Romulus Buckle and the Luminiferous Aether (The Chronicles of the Pneumatic Zeppelin #3) (22 page)

XXXVII

THE KEEPER OF THE AETHER

Cicero released a long, bored sigh and eased his portly form onto a large divan. “This shall be a little while. It takes at least twenty minutes for Marius to introduce Octavian, though he might make an exception and abbreviate his list of imaginary accomplishments and titles this one time, considering the dire and impending nature of our circumstances.” Cicero clasped his hands together and his gold rings clinked. Each ring was set with precious stones and the largest, a large golden dolphin, looked too big for his short, pudgy finger. Cicero studied each of the Crankshafts with unkind eyes, like a butterfly collector peering into his killing jar. “Might I ask how a Founders scarlet finds herself among the old Crankshaft pirates?”

“I am not Founders,” Sabrina said.

“Your blood is,” Cicero said mildly. He cocked his head. “That crimson-haired trait seems not to exist anywhere else in such powerful expression but among the Founders, which is interesting in itself, really, genetically speaking. Inbreeding creates some brilliant results as well as the undesirable ones, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sabrina looked at Buckle and grinned.

“A person is more than the clan they were born to,” Buckle said.

“Aye,” Welly whispered from the background.

Cicero glanced at Welly. “Ah, the pipsqueak apprentice squeaks? And so eloquently and vociferously.”

“I know what those words mean,” Welly said.

“Of course you do,” Cicero replied as if he hardly cared. “As well as a pimply midshipman adolescent schooled in the northern backwoods might know anything.”

“I am a man of action, not an eater of cake,” Welly replied, but Cicero wasn’t listening to him anymore. “And my rank is Ensign.”

“Insulting my crew will get you prickly results,” Buckle said.

Cicero tapped his temple and looked Buckle. “I see through people and into their deficiencies; it is as if I can scan them microscopically and identify defects in their evolutionary strands. This perceptiveness is both a blessing and a curse. Don’t make me turn my microscope on you, Captain.”

“How about you turn it on yourself, fish man?” Sabrina asked.

“I’m afraid you’d find far too many odd bugs on my strands to make sense of it,” Buckle said.

“Fear not, Captain,” Sabrina said. The Keeper’s insight seems restricted to little more than hair color and insignia pips.”

“Ah, yes, I have restrained myself because you are guests of the First Consul, but don’t get me wrong, Fawkes-girl!” Cicero laughed, a high-pitched trill both happy and mocking. “I would be thrilled to possess a few bits of your genetics, the ones which would supply me with your head of rich crimson hair. Ah, the partners I might bed with tresses such as that!” He stopped and peered into the falling water in the fountain. “Matters of love and war. Diplomacy is so childishly buggered and transparent. Boring.” He paused, slipping his right forefinger back and forth under the stream flowing from one of the hippocampi, for a moment apparently mesmerized by the gurgling interruptions.

“You do understand that Atlantis cannot stand alone against the Founders,” Buckle said.

Cicero continued flicking his finger through the water. “Incorrect. The Founders do not possess sufficient underwater forces to crack Atlantis, as the Master Equitum has already mentioned. The constant circling of the Founders submarines does, I must admit, unsettle me. But then it takes little to unsettle a sensitive stomach like mine.”

“You must choose a side,” Sabrina pressed. “We all must choose sides.”

“Or we shall all fall under the sword of the Founders and, if we survive that, be forced into a lifetime of slavery and servitude?” Cicero interjected. “Choice? Ha! Do not speak to me again of choice! We are all prisoners of the original Cycopede we are, our very lives locked into this circus veneer of culture, these Victorian-era aping stereotypes the four original founders used to reconstruct human society from the wreckage that was left after
The Storming
.”

“There were three original Founders,” Welly said.

“There were four,” Cicero muttered under his breath.

