They stopped by the door, the candle flickering down, the last bits of flame showing a stack of photographs on a shelf. The top one, a curling, sepia image of a young man with an idiotic grin and single-shot rifles resting on each shoulder. He sported no uniform, only ragtag clothes, and stood before a tramp schooner.
Fulmer blew out the candle. “Mind you don’t trip with this thing. It can still do some damage.”
The lab was fully lit as Fulmer and Sara brought the torpedo from the vault.
Nemo opened a small freezing cabinet beneath the row of aquariums. There was still a spatter of Jess’ blood on the walls and scorch marks from the electricity.
Nemo said, “The missile goes to the old table; take the head from the casing. Lend a hand here, Miss Duncan. And protect them!”
Fulmer set to work, wrenching off the torpedo’s top section as Sara wrapped her hands in an old bloody bandage from the table to grab hold of the steel box covered in solid ice. Liquid nitrogen spewed from the freezer, a burst of snow settling around the box, refreezing the moisture as it hit the air. Nemo cracked the ice around the edges, prying it open.
“A good suggestion,” he said. “The tongs, then take out the torpedo’s timing mechanism. You’re the only one with hands small enough.”
The surgeon’s tongs went to Nemo, with Fulmer laughing as she suddenly jammed her hand into the torpedo casing and twisted the timing wires around her fingers.
Fulmer said, “You’re like a pickpocket, trying for the first time.”
“Well, am I doing this correctly or not?”
“Seriously. Easier touch.” Fulmer was close to her ear. “He ain’t kiddin’ about being careful.”
“I thought these were safe.”
Fulmer said, “Any weapon can bite you.”
Nemo pulled the sea spider from the freezing box with the tongs, the cold misting with it, saying, “That will house our friend, and we’ll launch from second tube. Corrupt the threading between sections; we can’t have any delay with separation after firing. Miss Duncan?”
Sara held up the timer. “All gutted, sir,” she said as Nemo brought the frozen spider and placed it alongside the torpedo.
Fulmer said, “That’s a good fit, Captain. This is pretty outrageous.”
Nemo said, “That sometimes yields results, yes, Miss Duncan? The blue diamond, next to you.”
Sara opened the test tube, dropping the diamond into Nemo’s hand. “This is outrageous, and nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Nemo said, “A month past, and I would have said the same, about any of these mechanicals, but we have dead men, and we’re told, a world tipping over on itself, all because of gears and servos in the shape of God’s creatures.”
He inserted the diamond into the spider, seeing it draw power, but unable to move its frozen legs as intended. “Actually, given all of this, I don’t think outrageous is anywhere near an adequate label.”
Sara said, “I’ve studied every inch of this ship, and I didn’t even know it could fire a torpedo.”
Fulmer said, “There will always be secrets, Miss. This is its own world down here; maybe you should stop being shocked.”
Before Sara could respond, Nemo said, “Miss Duncan’s made contributions to this mission, that includes saving your life. You’re the new First, but don’t condescend.”
The rest was done with pure military efficiency: the Captain and First securing the weapon’s special charge, positioning the sea spider in the brass casing, as a delayed explosive would be. Levers were pulled in coded order, the torpedo firing tubes revealing themselves beneath the laboratory floor, splitting away at the dividing point between the new Nautilus and the Victorian surgery, as if the submarine were shedding its old skin.
Fulmer stepped into the divide, loading the torpedo into the breech firing mechanism and locking it off, all in moments. Expert and sure.
* * *
The laser rifle fitted to a sniper’s tripod, with Fulmer aiming through the top of the observation dome. He slid back the power cradle, widening the beam. “How long will we be tracking this thing, Captain?”
Nemo was at the helm, checking speed. “I examined the device’s every complication, found no markings of origin. So, a day, a week, a thousand years. Somewhere you need to be, Mr. Fulmer?”
Fulmer set his aim beyond the bow, tightened on the trigger. “No, sir. I’m playing the waiting game.”
“The order, Miss Duncan,” Nemo said. “Would you like to give it? It would be something specific to report to your father.”
