The Dark Deeps (18 page)

The light flickered. He looked up at it and an idea occurred to him. He retrieved the telegraph; by standing on his cot he was able to reach the glass and push it aside. There were two bulbs inside, so he uncovered the electric filaments that led to one of them. He knew not to touch the bare wires with his hand. He grabbed the rubber around them and cut one with his knife. The bulb went black, but the other bulb kept burning. He used a wooden soup spoon
to guide the wire onto the telegraph. The device made a clicking noise. It worked!

He let out a triumphant laugh. “Modo, you’ve done it! Brilliant! Brilliant!”

There was no guarantee that the
Ictíneo
would be anywhere near the transatlantic cable lines, but he typed out a message, addressing it to Mr. Socrates and encoding it. He chose two-word sentences, hoping that if it was cut off they’d get at least part of the meaning.

Modo alive stop in submarine ship stop underwater city stop near Iceland stop agent Griff stop assisting me stop must

“Mr. Warkin, are you awake?” Modo jumped. It was Colette. He nearly dropped the telegraph. A spark shot from the wires. The one working bulb flickered, then grew brighter.

“Yes, I’m awake!” he answered. “I’m dressing.”

He slid the glass plate into place. He heard a cough. Griff?

“Are you well enough to join us for breakfast?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, stepping down from the cot. He spread out his arms and searched for Griff, then hid the telegraph under his pillow. He’d take it with him, but none of the pockets in the Icarian clothing were large enough. He assumed people who didn’t own anything didn’t need pockets.

“Well, we’ll see you there. But hurry, my friend! They’ll be singing the song. You don’t want to miss this.”

Song? He changed into the Knight as quickly as possible, wiped the sweat from his brow, and finished dressing.

He opened the door and looked back into the room, realizing that he was becoming paranoid. If Griff had been
there, he would have said something. They were on the same side, after all. Modo closed the cabin door, wishing he could lock it.

On his way to the dining room he heard the first odd notes of an organ echoing around him. The music was coming from all directions at once—perhaps it was traveling through the pipes that ran everywhere around the ship.

He passed an open door and discovered Captain Monturiol sitting at a pipe organ, pressing down keys to play the mournful song. Several Icarians were around her, and others had stopped in the hall. They began to sing all at once across the ship, and Modo was surprised by the timbre and emotion of their voices, as beautiful as any choir he’d heard the few times Mr. Socrates had taken him to church. He saw Colette, moved closer to her. “Are they singing in Spanish?” he whispered.

“No. Catalan. And it’s their anthem. Once a week they do this. I’ll translate, since you English agents don’t know Catalan:

“It’s a stirring song,” Modo whispered.

“It’s no ‘La Marseillaise,’ but it has its moments.” Hearing so many voices as one, Modo had been surprised how the song had moved him. No sour notes. The joy and dedication it expressed. The pleasure at being part of an accepting group—something he rarely felt. They were one. They had a common cause. They belonged together. The music slowly faded.

Captain Monturiol stood. “Ah, Mr. Warkin, I see you are well today.”

“The singing was absolutely lovely!”

“All sung from the heart, though we miss Cerdà’s baritone. Now return to your stations, my comrades, for we have work, as always. I, too, have tasks to complete, my guests. Excuse me.” She strode into the corridor.

“Let’s fetch breakfast,” Colette said. The galley of the ship was just past the dining room. Modo and Colette lined up for bread, hotcakes, and a mug of white liquid. They ate at one of the mess tables. The drink was not unlike milk.

“It’s dolphin milk,” Colette said as Modo took a gulp.

He nearly spat it out. “Really?”

She laughed. “No. I don’t know what it is. It’s probably better that way. After my first week I stopped asking. They don’t die from drinking it, but I would kill for a croissant with real cow’s butter and jam.”

The word
kill
echoed in his ears, and he wondered if she really could have done what Griff had said.

“So, you’ll explain to me what happened yesterday?” she asked.

“I felt trapped in the suit. That is all.”

“But you weren’t frightened on the way to New Barcelona.”

“It came over me suddenly.”

