The Dark Deeps (24 page)

Colette followed his instructions and the submarine ship dove.

“Good work,” Captain Monturiol said. “Now bring it halfway up.” Colette moved the levers again and the
Ictíneo
leveled out. “We’ll make an Icarian of you yet.”

At that Colette laughed, but she seemed proud of herself.

“Full speed, Cerdà,” Captain Monturiol said. “We must return to New Barcelona and warn our comrades to prepare for war. Our comrades imprisoned on the ship will have spoken of our city. It is safe now, but soon our enemy will find a way to reach us. We will defend our city with all our might.” She looked at the instrument cluster. “Forty-five degrees to port,” she said. Cerdà turned the wheel and the
Ictíneo
responded. “They seem to have repaired the steering apparatus. All systems are functioning properly.”

The
Ictíneo
hummed along, now going at full speed. “Is there anything I can do?” Modo asked.

“Just have a seat,” Monturiol answered. “You’ve worked hard enough today.”

He sat at the small map table. He noticed that Colette kept glancing at him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I am not used to your new face.”

Modo had already forgotten. He wouldn’t have enough strength to transform his face into a more familiar one; better to cover himself. He felt in the trouser pockets of the
Guild uniform and discovered a black silk neckerchief. It fit snugly over his nose. He adjusted his eyes, and kept the gray cap on. He looked out the porthole as they rose in the water, and saw the underwater plateau that led to New Barcelona. He watched the lights of the city grow closer. The
Ictíneo
turned straight toward the city and was traveling at such a clip that Modo feared they’d crash into it. He jumped up to warn them.

“Fill the forward ballasts,” Captain Monturiol commanded; the
Ictíneo
dove and Modo braced himself, expecting to hit the ocean floor.

“Don’t be alarmed,” she said. “We constructed a wide tunnel into the plateau.” Jagged rock walls were visible through the window, and several lights burned underwater, making the tunnel bright. Soon the
Ictíneo
was rising up into an underwater bay. It came to a stop.

“Why didn’t you enter this way before?” Modo asked.

“Because I enjoy the walk and I wanted to visit my father.” Monturiol paused. “And vanity, I must say. After two weeks of Miss Brunet’s mocking, I wanted to see her dumbfounded by the sight of New Barcelona.”

“I was
très
dumbfounded, I’ll admit that,” Colette said.

“Cerdà, prepare Icaria’s mace.”

“Are you certain, Captain?” Cerdà said. Modo hadn’t heard him question her before. She nodded.

“What is this mace?” Modo asked.

“You shall see soon enough. Let us warn our comrades.”

They all climbed out the hatch and Cerdà closed it. He then went to a storage locker.

“Does he need help?” Modo asked.

“Comrade Garay should arrive shortly,” Monturiol said. “Once he had pedaled clear of the
Wyvern
, he could engage the motor. He will aid Cerdà.”

They entered New Barcelona. The same three women in white robes greeted them halfway down a long hall, along with four boys, the oldest looking not much older than eight. There were two elderly men, both with peg legs, and beside them a sickly-looking man who was missing an arm. Modo remembered that they had been outside working on New Barcelona the first time he had visited. In all Modo counted twelve people, including a swaddled baby and young twin girls. Several people were holding fishing spears. Modo’s heart sank. The children were mostly afraid; the women grim. This wasn’t an army trained to defend an underwater country.

“Our comrades are imprisoned on an enemy ship,” Monturiol said to the gathered Icarians. “Our enemy is an organization that calls itself the Clockwork Guild.”

“Captain! What can we do?” one of the old men asked.

“You shall protect New Barcelona with every beat of your heart. Cerdà and I will strike them with the
Ictíneo.
”

“What about the balloons?” Colette asked.

“We will go deep enough that the balloon devices cannot follow. We will spear them directly from below.”

“But is the
Ictíneo
designed for those depths?” Modo asked.

“Yes, she is. Her collapse depth is one thousand meters. We will only go a quarter of that distance. The deeper we go, the more speed we will attain when we empty the ballast tanks.”

“The pressure will be tremendous,” Colette said. “It’s madness to risk it all.”

“No, not madness. It is the unexpected, and that is how one wins wars,” Monturiol said. “Your debt has been paid. You two may remain here.”

