The Dark Deeps (26 page)

She kicked open the door, causing one hinge to fly off. Then she strode down the deck. The ship had become a quickly tilting fortress. In the darkness, Guild soldiers ran to and fro. There were only a few lifeboats, she knew that. A warship such as this, perfectly designed by the Guild Master, would never need a lifeboat. Who would have
dreamed that anything could penetrate its hull deeply enough to sink her?

Miss Hakkandottir hurried toward her balloon. The Guild Master would be unhappy, perhaps murderously so.

Grace loped along at her heels. Hecuba had not yet returned. As Miss Hakkandottir arrived amidships, she rounded a gun emplacement and then froze, her hand clenching Grace’s collar.

The Icarians, eyes wide, a few holding metal bars and makeshift weapons, stood in a clump before her. They had broken free!

“It’s their captain!” shouted a broad-shouldered female. She raised a jagged piece of metal. “Where is Monturiol?”

Miss Hakkandottir held tight as Grace strained against her collar, wanting to strike. “You are a very persistent group.”

“Where is she?” a man rumbled. “Release her!”

“Your captain escaped several hours ago. She struck the bottom of the
Wyvern
with your submarine ship. Surely you recognize her handiwork.”

“That’s not true!” the woman cried. “That’s a lie!”

“Your captain abandoned you,” Miss Hakkandottir said. Several Icarians glanced fearfully from side to side, and Miss Hakkandottir realized that they weren’t actually soldiers. In the absence of their captain, they had no system of command.

“Our captain chose to do what is best for Icaria,” the hulking woman said. “We swore our oaths.”

“Perhaps. But now
you
have a choice. Some of you may live if you can get off this ship. There are lifeboats behind me.” There were twenty-four prisoners. There would be nowhere near enough boats. “If you pause to join battle
with me, you will not make it. Grace here will tear your throats out.”

They were silent.

“So,” she continued, “you will let me walk through you. Then you will run to the lifeboats. That is my act of charity for the day. You can fight over which of you will survive.”

She took a step forward and the large woman backed up. Grace snapped her jaws and a few more Icarians edged away. Hakkandottir strode through them, not giving so much as a backward glance.

The
Etna
was waiting at the bow of the ship, the basket straining to be freed from the ropes that bound it to the
Wyvern
. The pilot, wearing goggles, was adding coal to the steam engine. Both the commodore and the surgeon held the ropes.

Griff had not shown up, nor had Hecuba returned. The boy would die—a wasted investment. And she would miss him: over the years she had grown attached to him.

“Up, Grace,” Miss Hakkandottir commanded, and the dog leapt into the basket. With all her metal parts the hound was so heavy that the basket sank closer to the deck. Then Hakkandottir climbed in. She motioned to the other men, but the pilot said, “We can only carry one of them, Admiral, as long as we’re taking the hound. Otherwise we’ll be too heavy.”

She nodded and pointed at the surgeon. A commodore could be easily replaced.

“I understand, sir,” Commodore Truro said as the surgeon climbed aboard.

“The Guild Master thanks you for your service,” she
intoned. Then they threw off the sandbags and the
Etna
began to rise.

She watched the lights of the
Wyvern
below her, the ship shifting, heard the groaning of metal and the sounds of panic. It had been such a beautiful vessel.

They would build another. And she would one day strike a blow to the very heart of the empire.

The
Etna’s
steam engine fired, the propeller spun, and the great winds carried them south.

T
he impact had been worse than Colette had imagined it would be. She had centered herself in the way her father had taught her and made peace with the fact that she might die in defense of a country made up of fewer than a hundred people. But when the
Ictíneo
sliced into the
Wyvern
, Colette was thrown so hard against her straps that one broke and she bashed her head on the levers. For a few moments all she saw were stars, and she fought to keep her thoughts from turning to black. When her vision returned, all the lights on the
Ictíneo
were flickering.

A stream of water fell through the grate of the walkway above the bridge and hit her. The hull had been breached! She tried to stay calm; she wanted to undo her straps, but knew she’d only fall backward with the ship at such a sharp angle.