“And this mysterious rash?”

“It’s a nervous reaction.” She didn’t seem to believe him, so he added, “My doctor says so.”

“Really, Modo, you must work on your acting. I’m sure you’ll tell me when you’re ready. I have been forthright with you.”

“It really is a reaction to—”

“Don’t lie.” She held up her hand. “We haven’t discussed what we saw yesterday. This New Barcelona was … well, I must admit I was stunned beyond words.”

“That mustn’t happen very often.”

“Are you insinuating that I’m verbose, Mr. Warkin?” She patted his hand. “A city under the ocean! The
Ictíneo
is just a bauble compared with that.”

“It was beyond anything I had ever imagined too. The captain’s father had a brilliant mind!”

“Yes. Imagine a new Paris spreading out below the water. A new Arc de Triomphe and a Palais du Louvre, all under the sea!”

“Yes, imagine that,” he said. “Baking croissants at full fathom five.”

“Oh, I’m sure you English would be starting your own colonies too. After all, you’ve had so much practice failing so far. Perhaps you’ve learned from it.”

“Hmmph! Enough of these dreams. I have news: the telegraph was returned to me.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s odd.”

“It was broken. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Were you able to fix it?”

“Uh, no.”

She tapped a finger on her chin. “I see. You seem secretive, Modo.”

“That’s my job,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

“We shook hands, Modo. I gave you my word; do you doubt mine?”

“No, no,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a cup rise a few inches in the air and the milklike liquid drain from it. Griff was brazenly sitting right next to them! All the Icarians were gone. “I’m not being secretive. It’s only that I’ve been unwell.”

“Oh, that’s just all the tea you British drink. You need coffee, my friend. Coffee. Something we don’t find on the
Ictíneo
, I might add.” She paused. “Did you notice that we’re moving at about fifteen knots?”

“You can tell the speed?”

Her smile was both gentle and mocking. “No, Modo. Monturiol told me that the top speed of the
Ictíneo
is twenty-four knots.”

“Twenty-four knots! But the fastest warship only goes fourteen!”

“Yes, the
Ictíneo
is much faster. No waves to slow her down. Believe me, you’ll know when we hit top speed.” She felt the wall. “It was vibrating like this when we speared the
Hugo
. We are hunting, Modo. I fear the crew is preparing for another attack.”

O
ctavia clutched the telegram to her chest. Modo was alive! Alive! She whirled around her room, dancing, holding out the piece of paper as though it were her prince, dancing with her at a royal ball. He lives! My little Modo lives!

She’d spent most of the previous day on the ocean with Captain Arngrímur and his small crew of drunkards, on a creaking, cracking fishing boat he’d named
Hallgerda
. It was a paddle steamer with a motor that, barking and coughing, drove the spinning paddles. But it stayed afloat, and for a man whose blood must be half rum, the captain could sail, Octavia admitted. But they had found nothing, and had to return at dark.

That night she’d come to the only conclusion that had seemed possible: she was searching for a body. She’d bring him back to England and bury him in British soil, at least.
Now, all those dark thoughts, that sadness, had been for nothing! Mr. Socrates had received a message directly from Modo. And from a submarine ship, at that! What else could have clipped the anchor from the
Hugo
or smashed holes in ships? She and Modo had talked about there being a slim chance that such a ship could exist. Modo had somehow stolen his way onto one?

Clever Modo! She shook her head in wonderment, then closed her eyes. Modo was alive. She wiped tears from her cheeks.

Mr. Socrates had instructed her to stay in the boardinghouse at Reykjavik and wait for him. He’d promised to be there with a frigate within the next two days.

And so she climbed to her room on the top floor of the lodging house and sipped her tea as she stared out the window at the darkened ocean. Ships moved in and out of port, their lights glimmering in the distance.

This waiting will drive me batty! she thought. Absolutely batty!

But Mr. Socrates had told her to wait. She drummed her fingers on the windowsill and hummed softly to herself.