The legend of the mysterious fourth Founder, Buckle knew. But he had never heard of a Cycopede. Was that the same thing as the famed Encyclopedia which each clan historian possessed, the hauntingly incomplete history of the human world before
The Storming
?

Cicero leaned back from the fountain, wiping his fingers on the sleeve of his toga. “The reconstruction, the great new society built on a vague memory of the Victorian era, worked, it did, at least, it worked well enough, despite the silliness of much of it. Geeks, I tell you, geeks. Self-aggrandizing anti-social shut-ins playing God. Who better equipped to reconstruct the human experience, eh?” He laughed. “No going back now. And to be honest I do very much like living in the traitor Cassandra Lombard’s underwater amusement park, in this re-engineered, re-imagined Greco-Roman mishmash. And with togas there is no binding underwear.”

“What the hell is a
geek
?” Buckle asked.

“The very people who made this, what we are, what this is!” Cicero waved about the room. “Do you know why this atrium is black? Of course you don’t. The ancient Romans once lived in one-room houses and the walls were always blackened by smoke from the fire. It is amazing what useless tidbits of information survive an apocalypse, eh? ‘Atrium’ is derived from the Latin word for black, which was something like ‘ater.” In later Roman villas the atrium became the area where guests were received, as we do here for the Senate. You see, our reconstruction of ancient society is as accurate as we could make it with the shreds of true history left to us, and knowing such details gives us great pride. As for the all the rest, well, we mimic the form and wing it, just like the Founders did.”

Buckle stared at Cicero. Whether the Keeper of the Aether was truly brilliant or no more than a witty pretender he could not yet tell; the man’s mind seemed to flip back and forth barely under control. Buckle knew something of the histories of the original Founders and of the clans, of how the Founders rebuilt the ruins of human society to emulate a pre-apocalypse historic era—the steam-powered age of a great empire called Victorian England. He knew how the Founders designed their expanding colonies to emulate other Victorian era model nations, which had resulted in the clan-distinctiveness of the Imperials, Gallowglasses, Spartak, the Tinskins and so on—they were based on mysterious nations of the past with enigmatic, romantic names like Germany, Ireland, Russia and Spain. This was all grammar school lesson material. But what was the Cycopede? And what were geeks?

Cicero clasped his hands on his belly. “That the original Founders would rebuild human society by reconstructing the base, dirty Victorian era never ceases to astound me. They were given a carte blanche by history. Think of it! An opportunity to remake the world! An opportunity to create a steam-driven utopia! To re-educate humanity to despise violence. And what do they do, those incompetents? They opt for the pretty clothes and the empire-mad European imperialist culture of the 19
th
century. Damn those fools. Those geeks, arrogant, myopic, ivory tower board gamers. Damn them.”

Buckle didn’t understand much of what Cicero had expressed in his final sentence. “Tell me, what are the geeks?” he asked.

Cicero yawned. “What I would be, I suppose, had I been living three hundred years ago.”

“Are you suggesting that the world we live in is nothing more than a sham?” Sabrina asked.

“No, not entirely,” Cicero said. “Human beings are real and our lives are real. Culturally, the whole hastily constructed mess has evolved into its own functioning form, I suppose. We are what we are and the cities we have built, the songs we sing, and the children we have spawned, but our culture is not an organic growth. It’s rather an imperfect reconstruction grafted imperfectly onto a pre-determined framework, like living plants potted on the spokes of a blacksmith’s wheel by people who were neither smithies nor gardeners.”

“You have difficulty speaking clearly, don’t you,” Sabrina said.

“Too clearly for you to understand, apparently,” Cicero shot back.

“Is such not the way to rebuild something?” Welly asked. “To use the best parts of what remains?”

“Ah, the midshipman voices another opinion,” Cicero sighed.

“Ensign,” Welly said.

“That depends upon the quality of the remaining parts,” Cicero said. “We are the phoenix rising from the ashes, eh, as the Founders believe? Humankind reborn from its finest hour? Hardly. Our Victorian rebirth is a return to the horrors of the age of industrialization, of war-worship, social inequality, and the slavery of colonization. One step forward equals two steps back.”

