Authors: Arthur Slade
When he turned back to the door, it was ajar. A spy! Modo shoved the door closed. It was clear someone had seen his face and been shocked, but who? He removed the small oval mirror from the wall. Nothing unusual there. No pinholes. Had the spy been peeking in the door?
He felt betrayed. In his few minutes with Captain Monturiol he had realized that she was ruthless with her enemies but had an honorable side. Spying didn’t seem to be her mode of operation.
At the moment, nothing could be done. He would have to dine with her soon, and that meant uncovering his mouth to eat. His muscles were tired, and though he no longer felt the chill, he was still weak from his ordeal in the frigid water. Maybe if he concentrated on just his face and hump, he could at least make himself more presentable. And so he worked on his muscles and bones, making his nose rise, smoothing his jaw into the noble line of the Knight, forcing his hump to recede. When he was done, he pulled on a jacket. It was too large, which was good since it hid his imperfections. His reflection in the mirror was respectable enough.
The lightning-bolt hands of his clock pointed to five minutes before 1900 hours. He went out into the hall. One of Monturiol’s men was already waiting.
“Hello, sir,” Modo said. On second glance he saw that the man was in fact a square-jawed, broad-shouldered woman with a grim countenance. She shook her head; either she
didn’t want to talk or she couldn’t speak English. “
¡Hola!
” he said, hoping for a response. She motioned for him to follow her down the corridor toward the bow. They took the catwalk across the
Ictíneo’s
bridge, where the comrades were still at their stations. He was led down a corridor with a dozen or so cabins on either side. If each held one sailor, Modo calculated, there would be at least twenty on the ship. Unless, of course, there were more cabins on the lower deck. Or more men per cabin.
They stopped in front of a large door. The woman knocked, then slid the door aside to reveal a small dining room. Colette was already seated at a shining maple table, set with the finest cutlery, golden goblets at each of the six settings. Having guided Modo to his seat across from Colette, the comrade left.
“Ah, you do clean up well, Monsieur Warkin,” Colette said. “And you aren’t hiding behind your mask.”
“My affliction was temporary.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. I feel much better talking with you now that I can see your face.”
The door slid open and Captain Monturiol walked in. She sat at the far end of the table. “Greetings. First, I feel I must clarify something. I do not want you to think this is the head of the table. I would have placed a round table in here, but that was not feasible with the dimensions of a submarine ship.”
Once more the door slid open. Cerdà and a young comrade with short bristly hair entered the room.
“Ah, here you are,” the captain said. “Comrade Cerdà and Comrade Garay will be joining us tonight. I dine with
different members of the crew each evening. No one person is more important than the next.”
The men took their places. Comrade Garay nodded to Modo and his eyes lingered on Colette. She gave Garay a wide smile, which, to Modo’s surprise, left him a little envious. Remember, he told himself, you’re a married man! Besides, why would he feel jealous? Octavia most certainly had his heart.
A side door leading to the galley opened and a female comrade brought in two silver-plate dishes and set them down on the table. “
Gràcies,
” the captain said. It sounded Spanish, but Modo knew
gracias
was the proper word. What language was she speaking? Monturiol lifted the lids. “Please, Mr. Warkin, as our newest guest, you may serve yourself first.”
Modo squinted at the steaming meat: some sort of dark organ, cut into six pieces, all exactly the same size. He served himself a section, along with what looked like squid and an unfamiliar red and black leafy vegetable.
“May I ask what this meat is?” he said.
Captain Monturiol laughed. “An Icarian specialty. Please try it. I am curious to hear your thoughts.”
Modo found that it melted in his mouth, leaving a pleasant briny aftertaste. “It’s wonderful!”
“It is seal liver. The other is squid and the salad is dulse seaweed harvested off the coast of Ireland.”
“Seaweed?” Modo poked it with a fork.
“Yes, everything is from our mother the ocean. She is rich beyond all imagination. While the capitalists fight over the carcass of the earth, we live on the ocean’s bounties.”
“Well, it’s certainly a fine meal,” Modo said, sipping his wine.
“That is aged fish wine,” Cerdà explained. Modo didn’t mind the taste, but had no desire to learn how fish wine was made.
“I’m not accusing anyone,” Captain Monturiol said, looking at Modo and Colette, “but some of our stores have gone missing. Fruit, in this case. Rescued from a sunken ship. Aboard the
Ictíneo
, we are to share all food, all riches, equally.”
“I didn’t take it,” Modo said.
“Nor I,” added Colette.
“I am only making you aware of the theft. It could very well have been a citizen of Icaria.”
Comrade Garay coughed uncomfortably.
“I am not accusing anyone at the table,” Captain Monturiol repeated. Then she smiled, as if to dismiss any unpleasantness, and raised her goblet. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Warkin.”
They clinked goblets and Modo sipped more wine. He rarely drank alcohol, so he wanted to be certain to not have too much. “I have a question,” he said.
Monturiol lifted her goblet again. “Please, ask. We will answer anything within reason.”
“Well, you are the captain of the vessel, correct? But every other—uh—seaman, seawoman I’ve met is called a comrade. I thought ships had coxswains, masters, ensigns, and so on.”
“Ah, there are no ranks here, though every comrade has his or her job. I was elected captain five years ago for a ten-year
term. So, in consultation with my fellow comrades, I make the decisions for the
Ictíneo
and all of Icaria.”
“So it’s like being a queen,” Colette said.