A
fter Colette left to read in her room, Modo spent part of the morning in the library, examining the books. He saw no further signs of Griff, but couldn’t escape the feeling that invisible eyes were watching him. The lights outside the porthole were turned off; obviously they were traveling as stealthily as possible. Comrades strode through the library on the way to various destinations, but their faces, as always, were unreadable. He noted that most seemed to be European, but there were one or two Cubans, and for the first time, he saw a Chinese comrade. Was there some underground movement drawing people from across the globe to Icaria? He added this to his list of things he would tell Mr. Socrates. If that day ever arrived.

As the vibrations of the
Ictíneo
grew stronger, Modo became more concerned. Was Colette correct about the ship’s hunting for victims? Occasionally, the
Ictíneo
turned in the
water and Modo would grab the reading table, bracing for impact. Were they circling back? He had no sense of the direction they were taking, nothing to mark his compass by.

He found himself wanting to talk more with Colette, but she had made it clear she didn’t want to watch the sinking of another ship. Modo felt guilty about having lied to her, but it had been necessary. He didn’t know anymore if she was trustworthy, and it was frustrating how easily she could read him. He had studied how to play different roles all his life. Was his education failing him? Mrs. Finchley had taught him so much about acting; he’d spent most of his life pretending he was someone else. Perhaps, if he lived through all this, he would ask Mr. Socrates to send him to Mrs. Finchley for more lessons.

After skimming through
On the Origin of Species
, Modo felt a sudden fatigue and decided it would be best to save his energy. It had only been two days since he’d plunged into the freezing ocean, and so much had happened since then. Being exhausted wouldn’t help his acting, that was for sure.

He climbed the spiral staircase that cut through the bridge. Captain Monturiol didn’t acknowledge him, she was so busy making notations in her log. Several comrades were working alongside her, adjusting levers and speaking through the voice tube to the crow’s nest.

He suddenly missed Cerdà. Though the man spoke little, his presence had a calming effect on the crew and on the captain, even on Modo himself. What was Cerdà doing in New Barcelona? There must be so many things to construct and plans to engineer when building an underwater city.

Back in his room, Modo first felt around to see if Griff was somewhere; then he lay down on the cot, letting his features sag. Every muscle ached. He pulled the net mask over his face in case someone entered while he slept.

Hours later a Klaxon sounded and Modo shot out of bed, clutching at the air. The light above him flashed a warning. He almost stumbled out of his cabin without shifting his features, but then he remembered to remove the mask and, with his back leaning against the door, stared into the small circular mirror. It was always harder to transform himself when he was sleepy. He pictured the Knight face.

Concentrate! he told himself, still seeing Mr. Socrates’ judgmental glare. Modo gritted his teeth, feeling his features changing. His tongue grew smaller, smoother, and more able to curl around words than the tongue he’d been born with. When he was finished, he wiped the usual film of sweat from his forehead. The Klaxons hurt his ears.

“Oh, so that’s how that works,” Griff said from a few feet away. “I nearly barked up my breakfast.”

Modo grimaced in annoyance. “You’re here!”

“Obviously! Slipped in when your back was turned. I came to inform you that we’re going to battle stations.”

“I’m aware of that.” Modo slipped his net mask into his pocket. He didn’t know where to look and had the sense that Griff was everywhere. He wanted to hit him. Griff had stood there silently and watched Modo change his shape. It was a private act. No one, especially not someone as creepy as Griff, should see him do it.

“You seem pensive, old boy.”

“Why are we going to battle stations?” Modo asked.

“Some poor vessel has strayed into Captain Monturiol’s imaginary Icarian boundaries. This woman must be stopped, Modo! Everyone is her enemy, believe me. But this will be a good chance for us to gather information and plan tactics. We may have an opportunity to strike.”

“Strike?” Modo scratched nervously at his arm. “How would we operate the ship?”

“Don’t panic! Ol’ Griffy will look after you. We strike only if we’re on the surface. You watch how she operates and who her subcommanders are. Since Cerdà’s in the city, I wonder who’s her second-in-command. They all look the same to me. I’m going to try to bypass the door into the aft chamber again. I want a good look at that engine. Toodle-oo!” Modo felt himself being pushed aside; then the door opened and closed.