Nemo Rising

by C. Courtney Joyner

  “If he refuses, I’ll have that submarine, one way or t’other. You understand?”

  “Yes, I do,” Sara said. “I’ll have to calculate our present position.”

  “Do it, then. And don’t forget the second part of your task—”

  “Believe me, I haven’t.” Sara repeated her words, “The mission will be completed to your satisfaction, General.”

  Over the horn, Duncan pleaded, “Sweetheart…”

  Nemo was beside Sara without sound, so quickly she didn’t even know it until he reached around her and shut off the Phono. “This report is finished, gentlemen. I will be the one to keep you informed.”

  The screen dimmed, and he turned Sara around in her chair to face him. “Miss Duncan, I’m aware of your split loyalties, but I will decide when and what to report of this voyage.”

  “Sir,” Sara said. “It’s my father, and I have to tell them something. There’s a war above us, we have to prove to them we’re doing our duty. And we are, that’s what I told them.”

  “There’s always some war.” Nemo went to the helm, unlocked the settings. “And I have to prove nothing, I only have to discover. That’s our destination, and purpose.”

  Sara said, “Things are getting worse since we sailed; time’s running out.”

  “For yourself, or me? Don’t answer yet.”

  Nemo’s hands were now completely under the controls, fit to the gloves and sensors, just as Toccata and Fugue came to an end, the final organ notes sounding forever through the Nautilus. Then gone.

  Nemo said, “I needed to hear the last of the Bach. Always remember, Miss Duncan, that I know everything that happens on my ship. As far as I’m concerned, you’re again one reprimand away from being a stowaway, and being cast off.”

  * * *

  In the dirigible, Duncan sat at the phone, head down, hands in his lap, hearing Nemo and his veiled threat to his daughter. His reaction was paralysis. Grant kept his hand on his friend’s shoulder as they heard Sara say, “I have my work to do, Captain,” before the signal died.

  * * *

  The first shock to Fulmer was opening his eyes. They were clean, not sealed tight with salt, and he opened them too wide, letting in everything they possibly could see. The second shock was that the light was cool, shadowed, and not the searing of white sun. He shut them again, then gradually opened, as if double-checking that he was alive.

  It took him a moment, spitting out the milk from the back of his throat and yanking free of the feeding tube as he sat up on the iron bunk. His stomach and mouth tasted sour, but he could taste, and that was a relief.

  He wiped his mouth on the sheets, trying to orient himself. The riveted walls of plate iron. The low ceiling, and the N above the hatchway to the main passage. He reached out, for the side of the lifeboat that wasn’t there, then pulled himself back. Eyes closed, and gathering himself.

  His hands went behind his head, laying them flat against the iron wall, fingers spread. Feeling the cold of the metal, the heads of the rivets. Recognizing something familiar, and knowing what it meant. Calming.

  Fulmer leaned forward, the muscles in his legs fighting him, straining from their rest. He grabbed hold of the edge of the bed and pulled himself up, just making out the silhouette of the Whaler in the far corner, sitting and watching.

  “Jesus—”

  Fulmer shuffled, dragging a foot closer to the Whaler, who had leaned forward and lit a candle in a small holder beside his chair, throwing light against one side of his marked face and the machete across his knees. Fulmer stopped.

  When Fulmer spoke, he reached for his words, finding them in the back of memory, and putting them together. Halting, as he said, “Those—tattoos—I think I know them—seen them before—but in the sun. I’ve been with your people, what do you speak? Is it—Swasi? I’ve been there—not dreaming, but really there, I’m sure. And done some drinking—shipped out from the coast, I think—”

  “Enough,” the Whaler said. “I speak the Queen’s English when I choose. Mostly, I don’t.”

  “Can you tell me where I am?”

  “The iron boat.”

  Fulmer’s eyes were on the ceiling. “Underwater?”

  “Yes.”

  Fulmer was leaning heavily against the bunk frame, looking around the crew quarters again, trying to take it in. Jogging his own senses, saying, “A submarine. Is this the Nautilus?”

  Whaler nodded.

  “Jesus.”

