concerning the Nautilus, paid little heed to the engineering innovations designed into the craft. When the prim man finally asked a question, he looked Nemo in the eye and said, “My good man, might you happen to have a cigar? My own were irreparably soaked, and after all these inconveniences, I have a powerful craving for tobacco.”

  Taken aback, Nemo went to a cupboard in the salon, opened a sealed case, and removed a box of brownish cylindrical objects—a new delicacy invented by Cyrus Harding. “Try these. I believe you’ll be satisfied.”

  Phileas Fogg lit one of the unusual cigars and sat back, puffing and concentrating as he tasted the smoke. “Most unusual.” His brows furrowed as if his brain were working over the convolutions of an extraordinary mathematical problem. “Is it your own label?”

  Nemo wondered if he could surprise the unflappable man. “They’re made of a dried seaweed that is high in the substance nicotine. We prefer not to put ashore and buy land-based supplies except when absolutely necessary. Thus, you have our substitute.”

  “Seaweed, my good fellow? Most ingenious, I’d say,” Fogg said, showing not the slightest desire to discuss the matter any further. “Well, we do what we must for good tobacco.”

  Nemo sat forward in his chair. “Tell me about this mysterious wager of yours, Monsieur Fogg. What have we cost you?”

  “You and your infernal machine have caused me to lose a very ambitious race, sir.” Fogg pointed with his seaweed cigar, deftly tapping ash into a receptacle beside his chair. “At one time I belonged to a rather prestigious, formal, and—yes, let us admit it— stuffy gentleman’s club in London. A group of bored, wealthy men, who sat and read the newspapers, had afternoon tea, played whist, and . . . and did little else. Pompous asses, if you ask me—and I fit right in with them.

  “One day, after pondering the world-wide commercial implications of the new Suez Canal, I calculated that it would be possible for a man with sufficient resources and careful attention to scheduling to travel around the world in eighty days.” Fogg smiled, as if expecting Nemo to disbelieve him, but the captain of the Nautilus maintained an expression of polite interest.

  “My colleagues in the club treated such a suggestion as preposterous. So, with my honor at stake, I made them a wager—a very large wager—that I myself could actually perform such a feat. I would attempt the impossible. We do what we must in the name of honor, do we not?”

  Nemo brooded. “You might say that.”

  Fogg took a long drag from his cigar, as if he were attempting to siphon thick oil from a container. “Well, naturally, I had the schedules and timetables before me and the utmost confidence in my own abilities. I departed that very evening, and I have made nearly a complete circuit of the globe. That is, until you sank the ship on which I was traveling. Most inconvenient.”

  He drew on the seaweed cigar again and savored the smoke. Nemo lit a cigar of his own, though he usually did not indulge. He motioned with the glowing tip for the man to continue.

  “I began by crossing the English Channel and took a railway to
the south of France, where I caught a ship that carried me across the Mediterranean, through the Suez Canal, and into the Red Sea. From there, we sailed to India, which subcontinent I crossed using a train and an elephant. No time for tedious sightseeing—just rapid motion eastward. From Singapore I traveled to Hong Kong, then Japan, across the Pacific to San Francisco, and finally by rail across North America.

  “Alas, due to an unforeseen scheduling mishap in New York Harbor, I was forced to book passage upon the only vessel that could take me to England in time—a warship returning home after months of cruising the oceans in search of the notorious sea monster in all the papers.” Fogg raised his eyebrows and turned his gaunt face to study Nemo. “I presume that monster is your own ship? Rotten luck.”

  Nemo nodded. Fogg pursed his lips in acceptance.

  “I had to use the last of my monetary resources to bribe the navy captain. If the Invincible had indeed kept to schedule, I would have been a very wealthy man . . . and, more importantly, I would have been proved correct in my convictions.” Fogg stubbed out his cigar, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Now, however, I am ruined. I believe Hell must be a place where no schedules are ever kept.”