“I believe we have penetrated the hull,” said Monturiol,
who was bleeding from a blow to her cheek. “Crow’s nest, report! Report!” she shouted into the speaking tube.

“Modo!” Colette yelled. “Report!” There was no sound from the crow’s nest.

“Report, Navigator!” Monturiol commanded. “Modo, report! Colette, go check on the condition of Comrade Modo!”

“I will!” Colette said. She let go of her handholds and slid down the floor to the stairwell.

“Be quick,” Monturiol added. “The mace is about to detonate!”

The
Ictíneo
had settled at a sixty-five-degree angle. Colette grabbed the railing and pulled herself along the stairs, until she was in the corridor leading to the crow’s nest. She latched on to doorknobs to help her climb, pulling herself past the captain’s quarters. It took a full minute, thanks to her feet sliding with every step on the wet floor. With each second, she expected to feel the blast.

When she got to the door of the crow’s nest, she peered through the porthole, fearing the room would be filled with water. It was lit by one dim, fitful light, enough to see Modo, his head bowed, in his straps. She spun the wheel that opened the door, and water washed across her shoes and down the hallway. Two of the observation ports were cracked; one was leaking water. The others wouldn’t last much longer.

“Wake up!” she said when she’d crawled up to Modo. She grabbed his wrist. It was cold, but there was a pulse. He must have hit his head or something must have struck him—she saw several broken pipes on the floor, any of
which could have taken his head clean off. Through the portholes she could see that the submarine was right up against the hull of the
Wyvern
. They would never extricate themselves.

Not knowing what else to do, she slapped him. “Wake up, Modo. Wake up, you English dog!”

Modo blinked and looked at her, stunned. “Stop yelling!” he slurred. “What’s happening?”

“We pierced a hole in the ship. Get out of those straps! The mace is about to explode.”

She helped him undo his clasps, then grabbed his arm to prevent him from tumbling down the hall.

“Quickly! Quickly! Help with the door!” she shouted. This seemed to rouse him finally, and they worked together to close it, fighting against the draining water.

The door closed, and a heartbeat later the mace exploded, the sudden jolting shock knocking them backward. Colette skidded halfway down the hall before grabbing a handle. Modo was clinging to one several feet farther along. She stared up at the door into the crow’s nest. The door had held.

“Let’s go,” she said. They slowly climbed down to the bridge.

“Ah, you are alive! Report,” Monturiol said.

“We fully penetrated the hull,” Modo said.

Colette added, “We were lucky to get out of there before the mace exploded.”

Monturiol nodded. Her eyes had an empty look. “Good work. While you were gone, Cerdà and I tried to extricate the
Ictíneo.
”

Cerdà was moving the wheel, grunting. “The engine no longer has enough power to loosen us. We are lodged in the ship.”

“Well then, we will drag them down to the bottom with us,” Monturiol said emphatically.

“I’d prefer not to go to the bottom,” Colette huffed. “If it’s all the same to you.”

There was a long silence.

“It’s done,” said Monturiol finally. “The
Ictíneo
has struck the last blow for Icaria. I shall go down with my ship.” She paused. “Cerdà, return to New Barcelona with our companions. You are released from your duties.”

Cerdà set his jaw. “No.”

Monturiol’s eyes widened. “No?”

“My duty demands I stay by your side.”

“But what of Icaria?”

“New Barcelona cannot survive without the
Ictíneo
to resupply the city. Those who remain will have to return to the old world, to dream of another Icaria, another day.”

“Very well.” Monturiol held out her hand and Cerdà took it, moving closer to her. Colette was surprised to find tears in her eyes. Such love and loyalty between the two of them. They were insane, but admirable.

Monturiol saluted. “Comrade Modo and Comrade Brunet, you are officially relieved of your duties. There are four pods in the engine room, designed for escape. You have my permission to pilot one. Cerdà, give them the key to the engine room.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a silver-colored key, which he handed to Modo.

“I appreciate your contributions,” Cerdà said softly. “You have both been extremely brave.”

“It was an honor serving on the
Ictíneo,
” Colette replied, surprised by her own sincerity.

