Nemo approached the ship as a serf would approach a throne, his body telling his respect, moving through the tons of water surrounding him. Rifle lowered, he regarded all of the ancient ship’s history in its bow carvings, and the small pieces of color surviving along the hull not eaten by ocean parasites. Centuries later, the dignity of the craft was still there, and he was swept up by it.
Watching Nemo, Sara wondered if he was seeing his own future there, ragged and petrified on the ocean floor.
A sudden current bent the light from the Nautilus, throwing a beam toward the ship. Highlighting a movement in the hull, something behind the seaweed layers that flapped over the split in the hull. It moved again. A twisting, black eel.
It was a moment she caught: of muscles curling under reptilian skin, and ten feet between its head and its tail. The tail slashed from a rot-hole beneath the mast, then vanished inside the wreck, the eel coiling into itself, ready to strike.
Nemo had turned his back to the ship, to gather catch nets of lobsters and sea lettuce. Sara stopped her gathering, dropping her bag, the crabs escaping sideways.
She moved, springing herself forward as fast as she could from the soft bottom, diving boots and the pressure holding her, calling out from instinct, but only hearing herself inside the bone helmet. Trying for Nemo. Before the eel ripped from the hull and seaweed, its massive mouth open, both sets of jaws unhinged.
The Moray struck, mouth and skull colliding with Nemo’s helmet, snapping back at his suit, its hooked teeth tearing into it. Air burst. Explosion of bubbles, tossing Nemo back, the laser rifle falling.
The eel snapped back, circling around Nemo as if it was eating its own tail. Forming a noose with its body, drawing in tight around Nemo’s ribs.
Gasping for his controlled air, Nemo dropped to his knees. The eel wrapping itself. Tighter around him.
Sara dove for the animal, her body turning, stabbing with her fishing knife into its open mouth, the blade jamming through its tongue and beyond its jaw.
Blood smoked the water. The animal corkscrewed in pain, its body twisting, breaking Nemo in half. Water began filling his suit. Nemo closed the ripped opening with his fist, sealing the manta skin. Holding his breath, and fighting the pain of the water pressure, his bones near-cracking.
Blood teared from Nemo’s eyes, but he would not scream, as he made out Jess grabbing the pike, then running for him. Pulled by the water, sand churning, Jess struggled to get close, raising the pike as a harpoon.
He fought the weight of the water, cried out for double his own strength to bring the harpoon down.
The eel’s skull separated from the tender point where it joined the body, Jess pushing the pike’s N and prongs into its flesh, twisting the metal. Shredding its muscles. The thing reared back. Blood, a fountain, from its mouth as it snapped at Jess, whipped at him with its tail.
The ocean seemed more blood than water, with a cloud of silt churning through it, forming a thick curtain.
Jess slashed the curtain with the pike, bringing it down again, through the same tears and farther into the eel, prying it back as if he were moving a boulder up a hill. The thing’s head separated from its flesh, the body stiffening with spasm, then becoming a loose ribbon. Sara slashed to free Nemo.
Pieces spread apart, floating on a dark red wave, as Sara swam with Nemo for the Nautilus. He instinctively grabbed harvest sacks and a net of lobsters, snagging them before the submarine vacuumed them back into the dive chamber. Absorbing them.
All lights from the Nautilus were still on, now pink through the bloody water.
Jess had one knee on the ocean floor, catching his breath himself, as if he’d just had a barroom brawl. Instead of as a harpoon, he used the pike as a walking staff, getting himself to his feet and starting for the Nautilus.
The laser rifle was settled on the bottom, and Jess got a toe under the butt, kicked it upward, and grabbed it as it spun through the water, slinging it over a shoulder. He also picked up a sack of lobsters.
Jess looked back at the Roman ship, half of the eel draping across the bow, staining it red as it poured out its last.
* * *
The Whalers pulled Nemo and Sara from the Sea Exploration chamber’s diving tubes, snatching their catch nets, throwing them over shoulders. A gush of ocean waved in after them, then drained back. Nemo leaned against the wall as Sara unlocked his helmet. He drew in a heavy breath, stretching himself as if getting his skeleton back into place. Aligning his chest and lungs. His breath came, and Sara handed him a canteen.