Buckle eyed Cicero but said nothing. He hoped that the First Consul did not put too much stock in Cicero’s view of the world. But, then again, the First Consul was also fond of decapitating senators and tossing their heads into cauldrons of soup. “Is that what you think of the Snow World, Keeper?” Buckle asked, pulling his pocket watch from his jacket and clicking the stem winder. “Quite the disparaging viewpoint.”

Cicero waggled his finger at Buckle. “You believe that we are the phoenix, Captain, and in many ways we are. But our phoenix is imperfect. That is to be expected, of course, because we are imperfect descendants of apes or something quite like it. But what divides us is the result of pure stupidity. The Republics and Parliaments, monkey houses that they are, must stand. They must not fall to the tyrants as the Founders’ parliament did long ago. Atlantis is a Republic—currently in a poor condition I admit, but a Republic nonetheless. We are the bastion of the yearnings for the greater good. You and your army of buccaneers must see to it that we do not fall or your lives of shadow-bartering and excess shall become very dark indeed.”

“That same darkness threatens us all equally,” Buckle said.

“Yes,” Cicero answered. “And I do not wish for things to change. I like my life the way it is.” He flicked his eyes to Penny Dreadful. “Can you send that monstrosity out of the room? I don’t like it watching me.”

“No,” Buckle said pleasantly. He said it to gall Cicero but he also didn’t want Penny unprotected too far from the group. If they got the chance he was certain the Atlanteans would incinerate her and apologize without meaning it later.

Cicero sniffed. “As you wish. But when the last shred of her brain matter fails inside that metal skull case, when the last strands of what she is unravels and her machine is suddenly at the mercy of the raving mad beast of what is left in the decayed cerebral cortex, I will find some satisfaction in that she will most certainly draw and quarter you first.”

“You are colorful, I shall give you that,” Buckle said with a grin.

Cicero’s eyes flashed mean but in the next instant he fired up a big smile. “I am the Keeper of the Aether,” he said, pointing at the glowing tubes overhead. “I am electric and I am eclectic.”

The green-bordered hatch to the right of the Neptune gate swung open, revealing a narrow but ornate passageway lined with green velvet carpet. Cressida emerged and waved. “Come with me, Keeper and Captain Buckle of the Crankshafts,” she said. “The First Consul is ready for you.”

Buckle started for the hatch. Cicero cut in front of him with surprising agility for someone so round, though he was relatively young as well, perhaps in his late twenties. “I shall lead,” Cicero said, following Cressida as she turned back into the corridor. “Captain, you shall remain silent until the First Consul invites you to take the floor. The rest of you remain here—and that monstrosity stays out of sight!”

“Keep an eye out,” Buckle said to Sabrina.

“Hurry up,” Sabrina sighed. “I’m growing tired of being underwater.”

“Be careful, Captain,” Penny Dreadful said, her eyes brightening as she spoke.

“I’ll be fine,” Buckle replied.

“Yes, be careful, Captain,” Cicero chimed in, narrowing his eyes at Penny before he swung into the green hatchway. “Be very, very careful.”

XXXVIII

THE ROSTRUM

Buckle emerged from the small hatchway into the huge Atlantean senate chamber, a seven-story-high amphitheater. Its soaring glass walls undulated with the early morning light as it flowed through the turquoise currents of the sea. High above, the surface of the ocean glittered pink and white. A long silver cable soared down from the apex of the ceiling dome to swing a gigantic copper pendulum mere inches above the grand mosaic on the Senate floor. The chamber was bright, for along with the sunlight, huge tubes of luminiferous aether ran up the walls to illuminate fantastical glass sculptures installed into the dome ceiling, a breathtaking array of coral outcroppings, fish, seahorses, leaping pods of dolphins, mermaids, Roman Gods and octopi, all part of a masterpiece of glass and light.