  With growing disappointment in himself, Nemo listened to the fastidious Englishman’s account. Phileas Fogg had survived the Nautilus ’s attack on the American naval vessel, but all others aboard had died. How many civilians had drowned, mere innocents who’d had the misfortune of booking passage aboard a ship marked for war, as Phileas Fogg had? As he and Caroline had done, with Dr. Fergusson, in order to return from Africa? How many people had been attempting to go from one place to another, and never had violence or bloodshed in their hearts?

  Nemo had killed them all. That, he was forced to acknowledge, made him as bad as Caliph Robur.

  Outside the circular salon window swam a great white shark, its soulless eyes peering into the illuminated interior of the sub-marine boat. If Phileas Fogg noticed the predatory fish, he gave no sign.

  “Monsieur Fogg,” Nemo said, arriving at a decision, “my Nautilus can travel faster than even a warship such as the Invincible. By journeying beneath the waves, we are not at the mercy of winds or weather. We can increase the power of our engines and cross the Atlantic within days.” He stood. “I know I have inconvenienced you terribly, sir . . . and I have committed a great many other crimes, for which I must atone in my own way.” He held out his hand. “I can offer restitution in your case, however, provided you grant me assurance that you keep the existence of my submarine boat a secret and not reveal how you returned to England.” He squared his shoulders. “If you agree to these things, I will provide you passage to London in time to win your wager.”

  Fogg’s narrow face brightened for just a moment, then he nodded at Captain Nemo. “You leave me no choice, sir. I agree to your terms. Anything, in order to get back on schedule.”

  III

  In misty weather and calm seas, the Nautilus cruised along the surface of the Atlantic. As the vessel cut a bright wake across the waves, Nemo stood outside, taking in the fresh air and cool dampness. He listened to the quiet ripples of the armored boat’s passage and stared into the distance . . . just thinking.

  Entering the English Channel, they passed the northern coast of France. Being so close to continental Europe and his homeland reminded Nemo of his days in Nantes and Paris. Inevitably, his thoughts drifted to Caroline, how very close they had grown, and how he had given it all up.

  If only he’d returned to her immediately after discovering the destruction of Rurapente. He had been consumed with anger and vengeance, cruising the seas on his quest to stop war, like Sisyphus rolling his stone endlessly uphill.

  What had it gained him, when he could have returned to a beautiful woman instead? He had been scarred and changed after the Crimean War, and he had turned his back on happiness, forsaking love for revenge.

  For a man who’d been brave enough to fight the greatest battles and confront the deadliest adversaries, why was he afraid to face Caroline and ask her to accept him as he was?

  Even before the war, if only he’d had the courage to remain in Paris for a year—a mere twelve months—he and Caroline could have been married long ago. A smile of bitter irony twisted his lips. He had truly believed that waiting for one year in Paris until he could hold her again would have been unbearable torture. Instead, he’d gone to the Crimea, been captured by an evil caliph, and been forced to work for ten years. Oh, if only he had stayed in France!

  But if he had remained, Nemo would never have known Auda, or played with his son Jules. Despite the tragedy, Nemo would not have been willing to surrender those memories for any sum. . . .

  Phileas Fogg joined him outside in the fog. In silence, they watched the approaching white cliffs of Dover, ready to round the point to the Thames estuary. The lanky Englishman had spent most of the journey in his enclosed cabin, attending to his journal, displaying no interest in the Nautilus. Nemo was glad to have his privacy, yet could not understand this man’s apathy toward new things. Fogg had traveled around the world, but had shown little curiosity about the wonders of the Earth even as he’d passed through them.

  Now, though, Phileas Fogg wore a pained expression and looked at the captain, as if he had distractedly eaten too many prunes at breakfast. He brushed down an offending loose whisker in his narrow mustache. Something troubled the traveler, but Nemo waited for the gangly man to speak. Finally, Fogg cleared his throat. “Captain Nemo, I am concerned as to how I may cope with your demands.”