Jess said, “I’d think you’d want somethin’ stronger than that.”
He was climbing from the last chamber, the Whalers throwing him an eye, not moving to help. One of them had his fingers on the long blade hanging from his belt, ready to pull it.
Nemo took a controlled drink of water and said, “Peddling your spirits again, Mr. Jess?”
“I just know what works for me, sir.”
Sara said to Nemo, “That suit tear alone could have killed you.”
Nemo said, “But it didn’t, something to consider, though, the use of the manta skin.” He turned to the Whalers, “Chukua samaki hii jikoni kwa ajili ya chakula cha jioni.”
“Jioni? I knows that one. Dinner,” Jess said, tossing the helmet to Sara. “Them two’d cut your head off quicker than piss in the lake, but they know their stew.”
“Colorfully put,” Nemo said. “They shall be in the galley tonight. My sea gardens, I planted a hundred others across the Atlantic and Pacific. When this monster hunt’s over, that’s the work I’ll return to.”
The Whalers snatched up the nets, and Nemo had the laser rifle, examining the bones for damage. He looked to Jess and said, “Good work today.”
He turned to Sara. “Miss Duncan, this area is to be shipshape before you leave. Report in an hour for further duties.”
Jess held out the pike, a string of eel flesh still hanging from the steel initial. “Don’t forget your weapon, sir.”
Nemo took it without a glance or nod and stepped from the chamber. Jess struggled with his suit, trying to pull his arms free, when Sara said, “You saved his life.”
“Take hold of me arm, Sis.”
Sara stressed her words: “You saved his life.”
Jess’ arms were tangled, and he said, “He’s the captain, that’s what I’m supposed to do. You got in there pretty good yourself. How’d you know to use that blade?”
Sara said, “He barely acknowledged it.”
Sara freed him, and Jess said, “You’re mixin’ us up with the Navy what spends as much time pinnin’ medals on each other, as they do on the water. We’re crew, Sis. You do what you do because it’s the job.”
Sara said, “That eel was no machine.”
“I can’t follow what that means, Sis. But, you need a drink more than any of us.”
Sara, knowing she spoke out of turn, but feeling reduced, separated her words evenly. “He is a cold bastard.”
Jess hooted, “But he’s the Captain.”
* * *
The dirigible pilot wore his vanity on his lapel as a series of small, jeweled stick pins from the Weldon Balloonists Society, the Academy of Aeronautic Pilots, and several others. He had the kind of face that was perfect for a portrait, but showed nothing useful at all in terms of experience. His eyes were like a doll’s.
He identified himself as, “One of the Prudent family of Philadelphia. We’ve been quite active in ballooning for two generations, and have advised several governments.”
This was all before he shook hands with Grant, Duncan, or Maston, and took his place in the pilot’s chair at the dirigible’s helm. Prudent said to Duncan, “My being here was a precaution of Vice President Colfax, given the import of this voyage.”
Grant said, “We’re aware of the import.”
The airship cut through colliding black clouds, rain bullet-striking the arched front windows by the helm, with Prudent saying, “It was felt, as this is the
maiden flight of Mr. Duncan’s design, and with this storm, someone of experience should be at the helm. No offense meant, sir.”
Duncan peered over the top of his glasses, which Grant knew was his sign of contempt. “Oh, no offense taken. Actually, I couldn’t agree more.”
“I’ve only barely inspected the craft, but you seem to have done an interesting job,” Prudent slowed the air speed. “Not all choices I would have made, but interesting.”
Prudent set direction from the pilot’s station with a Captain’s wheel as if traveling the Mississippi, its upward and downward propeller controls hanging from the ceiling like boat whistles on brass chains. Thick, bleeding rain from the passing clouds covered the glass that encircled the gondola, along with its gun ports.
High winds shoved the dirigible, as waves roll into a two-mast schooner. The air was the ocean, the airship, fighting high water.
Grant flicked cigar ash. “Well, I said we’re on a righteous mission. I hope God in his Heaven sees it that way, keeps us in the air. Or better.”