Two Praetorian guardsmen eyed Buckle as Cressida led him and Cicero up the rear stairway of the main podium, an ornate platform decorated with Doric pillars and purple curtains. At the top Buckle saw Octavian and Julia whispering together with Marius and Horatus close at hand. Julia motioned for Buckle and Cicero to stand beside her.

From the podium Buckle had a full view of the amphitheater: fronted by porticoes and balustrades, the long rows of polished wooden pews rose steep and high against the glass walls. Thin aether tubes laced every handrail and pew, making the red curtains and banners glow and throwing hundreds of small marble statues into high relief. Men and women in purple-laced togas packed the seats, their hundreds of murmuring voices haunting the space like a purring of a great beast.

“I have advised the Senate of the proposed alliance.” Octavian said. “Make a good case, Captain.” Buckle noticed that Octavian looked agitated, working his fingers against each other in a nervous, uncoordinated fashion.

“Cicero, introduce the Captain on the rostrum,” Lady Julia said. She leaned close to Buckle as he passed her. “They will be contentious, but it is only for show. The First Consul has already garnered the votes necessary to approve our entry into your Grand Alliance. It would be good to impress the gallery, however.”

“Do not mess this up,” Cicero hissed as he led Buckle onto the low stage at the front and center of the platform. Cicero threw his arms wide. “Good members of the Aventine Senate,” he boomed. “I, Cicero, the Keeper of the Aether, present to you the worthy representative of the Crankshaft clan, Captain Romulus Buckle, son of Admiral Balthazar Crankshaft. He now has permission to address the Senate.”

Buckle stepped to the front of the rostrum as Cicero moved aside. The chamber gallery fell dead silent, a sea of unkind faces. Floating in the void beyond the glass walls Buckle glimpsed the small white and gold Atlantean submarines, their ports bright with the glow of luminiferous aether, patrolling the depths of the bright blue sea. He also noticed that the rostrum platform was sitting atop two large, irregular cones of metal, both pointing out toward the senate floor. The metal plates were rusted and dinged but Buckle realized they were the noses of old submarines, both adorned with the half-faded symbol of a fire-breathing sea serpent. Old enemies who succumbed to the might of Atlantis, Buckle assumed.

Buckle cleared his throat. “Senators, I come from the northeast, from the Crankshaft clan, and I act as an ambassador for Admiral Balthazar Crankshaft and all of my people. I also represent the Grand Alliance, a coalition of clans who at this very moment are assembling a Grand Armada to meet the Founders invasion, an invasion which also poses a threat to you at this very moment.”

“They do not threaten us!” someone shouted from the gallery.

“Let them try!” another voice echoed, supported by hundreds of cheers.

“Not one clan can stand alone against the Founders,” Buckle said. “Not one.”

A female senator stood. “How do you know that Atlantis is alone? You know nothing of our situation. You know nothing of who we have relations with or not.”

“Please,” Lady Julia yelled above the cacophony. “All of you. Let him speak.”

“Foreigners do not belong on the senate rostrum!” someone shouted, though Buckle could not make out which face it was.

Much of the room assented with cheers.

“Let him speak! I command you!” Lady Julia shouted, and the chamber fell silent.

Buckle pressed his tongue into the inside of his bottom lip, took a deep breath and bellowed. “Shout me down, if so you choose, proud Senators of Atlantis. But beware your pride. And if you choose to hear me, hear me well! There is no disgrace in a collective defense! Join us in the Grand Alliance! Together we can end the tyranny of the Founders, the blockades and coercions, once and for all!”

A long silence followed Buckle’s words. Oh, if only Elizabeth, with her immense charisma and eloquence, her exacting logic and instinct for which strings of the human heart to pluck, could be on the rostrum instead of he! Whether the deal was sealed or not she would have won over many hearts in the same space of time. Buckle experienced a brief but vivid sensation that Elizabeth was there in the chamber, standing near him.