  “Have I been unreasonable in any way?” Nemo raised his dark eyebrows.

  Fogg reached into his salvaged coat and withdrew a bound volume wrapped in oilskin, with the words Fogg’s Log embossed on the cover. “This is the precise and detailed record of my journey. I keep it with me at all times—otherwise it would have sunk to the bottom of the ocean, along with the wreckage of the Invincible. I would have had a terrible time retrieving it.”

  He opened the battered book and showed Nemo the colorful stamps from customs officers, inscriptions by local officials, postmarks and clippings from newspapers. “This is how I intend to prove that I did indeed complete my journey, that I traveled around the world in eighty days.”

  Fogg turned to blank pages. The date ended with the sinking of the American warship. “If I must keep the existence of your Nautilus a secret, how am I to document my travel across the Atlantic? The sinking of the Invincible will be a matter of public record. How shall I explain my travels?” He scratched his head. “I doubt I can convince the members of the club that I managed to swim the remainder of the distance. . . .”

  Nemo pondered for a moment, continuing to look off into the mist. The shadows of chalk cliffs pressed closer. “You will have to concoct a story, Mr. Fogg. You must think of some way to explain your travels—and I suggest you find an alternative other than swimming. I will hold you to your promise, Monsieur.”

  Phileas Fogg’s long fingers clutched the logbook in a tight grip. “But everything in here is true and documented, sir.” His voice now took on a tone of indignation. “How can I falsify such an important part of my trip? That would be . . . most dishonest.”

  Nemo refused to back down. “Monsieur Fogg, one thing I have learned in my life is that what is written down and published is not necessarily the truth —even if it is purported to be so.” He brought to mind how his adventures had been recounted in the novels of Jules Verne, how the events had been altered for the sake of the story.

  “At its core, you will not be lying. You will have done as you proposed, according to the terms of your wager. You traveled around the world in eighty days. No one can argue that fact. The rest of the story is just . . . details.”

  “But details are like schedules. Too many people ignore them.” Staring into the cold, moist air, Fogg remained stoic for a long moment until he broke into a broad grin, the first overt emotion Nemo had seen from the scarecrowish man. “Well . .
. it will, after all, be only one more falsehood.” Fogg turned to the dark-haired captain. “I’ve just realized that of all people in the world, you are the one person in whom I can confide. I can tell you my secret, Captain Nemo, because you have no means and no motivation to reveal it to the authorities.”

  “I have no respect for authorities,” Nemo agreed bitterly.

  Fogg continued. “As you might guess, sir, arranging such a trip around the globe involved more than careful scheduling. It required substantial monetary resources as well. While I had a comfortable enough life in London, I was by no means a rich man, not the sort of person who had the funds to engage in such a lengthy and expensive trip. So I was forced to acquire the financing by . . . unorthodox means.”

  Phileas Fogg fell silent for a moment, and Nemo looked at him as the Nautilus cruised onward. “You stole it?”

  Fogg met his dark gaze. “I robbed a bank.”

  Nemo stared at the tall Englishman in astonishment.

  “Oh, not with a gun or any sort of violence, I assure you.” Fogg waved a long-fingered hand. “I simply found the means to walk off with a large stack of pound notes that were left unattended by a careless clerk.”

  Fogg sniffed, twitching his large nostrils. “And while the Bank of England and Scotland Yard were in a frenzy searching all over London to track down the thief, I was traveling around the world to great fanfare and popular reception. No one has ever suspected that the stolen money is in my possession—or was, that is. It’s all been spent on my trip.

  “However, if I do return home in time, the amount I shall win in my wager is several times greater than the sum I . . . withdrew. Before I left England, I devised a plan for returning the money discreetly—call it an impromptu loan. Then the books will balance, the details will add up properly, and all will be right with the world. Never fear, Captain Nemo, thanks to your assistance, everything will turn out as it should, according to schedule.”