  Now he sagged against the bed, a great weight suddenly pushing him down. “Did the Captain—Nemo, did he save me?”

  “The Captain, he found you up top. More dead than alive. Brought you back.”

  Fulmer said, “Son of a bitch…” He let his voice trail away, then looked to the whaler. “You’ve been here the whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Part of the crew?”

  The Whaler said, “Yes, my brother, too.”

  Fulmer looked to the hatchway, the N above it knocked askew and smeared with stains of a shattered whiskey bottle.

  He turned to the Whaler, “That blade, can I see it?”

  His hand was out, for the machete to be passed to him. “Don’t worry, I know it’s yours.”

  The Whaler lay the handle, leather-wrapped, into the flat of Fulmer’s palm, his skin still raw and blistered, some peeled back almost to the muscle. He winced as he gripped the handle, but tightened fingers anyway. More pain. He held the blade up, his arm struggling with even this much weight, but felt better holding it. Raising it. And sure he could bring the machete down, striking with force, if needed.

  Fulmer used the machete to touch the cross-braces and supports of the passageway, their curves and shape distinct to the Nautilus. He tapped them with the blade, just a clink, as if to verify them, as he walked from one end of the submarine to the other. He counted the number of side passages, dragging the machete across them the way a boy would drag a stick across a picket fence. He paused by the engine room to glance inside.

  Sara looked up from her checking of the pressure gauges. “My God, are you all right? When did you awake?”

  Fulmer kept on, now holding the machete by his side with military bearing, walking toward the first set of access stairs.

  Sara followed, “I don’t even know your name…”

  Then reached for the hand holding the blade. Fulmer turned, slightly pulling away, but never raising the machete directly to her, only tilting the vicious edge as she met his cloudy eyes.

  Fulmer said, “No. Please.”

  She half-stepped back, letting him continue for the stairs and to the upper deck. Sara grabbed for the crew phone, trying for the bridge, and Fulmer stopped on the stairs, saying, “Please, miss, you don’t want any part of this.”

  Fulmer continued to mid-deck, through the library where he opened Professor Arronax’s journal of sea life, and ran his fingers down one of the pages to see his name listed as “being of particular help in the capture of the giant mollusk.”

  Fulmer said out loud, “Thank you, Professor.”

  He’d replaced the book, and tightened his grip around the machete’s handle as he reached the farthest end of the deck, where it rounded into a cul-de-sac around a view port below the bridge, with Nemo’s quarters to the side.

  He stood before the white-and-gold-lacquered door, scarred by water and traces of gunfire, and used the machete’s tip to depress the door’s jeweled dolphin latch.

  An arm went around Fulmer’s throat from behind, locking at the elbow, yanking him backward and lifting him off his feet. He slashed with the machete, the blade cleaving against a wall, sparking off the iron, as the arm tightened, choking off his air.

  Nemo said, “I didn’t save your life for this!”

  Fulmer dropped the machete, and Nemo relaxed his grip. Fulmer turned to face Nemo, and behind him, Jess standing on the stairs. Jess’ pistol rested steady across the railing, barrel pointed at the center of Fulmer’s chest or back, depending on how
he stood.

  Nemo said, “Mr. Jess, careful with your trigger, this is Mr. Fulmer, who was First Mate. One of my best.”

  Jess said, “He surely ain’t that no more. Have a good nap, did ya?”

  “He’s currently a ward of the Nautilus,” Nemo said, kicking the machete across the floor and keeping Fulmer’s eyes on him.

  Fulmer said, “I don’t even know what the hell that means.”

  Sara said, “Somewhere between a prisoner and a guest. But I think better, a prisoner.”

  Fulmer looked back at Sara, standing on the other side of the curved staircase. He said to Nemo, “My intention was to give you a chance, Captain. My memory’s spotty, but I’m aware you saved me, by bringing me on board.”

  “A fighting chance, by ambushing me in my cabin? You learned a lot of tricks with the vigilantes you rode with; that must be one of them, the fighting chance, after cutting a throat.”