Sara was at her navigation post, blank charts posted in front of her. “I wouldn’t know what to say, Captain.”
“Torpedo-bomb lexicon isn’t in common usage, perhaps a sign they won’t be popular, but I doubt it. Mr. Rongo, open the right grating, for flooding.”
The Maori Whaler stood his post, at the far side of the bridge, an enormous figure, his hands ready to take hold of the ballast rail switches or side-fin controls. He angled his head, acknowledging being addressed by his proper name, before throwing the levers, flooding the torpedo tubes.
The water rushing was a roar from belowdecks, brief, then silent.
Rongo said, “Flooded, sir.”
“Miss Duncan?”
“Fire the torpedo, sir.”
Rongo set the mechanism to work, and the torpedo to fire, the missile racing ahead of the Nautilus. Nemo upped speed, seeing it travel, then, “Aiming, Mr. Fulmer. Now!”
Fulmer shot. The laser beam hit the edge of the torpedo just as the top section blew apart, ejecting the spider into the water. Fulmer kept the beam on the thing as it sank, the ice melting, cut by the beam, freeing its joints. He kept the laser on it. The legs ground. Jerked to life, the machinery thawing. They began to move in mechanical unison, the eight pistons clawing at the water, outlined by the luminous jellyfish fluid working its way through.
The sea spider was a lantern in the dark. Under the laser light, the glowing thing began to swim, speeding instantly ahead. Darting around coral to open waters, with Fulmer taking the rifle barrel in any direction, never losing his target.
The spider’s movements were quick, the legs balancing and propelling simultaneously, all guided by its internal mechanics, as Nemo predicted.
Nemo brought the Nautilus to cruising, giving the thing as much distance as possible, not to pull it back into the propellers or have its course shifted by the submarine’s wake. His hands worked, as keys on the organ, always adjusting the glove controls and steering bar, according to the moves of the beacon ahead.
Sara said, “This truly is Goliath chasing David.”
“More like chasing a prairie dog.” Fulmer laughed. “I can keep it in sight, maybe as much as a quarter mile ahead, if it stays steady and the water doesn’t fog. But I don’t know what tricks it’ll pull. Or it’s supposed to.”
Nemo said, “None of us do, but this is a fine test of maneuverability.”
Fulmer said, “Until it leads us to a battle armada.”
“Captain, what course do I chart?”
“You don’t chart the progress, Miss Duncan, but our arrival. Our destination.”
Sara had to ask: “And the mission?”
Nemo said, “Our destination.”
* * *
The dirigible passed invisible through the midnight clouds, its lit windows showing as six stars moving in a row across the night sky with a hint of music behind them.
A map of the Atlantic was projected across the ceiling of the Gondola, with Grant studying the indicated positions of the ships arriving for the summit. As always, Duncan was at the Phono, ready to respond to the first sound coming from it. Anxious eyes behind bifocals.
Maston and the Guards stayed their positions, with Maston cleaning his pistol. The music came from a harpsichord box in the corner by the library shelves.
Prudent sipped tea, and said, “Gentlemen, we’re right on course, right on time. And my thanks for the tea, Mr. Duncan.”
&
nbsp; Duncan said, “Least I can do for the pilot. Honestly.”
“Down to my last cigar,” Grant said, cutting it at his desk. “It’s been a hell of a long time since I smoked this much. Mrs. Grant will kill me.”
Duncan said, “She hasn’t so far.”
“Not that I haven’t given her reason.” Grant lit his last. “Or anyone else. If we raise Nemo, I’ll order him to the summit, hand over whatever it is proving we didn’t sink any ships, or behind the assassinations.”
Grant stood, pacing the tight space of the gondola. “If he refuses, and he damn well might, that means we’ll be facing a lot of enemies. But I’ll have a frigate to do nothing but capture the Nautilus, and bring that son of a bitch to heel. Then hang him.”
Duncan said, “The confrontation might be exactly what he wants.”
“He can be gotten, and we’ll do it again.”
“I truly thought he’d cooperate, with all that’s at stake.”