“You promised to deliver us to Iceland,” Colette said.

“I will fulfill that promise after this battle.”

“You don’t have enough sailors to run the
Ictíneo,
” Modo added.

“We shall manage.”

Modo looked at the women and the children, and at the old men. They were determined, even the youngest, but none of them was trained for battle. Everything was moving too fast. His assignment was to bring the technology home to England, to Mr. Socrates, but that would be impossible if the technology was destroyed.

No, it was more than that. Modo’s eyes rested on the men missing limbs. Monturiol had brought them here, had given them a home—a homeland—where they could contribute. Could be accepted.

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

“You are very brave.” Monturiol put her hand on his shoulder. “It will not be an easy mission.”

Colette let out a long sigh. “I shall go too. I won’t be outdone by an Englishman. You may have insulted my country, Monturiol, and I could not live under the water like this; I enjoy the cafés and dress shops of Paris too much. But I do not want your city destroyed.”

Monturiol put her other hand on Colette’s shoulder. “You are heartily welcome. We shall go now.”

When they returned to the
Ictíneo
, Modo noticed that the hatch was open. Hadn’t Cerdà closed it earlier? His brain was too addled to recall clearly. Observe! Remember! The
Filomena
was also in the dock now, and Comrade Garay was helping Cerdà bolt a large spiked metal ball near the tip of the
Ictíneo
’s sharpened ram.

Cerdà and Garay marched over. “The mace is attached, Captain,” Cerdà said.

“Good, good.”

“What is it?” Modo asked.

“Icaria’s mace,” Cerdà said.

“Yes,” the captain continued, “the ram will tear a hole in the hull and the mace will detonate within a minute, ripping more wounds in the enemy’s ship. That is the theory. We have not tested it before.”

“Oh,” Modo uttered. “I see.”

“Comrade Garay,” Monturiol said, “you shall be in charge of the defense of New Barcelona. You need to arm the citizens and patrol.”

Garay’s eyes were wide. “But Captain, I want to come with you!”

“No, Garay. Only you can pilot the
Filomena
. If all is lost, you must take your fellow Icarians to safety.”

He saluted with a trembling hand. “Yes, Captain.”

“Now we shall strike,” Captain Monturiol said, “like a spear thrown by Poseidon.”

O
nce they had boarded, Modo closed the hatch on the
Ictíneo
, spinning it into locked position. “Quickly!” Captain Monturiol said. “Cerdà, take Modo to the crow’s nest—he’ll be our navigator.” She patted Modo’s shoulder. “You’ll be watching for obstacles. There is a speaking tube, which you will use to communicate with the bridge.”

“And me?” Colette asked.

“You were good with the ballast tanks—you are officially a control officer now.”

Cerdà led Modo to the bow of the ship. “The crow’s nest is normally at the top of ship, isn’t it?” Modo asked.

“Yes, but on the
Ictíneo
it’s the nose. Its purpose is the same as on any ship. You will have a view above, below, and to either side. You will be able to see much more than the captain can through her periscope.”

Cerdà opened a hatch door and led Modo into the tight
little crow’s nest. There were several large portholes, as though Modo were standing in the eye of an insect. A light shone from the bow of the ship, illuminating the underwater wall of the bay. Suspended over the portholes was a chair with multiple belts. It looked like something a clever spider might have designed.

“Be seated,” Cerdà said. Modo sat and Cerdà began strapping him in. “These are to prevent you from being thrown around when we smash into our enemy.”

Modo didn’t like the feeling of being tied down.

“From here you can see above and below the
Ictíneo
, through the viewports. When you spot an obstacle, lift this shutoff valve and report through the speaking tube.”

The tube was hanging to Modo’s left and ended in a bell-shaped mouthpiece. “I understand.”

“It is important that you flip the valve closed at the end of communication. Especially important if we are about to ram a vessel.”

“Why is that?”

“If this chamber is flooded, we don’t want the water to penetrate the remainder of the
Ictíneo
through the tubing.”

“Oh, that makes sense.” Modo tried to say this as calmly as possible, but his voice cracked.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Cerdà said, “she is a sturdy ship. Remember, you are the
Ictíneo’s
eyes.” He went to the door and, as he was shutting it, said, “I am sorry. I must keep this closed. You are very brave.”