  Fulmer said, “I didn’t know who was waiting for me, how many guards you had. I imagined I was the one to get his throat cut.”

  Sara said, “You damn near did, by pirates.”

  Fulmer nodded. “A lot of that’s lost, but I recall the one in the yellow scarf.”

  “He’s dead. Thanks to the Captain.”

  Fulmer said, “That’s another to add to our history, ain’t it?”

  Jess watched Fulmer’s reactions: a man who seemed crazed, just holding himself up with all his strength, but still trying threats. Not gin-crazy, but something else. He watched Nemo’s moves as well, in motion, and shifting his weight as he took small steps in the passageway, side-to-side, taking nothing for granted as to what Fulmer might do. There was knowledge between these men. Caution, as doctors at an asylum would approach a dangerous inmate.

  Nemo picked up the machete, regarded Fulmer’s injured, peeling face. “I hold no ill will that you escaped when I was captured. But I hold it against myself that I got us trapped.”

  “That’s your burden,” Fulmer said.

  “But I need to know your attitude about the sinking of the Man O’ War.”

  “Unchanged.”

  Nemo nodded to Jess with his eyes, who thumbed the hammer on the pistol, but saying to Fulmer, “You’ve actually been under arrest since you’ve been on board. If you’re a danger to my ship, you’ll be put in irons, or cast adrift.”

  “Your laws aren’t new to me,” Fulmer said. “I’ve been your prisoner before, the rest, what kind of threat is that to me?”

  Sara said, “We brought you back from the dead, do you understand?”

  “To do what, kill me all over again?”

  Nemo said, “I know what you’re capable of, Mr. Fulmer. And here we are, on my ship, with a task before us.”

  “You makin’ me an offer, Captain?”

  “You are the only survivor of that bizarre attack. I’ve been charged to find the motives behind it. You can be of use. That’s why you’re alive. Can you clear your mind, table your mania until the end of the voyage?”

  Fulmer touched the electric scars on his chest, saying, “If you can.”

  Jess holstered the pistol, swallowing his curses.

  “Miss Duncan.” Nemo reached around Fulmer, handing Sara the machete. “See that the weapon is properly returned. I’m trusting you with this task.”

  33

  THE SURVIVOR

  The President’s Aero Force Number One had found its route along the Atlantic Coast, staying to the first layer of clouds, moving in and out of their cover. The wind speed boosted the dirigible, its guidance systems keeping its flight sure. Over Fort Sumter, a starburst fired from a guard tower and filled the sky around the dirigible with shimmering color.

  Maston watched through the arched windows. “There’s a greeting from Fort Sumter, Mr. President.”

  “Every barracks on high alert,” Grant said. “You think those boys’d be sending off skyrockets if they knew how crazy things were?”

  On the Phono, Horace’s voice was all halts and stammers. “I’ve never spoken into a machine like this before, sir. This is quite a new experience.”

  Duncan said, “Relax, Mr. Horace, you followed my instructions well.”

  “If I might, we should install these throughout the White House.”

  Grant said, “Then we’d never get any damn peace. What about the latest communications? What intercepts?”

  “There’s been activity between Prussia and Italy, but we haven’t gotten all the telegraphs. They will be sailing to the meeting point, however. I’m expecting more notices in an hour.”

  Grant, at his desk, cut his cigar. “Keep us informed.”

  Horace said, his image splitting across the mirrors, “We have confirmation that your aircraft has made headlines in Britain and France, Mr. President. Front pages, with photographs. If I might say, well done, sir.”

  “Yes, you might.”

  Duncan shut down the device, spinning Horace away. His words were flat, worried, as he said, “They know we’re coming, Sam. That’s sending the message you wanted to send.”

  Prudent said, “Mr. President, we can have you at your destination in less than twenty-four hours.”

  He pulled the chains above him in sequence, adjusting the dirigible’s angle centrally into the air stream. A smooth, imperceptible piloting move. Prudent flicked one of his lapel badges, giving himself credit.

  Duncan said, “If Nemo doesn’t complete the mission, we have other ways to send the message of our innocence. We’ve made the accommodation.”