Grant said, “We’re beyond that, now. We can’t second-guess.”
“Indeed,” Duncan said, bringing the pistol from his jacket, and shooting Prudent in the head, blood spattering the pilot’s chair. Then, a shot through his lapel, blowing the golden balloons apart.
It was all in moments. Grant turning at the sound, with Duncan on top of him, pounding him down with the butt of the gun, steel-to-temple, while pulling the pistol from Grant’s shoulder holster. Turning. Shooting a Rifle Guard in the chest with Grant’s gun, then the second, blowing a hole into his throat, and his eye, still sitting before the sky windows, never getting off a shot.
Duncan stood before Maston, holding two pistols. The Rifle Guard’s blood washed the lens of the map projector, casting the entire gondola in red.
Maston’s own jacket was open, but his hand hadn’t reached for the gun. There was still blank shock in his eyes, and he wiped blood from his cheek and the front of his jacket, rather than draw. Stunned by the academic.
“I know you’re good,” Duncan said, “and that’s caused me a lot of worry.”
The first shot was through Maston’s heart; the kick pushing him back. Feet tangling. The next shots, Duncan alternating between guns, firing both, propelled Maston back, crashing him through the window and over the gondola’s railing. And falling dead through the clouds.
“Sam.” Duncan picked up the guard’s rifles. “I wish to God we were still over Washington, and he landed on the steeple of one of your reconstructed churches. The irony of that would have been delicious.”
Grant was on the floor, his back against his desk, looking up at Duncan. Eyes fixed as Duncan took off his glasses and crushed them under his boot.
“Amazing how differently people treat you, wearing those. Never a threat,” Duncan said. “And you’re speechless, Mr. President. This night proves that all things are possible.”
36
THE TERROR
Horace had surrounded himself with telegrams and translatable notes, all before sending a message through the Phono in Duncan’s office. He was pleased with himself, straightening his jacket and running his fingers over his few strands of sticky yellow hair, when he managed to get Duncan’s image onto his mirror screen and hear his voice with clarity. It was an achievement.
“Congratulations on reading my instructions,” Duncan said. “What telegrams, what are we to expect?”
Horace shuffled through the paper stacks. “Quite a bit. Most of these are more objections to an all-out war, with a hint of an invasion by Germany, through Mexico.”
Duncan’s image said, “Not hints.”
“Mr. Gladstone’s invited the president to board his ship, and to conduct affairs under the protection of England’s flag. He warns this isn’t strictly sanctioned by Her Majesty, but”—he held the telegram up to a lamp flute, squint-reading—“‘You surely deserve a Marquess of Queensberry fighting chance.’”
Duncan was in the Pilot’s Station, Prudent’s corpse lying crumpled behind him, guiding the dirigible, and saying, “That’s certainly news. On the other matter, make sure about any other messages going out. You know what I mean.”
Horace came back on the mirror. “I do, indeed. Taken care of tonight. And sir, may I say what a privilege to be part of such a daring—”
Duncan shut the power, pulling the guide chains above him for rudder direction, feeling the great machine moving, bending the air to its needs. Taking pride in it.
Duncan reached down and pried away the one balloonist pin on Prudent’s lapel that hadn’t been destroyed by a bullet. Grant was at his desk, bent and watching, hands cuffed behind his chair.
Duncan wiped the blood before attaching the honor to his own jacket. “That conversation: did you get all of it, Sam? The man’s a troll, but he’s proved of some use, manipulating your White House information.”
Grant said, “You’re a goddamned traitor.”
“At least. But I prefer visionary.”
* * *
The hair around Cincinnati’s bullet wound was finally darkening, and growing in more fully. Efrem covered the raised skin with salve that he smoothed out with his fingers, massaging the horse’s muscles for the mixture to work its way in. He always stood still for this, swatting with his tail and bobbing his jaw, as if in agreement.
“You’re the finest animal I’ve ever seen.”
Efrem always said this, giving a bit of a pause each time, as if waiting for the horse to actually speak. But he said it, over and over, as he finished with the brushing, and checking the stall’s water and oats troughs.