Top-secret paperwork was spread across a small, leathered desk, with an ornate top and cigar cutter. Duncan was beside Grant, unrolling navigation specifics. It was a true office, befitting the President, with upholstered comforts, paintings on burnished walls, and weapons mounted along the baseboards.
Two Rifle Guards were stationed at the gun ports, with Maston standing by at the iron-shuttered side windows, with openings to drop grenades.
The Phono-Phone had its own corner alcove, with the navigation equipment. A rack that once held rifles now held telescopes of all lengths and swung out from the wall for instant access.
Duncan said, “If Gladstone’s coordinates are primarily correct, we’ll reach the meeting within a day easily, provided we can negotiate the weather.”
Thunder rattled the windows, coming through the iron gondola as a scream in a cave. The ship weaved, but still climbing, propellers chopping heavy clouds. Prudent brought the speed up, adjusted the dirigible angle with the hanging chains like boat whistles.
Prudent said, “I’ll get us through the storm, sirs.”
Grant looked down at the city through a short-spyglass portal, with great magnification. The clouds were shifting, showing up pieces of Washington, half of streets, below. He could see the faces looking up at the ship, shielding eyes, and waving through the rain before running, laughing, to their front doors. They’d seen the President.
The storm’s gray-black seemed to be the fog of cannons, the thunder bringing Grant memory slashes. His words were for himself: “Not on my watch. No one’s going to strike this city.”
“Duncan, we had a purpose to stop this war before it starts. That’s why Nemo, that’s why all of this. What about the attack coordinates? I’d like to tell these crowned heads I inspected the sites personally.”
Sliding open a floor panel, Duncan stood back as a projection device corkscrewed out of the floor, its lens pointed to the ceiling. Duncan fit the maps underneath it, saying, “The meeting’s only a few miles into international waters, so we’re following the attack pattern as our route.”
The projector threw the image of the maps across the curved ceiling of the dirigible, the planetarium view from corner to corner, with the exact position of the sinkings and the route to the conference outlined in separate colors.
“An improvement over my office viewer,” Duncan said. “These are the same coordinates we assigned Nemo.”
“The route he’s not followed.” Grant took his cigar from mouth, and stayed fixed on the ceiling and what was shown across it. “You can see every foot of the direct orders that son of a bitch’s ignored.”
Duncan said, “We have the air, the Nautilus has the water, so there’s no movement an enemy can make that we won’t know about.”
Maston absently flashed the laser scar on his hand and said, “Find that iron ship of his, I’ll find a way to board it. Mile underwater, don’t make a difference to me.”
Violent thunder broke. An explosion in the sky; sound from nowhere felt through the airship as rain blew in through the bomb doors.
Duncan said, “Young man, I’d just like to know it’s still sailing, in one piece. And my daughter’s safe.”
Maston’s words were a rush of, “My intended meaning is we’d get Miss Duncan back in our protection. That Nautilus ship is powered by our gold, that’s reason enough.”
“You delivered the gold, and that’s a credit to you,” Grant said. “Son, you’re waiting for another chance, but don’t get too eager to charge. Hold back.”
“Mr. President, the Secret Service works for you,” Maston said. “At this moment, you can’t be taken hostage, and there isn’t a ship in existence with the cannon to reach us.”
The airship jostled, the storm roaring, and Maston held onto a side railing, his gun rig and holster showing.
Grant said, “Maybe we won’t be taken down by a cannon.”
“You’re safer here than anywhere on earth,” Maston said. “Just give me an order, sir. Any order.”
Duncan turned to Prudent, pointed to the chart, everywhere above him. “Pilot, you can interpret all this?”
“We’re breaking the clouds, coming over the storm, Duncan.” Prudent looked to the projected charts. “Quite easy to read. I’ll set our course, gentlemen.”
Grant bit down on his cigar, quietly laughing. “Sometimes I ponder you and Nemo as brothers. At least half. To build all this.”
“Design it.” Duncan shook his head. “You know I’m just an academic, not a pilot. Or submariner. Or genius.”
“Take some damn credit,” Grant said, relighting. “You created this airship, and all that’s in it, to do some good for your country. That’s a hell of a thing. You’ve done yourself proud.”