  Grant said, “Not just innocence, that we as a nation share a common enemy with all nations, to band together to fight.”

  Duncan said, “Your speech is included, Sam.”

  Maston shifted a baseboard to one side, revealing a bomb rack loaded with several hundred grenades, the edges of the shells fluttered with colored streamers.

  Grant said, “Those letter bombs will only take us so far. The leaflets are just another denial on paper.”

  Duncan said, “Delivered from this ship.”

  “All eyes will be on us, I know,” Grant said. “Believe it or not, I want Nemo to come through, show the world you were right to put him to sea again. Because I don’t want to have to engage a goddamn submarine and these other nations at the same time.”

  Grant took a miniature carafe from his desk, poured himself a short bourbon. “Because that’s not a fight we can win.”

  Maston said, “Sir, there’s a load of grenades in here with real punch, black powder grain, send a different kind of message.”

  “I hope to hell we don’t have to use those. On anyone.”

  Maston said, “In case you do, they can be auto-loaded. A rain of fire, Mr. President.”

  * * *

  “Your fighting skills have notched up some,” Fulmer said.

  Nemo said, “I had a good deal of unwanted practice.”

  They entered the laboratory, with Fulmer stopping upon seeing the spider on the examination table.

  Nemo moved to it. “Yours isn’t the first reaction like that this thing has had. Not that I can blame anyone.”

  Fulmer said, “But they’re reacting to what they think that thing can do, not what it is.”

  Nemo turned it over, propping it up on its mechanical legs, and said, “Miss Duncan found this in your pocket.”

  He opened his hand, with the sliver of blue diamond in its center. Fulmer nodded, and Nemo closed his fist, then put the diamond into a test tube next to the sea spider and corked it. He inched the tube away from the spider’s body, making sure Fulmer saw the separation.

  “No worries,” Nemo said. “I found that’s the power source.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out, after I shot the hell out of about a thousand of those things.”

  “A thousand? Really?”

  Fulmer said, “Sure seemed like that many to me.”

  “Can you tell me?”

  Fulmer leaned against the examination table. “Is this where you did your work on me?”


  “It is.”

  “I remember from when you set my broken arm. Elbow bent clear back. I was screaming murder, but it knit right well. No problems, except in the rain. Little stiff. That’s when this was sick deck. Some time ago, isn’t it?”

  Nemo studied Fulmer, holding all back, and saying simply, “Yes, it is.”

  “And, I do remember,” Fulmer said, “whose blood that is, Captain.”

  Nemo kept working. Had no response.

  “So, I’m thanking you for this time, especially. My brains were mush, I know that.”

  “Be of use,” Nemo said. “Tell me about this thing.”

  “I thought it was real.” Fulmer leaned against the table, picking up a scalpel and poking the spider’s steel mandibles. “Then it sprayed that green stuff. Burned Red’s face right off his skull, others’, too. The eyes lit up somehow, and when they walked, you can hear the machinery inside.”

  “What was your ship?”

  “The Mariner, registered out of Brighton. Just a tramp freighter, I hitched on as a cargo rat. Hauling everything you could think of, but our hold was full of rifles. For India, I think.”

  Nemo let the mention of India sink between them, before he said to Fulmer, “How did these things get aboard? Were they in the crates, or didn’t you take care to observe?”

  “The first ones I saw were perched on top. We busted out some guns, and didn’t see any layin’ in among ’em. They were pouring in through the portholes, though. And the deck. Like regular spiders, on webs. It takes two to three slugs for a dead-stop. I guess there’s an engine you have to hit, or something.”

  “Do you see any in the water?”

  “No, but they were all over the sides, crawling up.” Fulmer took the scalpel away from the mechanical, turned it over in his hand. “Captain, I know you’ve seen hell.”

  Nemo said, “More than once.”

  “This was worse.”

  Nemo slipped on a pair of gloves, moved to a steel-and-glass tank on the opposite side of the lab. “Supposedly there are more than a half dozen ships that’ve gone through the same thing, all on routes around Brigand’s Trench.”

  Fulmer said, “Jesus, another fantasy.”