“Thank you,” Modo said, but the door was already closed.

Modo hadn’t thought about what might happen to the
viewports when the
Ictíneo
bashed into the
Wyvern
. And what damage would that exploding mace do?

“Uh, all clear,” he muttered into the speaking tube. He pulled back on the valve. “Modo here, saying the crow’s nest is all clear.”

“Thank you, Navigator.” Captain Monturiol’s voice came back to him through another tube that dangled above. “Please inform me only of an obstruction. I know this area well.”

They left the bay and accelerated over the plateau. Modo opened his eyes wide. No matter how hard he stared upward, he couldn’t see the
Wyvern
’s hull.

“Shouldn’t we shut off the exterior lamps?” he asked.

“We want them to follow us,” Monturiol said. “We will reach the edge of the plateau soon, Modo. Please inform me once we have passed it.”

Modo watched as the ground dropped away into an underwater canyon of unimaginable depth. “We are over the top of it now.”

“You are looking at the Valley of Clavé.” She sounded very calm.

Modo glanced up and saw a dark shape far above them. He couldn’t even be sure it was real. “I believe the
Wyvern
is forty-five degrees to starboard.”

“Good eyes!”

She had adjusted something, because now one of the
Ictíneo
’s lights lit the hull of the other ship. Which began to move.

“They’re following us!” Modo shouted.

“Thank you, Modo,” Monturiol said. Apparently she had
left her speaking tube open, because Modo heard her orders for Colette. “Fill the forward ballasts to twenty percent. We begin our descent.”

The
Ictíneo
shifted. They were pointing down now, the screw propeller pushing them ahead as the ballast tanks took on water. The hydrogen light illuminated the darkness, showing him the
Ictíneo’s
battering ram. The red substance on it was probably barnacles, but it looked like blood. Icaria’s mace was a fist clamped to the end of it.

He stared past the ram. There was no sign of rock or sandy soil. Occasionally he saw fish with large, bulging eyes and flat bodies as though the pressure of the ocean had shaped them, but mostly it was just a great empty blackness. He glanced at the pressure gauge: they were at twenty-eight atmospheres of pressure. He calculated that they were near three hundred yards below the ocean’s surface. He didn’t know how many meters that was, but guessed it was near the same amount. How deep had the captain said the ship was designed to go? A thousand meters? That was collapse depth. But it would all be theoretical. He examined the glass porthole; how much further could they go before it cracked?

Monturiol and Cerdà had built this ship well, he reassured himself, and had likely been much deeper than this.

The deeper they went, the more the pressure began to squeeze the
Ictíneo
. The ship began to groan as though it were trying to warn its occupants of the danger.

“We are at about three hundred meters,” Modo said into the speaking tube.

“I am aware of our exact depth, Modo,” Captain Monturiol said. “The
Ictíneo
will hold, if that is your worry.”

Modo clicked his speaking tube closed. “That is exactly my worry,” he whispered. He removed the handkerchief and wiped at his eyes. Just as he was replacing it, a dark, rocky form loomed in the central viewport, sticking out of the ocean floor.

“Hard right. Hard right!” he bellowed, but he hadn’t flicked the switch on the speaking tube. He snapped the switch up. “Hard right! To starboard. Impact dead ahead!”

At once the
Ictíneo
veered to the right. Cerdà was responding. The ram missed the jutting rocks by feet, but the bottom of the submarine ship was not so lucky. With a sudden impact that sent Modo banging against his straps, the
Ictíneo
scraped the underwater mountain spire and began to spiral downward.

Modo looked out the main window. The outer light swept back and forth as they attempted to gain control of the ship. “All clear! All clear!” he said, wanting to contribute something. He glanced at the pressure gauge: fifty-one atmospheres. He calculated from five hundred fifty yards to six hundred yards. The hull of the
Ictíneo
moaned like a live thing, as though a giant were squeezing it with two hands.

Where was the bottom? he wondered. Where was it? How far? Any moment he expected to see it come rushing up. The
Ictíneo
rotated a half turn clockwise, then spun back the other way.

The glass would go first. He was certain of it. And then what? Could he flee to the other chamber in time? Or would the force of the water crush him? He looked down hopelessly at all the straps. A bolt, loose or rusted, suddenly
shot across the room, and water began to spout through the hole.