Prudent wiped his glasses on his sleeve and said, “It is a good ship, actually, and is probably suited for the job of finding this submarine.”
* * *
Fulmer was dead weight, leaning forward, arms across Jess’ and Sara’s shoulders as they hauled him down the bottom deck passageway to the crew bunks. The copper plates had burned his chest, leaving small, scarred rectangles, and his jaw lolled to the side, almost open, the way a corpse at sea would be found.
Jess said, “I seen worse, but haven’t smelled worse. That why Nemo won’t have him in that laboratory?”
“The Captain said his work required secrecy, and he didn’t want this man waking up and interrupting him.”
They stopped. Jess breathing hard, adjusting Fulmer’s arms around him, and saying, “He always needs his damn secrets. You know that. As for wakin’ up, I don’t think that’s happenin’ anytime soon.”
Sara pulled herself farther under Fulmer’s shoulder, stood straight. “But he’ll wake.”
“Not doubtin’ it for a second. And when he does, he’s got you to thank,” Jess said, hauling Fulmer along. “That’ll be your acknowledgement!”
Sara smiled at the jab. “Okay, now I owe you a drink.”
“Tell you what, wish I’d been with you to fetch this one from up top.”
Sara said, “No, you don’t.”
“Even if it meant takin’ on another Moray,” Jess shouldered the hatchway open. “I hate bein’ buried under all this water. Feels like drownin’ without the dyin’.”
Jess and Sara dropped Fulmer onto a bare mattress without his stirring. One of the Whalers sat in the quarter’s dark corner, watching, as Sara pulled open Fulmer’s belt.
Sara said, “Lend a hand. We’re not on our honeymoon, you know, we have to see if there are any other injuries.”
Jess said, “Who knows what was feedin’ on him, but they probably spit him out.”
Jess shifted himself, his back to the corner, showing the Whaler, again, the pistol in his boot as he leaned over Fulmer. “We going to be burnin’ these?”
Sara said, “We’d be doing him and us a favor.”
They yanked off the rags of pants and shirt. Something clinked to
the floor. The slightest sound; lighter than a coin bouncing off a plate. Sara bent down to a glint of blue light under the bunk. A spit of reflection, thin as a razor’s cut. She reached for it, fingers stretching, to grab the diamond shard.
Jess put the bottle of milk beside the bed, and jammed the rubber tube into Fulmer’s lax mouth, saying, “I’m doin’ the dirty work, and you’re findin’ buried treasure!”
Sara put the shard in her pocket, saying to Jess, “Just keep him quiet. If he wakes, give him some. Just one swallow, Jess.”
The laudanum was an amber bottle that Sara handed to a grinning Jess, who said, “I know about restraint, Sis. Even done it once, maybe twice.”
Jess looked to the Whaler as Sara stepped from the quarters, the hatch heavy-swinging shut. He hadn’t moved. Or possibly, blinked. Only staring.
Jess said, “You keep on waitin’ it out, and we’ll all get rich off this turtle ship. Then, maybe, we’ll have a different kind of fight. Savvy?”
Eyes that didn’t move was the answer.
* * *
Nemo stood before the bridge’s large portal, all blue-green moving before him, with darts of silver from schools of fish swimming in the Nautilus’ running lights. Colors becoming other colors, this quiet beauty of the ocean.
“Still my serenity,” he said to Sara.
“We haven’t seen much serenity lately.”
“There it is, nature’s perfection.” Nemo turned from the ocean. “But for this journey, it’s been more blood in the waters than anything.”
Sara said, “I feel like I’ve been through a war.”
“You have. I expect brutality from mankind, but what we’ve found, this mechanical monstrosity, opens new doors. I’ve seen much in the oceans, and odd rumors can become stalwart legends in the retelling.”
“Like this submarine being a sea monster?”
“The speculations of newspapers, and penny dreadfuls, and always concocted fantasies.”
Sara said, “Except in this case, yes?”
“You’re like a child who’s delighting their parents made an error.”
Nemo set the automatic piloting system, engaging the mechanics. “Our destination is the next sinking in the so-called official reports, but following my route. If the wreckage exists, we’ll be on it very soon. To sort out more of this strangeness.”
Nemo Rising Page 20