“We are quite familiar with the Founders and their strong-arm tactics,” another male senator yelled, a man with a hoarse, failing voice. “Atlantis shall remain neutral as she always has and we shall bring anyone who tries to force our hand to ruin.”

More cheers.

“Just what ‘alliance’ do you speak for, Captain?” a woman asked. “What is this great confederacy of clans you speak of?”

Buckle looked at the woman. Though the Grand Alliance had attempted to keep its nature secret the spies had immediately found them out. Even the Vicar knew of the Alliance. There was no more need to try to hide its existence or who was a part of it. “We have assembled a sky fleet capable of defeating what the Founders can muster in the air and on the ground. It includes the Crankshafts, Imperials, Gallowglasses, Alchemists, Brineboilers, Spartak and the Tinskins, with more to come.”

“You have the Tinskins with you?” the female senator said, her face softer, looking somewhat impressed.

“Yes,” Buckle replied, though in that moment he felt a pang of worry for the safety of his brother, Ryder, perhaps still among them.

“And for their resistance the Brineboilers are overrun,” a male senator shouted. “And Spartak has a city burning and the remainder hard pressed.”

“I fought alongside the Russians at Muscovy,” Buckle said. “Spartak has plenty of airships and cannon, and stands resolute. The Founders now face our armada in the east, Spartak in the north and the Tinskins to the south, and with Atlantis pressing their backs from the western sea, the Founders shall find themselves fighting at every point of the compass. We must strike now, before the Founders can apply their maximum strength to each of us in turn, and, in all honesty, we need Atlantis. Do not fight for me. Do not fight for Spartak. Fight to defend all you hold dear. Fight to keep your children from slavery. Think upon that and join us!”

“Enough,” Cicero hissed from where he stood on the right edge of the podium.

“It is an honor to speak before the Atlantean Senate,” Buckle said. “I am most grateful to be heard. Thank you.”

Buckle stepped off the rostrum, feeling the solemn eyes of the five hundred watching him, hearing their rumbling murmurs rise as they weighed his words, as they weighed their own fates.

“You have been heard!” Octavian bellowed, almost colliding with Buckle in his hurry to take the rostrum and address the gallery. “As First Consul, you all understand that I, in times of great import, must make decisions for the clan. The fate of Atlantis now hangs in the balance. Do you hear me? We are strong, yes, but we can no longer afford this dithering around. We must control our own destiny. I have chosen for all of us. I have chosen to join with the Founders.”

Buckle looked at Octavian, stunned. He saw Julia stare at her father, her mouth gaping.

A roar rose in the Senate, a roar of angry, dissenting voices.

“There has been no debate!” someone raged.

“There has been no approval from the Senate!” another voice howled.

“We have the votes to approve!” a woman shouted.

“I have done what must be done!” Octavian roared. “There is no choice! I have allied Atlantis with the strongest clan who, despite their once mighty armaments, need us. We have been offered an agreement which advantages our position as the most powerful gens in Atlantis and I have accepted the deal!”

The roar from the senate chamber grew louder. Cries of
betrayal!
,
tyrant!,
and
traitor!
rang out.

“There is no secret agreement, father!” Julia spun to Buckle. “Captain, I assure you—there have been no clandestine negotiations with the Founders.”

“Then what the hell is he talking about?” Buckle asked.

“I don’t know … I don’t know!” Julia replied.

Buckle felt the thudding concussion of an underwater explosion—it wasn’t close but the entire dome shook. The five hundred Senators jumped to their feet as one.

A great bell, sequestered in a balcony high above the Senate gallery, began to ring, loud and deep, its peal echoing back and forth between the walls of glass.

Horatus, one hand pressed to his scabbard, purple cloak flowing, dashed to a communications station on the left of the speaker’s platform where dozens of pneumatic tubes, aether-lit gauges and chattertubes were affixed. He threw out his arm and pointed high up into the sea windows. “We are under attack! We are under attack!”