“Hard at work, as always.”
Efrem scooped oats into a feed bag, looking up as Horace entered the stable, holding a lantern. He always checked around him as he walked, as if the stable floor wasn’t cleaned every hour, and always scraped something off his soles that wasn’t there.
Efrem finished with the bag. “Yes, sir. Lots of work, these animals.”
“But worth it.”
“I have an”—Efrem was reaching for it—“affinity.”
Horace kept the lantern high. “That’s good, Efrem, very good. Taking extra lessons?”
Efrem said, “No, sir. Mr. Lime said it, and I just recalled it.”
Horace peered over the top of another stall, at one of the mares belonging to Mrs. Grant. “If I was impressed before, it’s doubled now. That’s two times more.”
Efrem poured clean water into the trough. “Yes, sir. I know.”
“Since there’s nothing I can tell you, maybe you can tell me, again, about the Presidential message to your grandmother.”
Efrem stepped back from the stall. “Sir?”
“The letter. Grant gave you. You lied about it.”
“No, sir. I didn’t. It was a note for my grandma.”
“Saying what, exactly?”
“That Mr. Grant thought I was doing a fine job.”
Horace was steps closer. “And what else?”
“Nothing.”
“There was an envelope. Nothing else in it, just that note to Grandma?”
Efrem gave Cincinnati a last pat on the nose. “There was some money.”
“Of course. How much? Don’t be exact.”
Efrem said, “A little. Nothing to a man like you.”
He started for the back of the stable, toward the tack room. Horace followed, keeping just enough distance, so if Efrem tried to run, in any direction, he thought his long, hopper-like legs could spring him directly in front, blocking his escape.
Horace said, “This is the right place for all these words of yours. They’re all the shit of a horse.”
Efrem was now at the back of the stable, standing by the open door to the tack room, edging for it, kicking away bits of straw, saying, “No, sir. It’s all true. Mr. Grant will tell you.”
“Grant will not be setting foot here again.”
“What?”
“So you better let me know everything he said to you, and give me every message he passed,” Horace said. “You’re a lyin
g little darkie, and you will not infect my future by holding back information.”
The flash was sudden and bright-hot.
Bursting from the shadows of the tack room, followed quickly by another. Horace covered his eyes, as if to wipe away the moving purple floating in front of them. He stumbled against a stall fence.
Lime stepped around his camera and flash pan. “I should have warned you, but you should have bloody well told me what a villain you were. Would have made all of this much more convenient.”
Horace grabbed his lantern and swung it wide, as if it were a broadsword, smashing the glass against a post, the oil splashing back against him. And lighting. The fire was quick, spreading across his jacket.
Efrem pulled a blanket from a stall, wrapping Horace, extinguishing the flames. Over before it started. Horace leapt to his feet, screaming, and ran for the stable doors.
“Jesus save me, I’m burning!”
By the corral, Horace spun around in one place, pulling at his scorched jacket, still screaming. Hysterical yowls. Another flash pan burst, as another picture was taken.
Lime walked from the stables, with Efrem beside him, and said, “You’ve been exposed for what you are, Mr. Horace. An insect. But you’re not on fire.”
“God, you don’t understand!”
Horace dropped to his knees, then rolled onto his back. Around him, Guards with rifles climbed the corral fences, stepped from the shadows, keeping their guns aimed, four in a circle around Horace, and all less than six feet away. Horace thrashed. And screamed.
Lime howled, “Grant made preparations, but you’re not bloody on fire!”
Horace cried, “You don’t—I was to bring—the stable was to come down, with the boy in it, if he didn’t speak! God, help!”
He finally tore apart his long coat, revealing a stick of dynamite in the inside vest pocket, the bottom stuck through a tear in the lining, snarled in fabric, and the fuse burning down.
Horace screamed, “The fire! It lit! And it’s tangled!”
The Guards took a half-step forward, then raised their weapons and turned their backs as the dynamite exploded. Lime had made Efrem face the other way, placed his hands over his ears, and held them there.
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