“But Captain!” Modo exclaimed. “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself. The
Ictíneo’s
secrets will be safe at the bottom of the ocean.”

“You do not understand,” Monturiol said. “The
Ictíneo
is my heart. Without it, I am a ghost. Icaria is dead. I cannot live in a world without my ship or my country, so I will join my father. It is not the right time for me. For Cerdà.” Her voice caught in her throat. “The obscurity of the deep; my father used to speak about it all the time. Now it waits for us. Farewell.” She turned her back to them and began flicking switches and dials. “Go! Now! Both of you!”

Colette pulled Modo to the stairs. They made their way aft, slipping and sliding down the hall.

“They are quite mad,” Colette whispered. “Incurably, idealistically mad.”

“Yes,” Modo agreed, then looked her in the eye. “Or, perhaps, they’re the sanest of us all?”

They crawled past rows of cabins, the
Ictíneo
trembling like a live thing. There was hammering on the hull and a creaking like metal bones bending and breaking.

They pulled up short when they reached the end of the hall. The door to the engine room was now at the bottom of a deep pool of water.

O
il and other substances glistened on the surface of the water. Modo cursed and said, “I wonder how deep it is.”

“It can’t be more than a few meters,” Colette said, holding a doorknob to keep from sliding into the pool. “I can easily swim down.”

“No,” Modo said. “I will. Cerdà gave me the key.”

“Only because you were standing closer to him. I grew up on the water. I’m a better swimmer.”

She was as exasperating as Octavia! “I’m going!” He withdrew the key, then splashed awkwardly into the water. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and pushed, kicked, and pulled his way down by grabbing on to door handles. A bit of light from above penetrated the water—the door was so far away. Finally he reached it, and grabbed hold of a pipe so he wouldn’t float back up. His lungs were burning. He
felt around for the wheel and found it. But where to put the key?

Already he desperately needed to take a breath. Then his hand touched a small panel that slid back. He inserted the key, turned it in the lock, felt it click. He turned the wheel, pulled on the door, and struggled against the weight of the water.

He opened it an inch; water poured into the engine room. Another heave; the door opened, water flushing down the hole. He latched on to the pipe while holding the door. In a few seconds his head was out of the water and he gulped in air.

“Marvelous, Modo! Simply marvelous!” Colette said, climbing down along the wall. “We might live after all.”

She was the first into the engine room, Modo right behind her. The engine filled the center of the chamber—a collection of giant gears, tubes, and wires that ran into the ceiling and floor of the ship, all powered by two six-foot-wide glowing glass batteries. They looked extremely delicate to Modo.

“No wonder they kept this locked up,” he said. “One blow to these batteries and no engine.”

Modo felt as though he were looking at a dying heart. Sparks flew here and there; he knew that water and electricity were a deadly mix, but they had to risk it.

Beyond the engine, set into either side of the chamber, were four round pods. Modo opened the door to one. Two people could just fit, sitting side by side on the bench. He and Colette squeezed together and set their feet on the pedals in front of them.

The
Ictíneo
lurched. Was it breaking away from the
Wyvern?
“Go! Go!” Modo shouted as he closed the door, sealing them in. “There must be a way to release the pod.” He spotted switches, several small levers and a long cord.

“I’m pulling this!” Colette yanked on the cord. They heard something clink outside the chamber, followed by whirring, as though a giant clock had begun ticking. The pod moved slowly backward.

A metal door clanged shut outside the pod. Modo peered through the porthole and saw that the pod had moved into a circular room slightly larger than the pod itself. It quickly filled with water up to the porthole. Nothing else happened. Long seconds ticked by. Were they trapped?

“What else can we press?” he asked.

Colette flipped one of the switches. Music began to play from some hidden phonograph—the national anthem of Icaria. “What madness!” She hit more switches until the music stopped.

The pod rolled like a ball out of the
Ictíneo
and into the ocean. Modo spotted a switch with a sunlike symbol above it and flicked it. A light burst into life on the exterior of the pod. Through the front porthole, he saw the
Ictíneo
dropping past them like a sinking whale. Much larger and sinking equally fast was the
Wyvern
. Heavy bubbles burst out of its side.