Monturiol set down her goblet so hard some of the wine spilled. “It is nothing like that! We Icarians are from all stations in life—barrel makers, factory workers, soldiers, poets, engineers—and from many different countries. But we all had one dream: to throw off the class-system shackles of the modern world. Our research and actions are all directed toward the creation of Icaria.”
Modo tasted some of the seaweed, which was salty and had a spicy dressing. He decided it would be best to change the topic. “You said you would explain what powers the lights of your craft. I have never been inside such a well-lit ship.”
“May I answer?” Cerdà asked.
“It is only right,” Monturiol said. “You installed the system.”
“Based on your father’s designs.”
“Yes, but you gave it life. Such modesty does a disservice to your contributions.”
Cerdà shrugged. “You want to know about our secret agent?” he said. Modo’s stomach did a somersault—had they seen through him already? Even Colette was gripping her fork tightly, her face momentarily frozen. But Cerdà’s smile was friendly and he spoke enthusiastically. “The agent we use to power nearly every apparatus aboard this ship is electricity.”
“Electricity?” Modo squeaked in relief, then cleared his
throat. “But how is that possible? It can only be used to power small devices.”
Cerdà pointed to the light above them. “It was only a matter of being inventive. We have harnessed this power and bent it to our use. No massive stores of coal to carry. No belching steam engines to fill our ship with smoke. Electricity is the very soul of the
Ictíneo.
”
“But … but…,” Modo said, “how can you produce enough?”
Monturiol laughed. Both she and Cerdà were looking at him as though he were a child. “The answer is all around you,” Cerdà explained. “The ocean itself. We have developed a process that uses the chloride of sodium in the water. It is an endless supply. I can explain no more than that, for the rest is a rather complicated state secret.”
The thought absolutely staggered Modo: ships that could travel the length and breadth of the ocean without stopping for coal! This would change the world. He had to contact Mr. Socrates.
“You are shocked, my friend,” Monturiol said, then stifled a small laugh. She raised her goblet toward Modo again. “It is an honor to have an artist among us. We happen to have photographic equipment that will be of use to you. Mr. Warkin, we would like you to capture photographs of Icaria.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Modo said, trying to sound pleased, when the truth was he knew little about photography.
“Yes, what sort of photographic device would you use for underwater landscapes?” Colette asked. “What plates would work on the ocean floor?”
“I don’t actually know of any equipment that would work, Mademoiselle Brunet,” Modo said. “Water would, of course, ruin the … the insides.”
“The camera would also require a lens that could capture imaginary countries,” Colette said.
Monturiol smiled coldly. “You mock me still. Tomorrow, you’ll laugh from the other side of your mouth. I’ll show you the real Icaria. Both of you, if you are willing, shall take a walk with me.”
“On an island?” Modo asked.
“No, Mr. Warkin. We are going to walk upon the Icarian ocean floor.”
M
r. Socrates was seated at the dining room table of Victor House. He had just finished a late dinner of roast duck, garlic potatoes, and turnips. He sipped his tea. His mind was working on several problems at once. The French had made private inquiries into whether the British government knew anything of the robbery at their embassy. It was obvious they were groping for answers, so Modo had done his work well. Then there was the death of Agent Wyle in New York, which was troubling in a number of ways. First, someone knew that the British were pursuing the
Ictíneo
. Most likely the French, but it could be the Germans or this new deadly enemy, the Clockwork Guild. Second, Wyle was an experienced agent. This meant that whoever had killed him was likely even more experienced, and therefore dangerous. And finally, Mr. Socrates had liked Wyle. The man had been tough and competent and someone he trusted
implicitly. Wyle’s only weakness had been that he was growing too old for the game.
At that, Mr. Socrates smiled grimly. Old? He had at least twenty years on Wyle. Maybe
he
was getting too old. No, this was a permanent post in the Permanent Association. All the members had sworn an oath to stand guard and defend their country until the last beat of their hearts. The prime minister, the politicians, the military, even Queen Victoria, were all unable to adequately protect it. They could not act with impunity, as there were so many eyes watching them. But the Permanent Association was invisible and could act wherever and whenever it wanted. The order that Britannia had brought to the world was good and necessary.
Cook entered with a dish of roly-poly, a rolled-up suet pudding with custard on the side. It had been a childhood favorite of Mr. Socrates, and always reminded him of his years in the navy, too. His fellow officers had called it dead-man’s arm.
As Cook set the pudding on the table, someone rang the door chimes. A moment later Tharpa entered with a telegram. Mr. Socrates set down his spoon and opened the envelope. He quickly decoded the message:
Octavia reporting stop ship rammed by unknown unseen enemy stop Modo lost in ocean stop hiring searchers stop need funds stop orders stop
.
Mr. Socrates read it again. “He’s dead,” he whispered.
Tharpa stepped toward him. “The young sahib?”
“Yes. He fell into the ocean more than eleven hours ago. He would be frozen to death by now. All that work, lost. And
that foolish girl believes he might still be alive. I did try to teach her to be logical, but clearly she doesn’t listen.”
“Are you certain that she is the one you are angry with, sahib?”
Mr. Socrates scowled and looked up at Tharpa, who stood there, arms crossed. His gaze was steady, calm, but the glimmer of a tear rested on his cheek.
“Exactly what are you daring to suggest? With whom do you suppose I should be angry? Myself? Or is this more Dalit mysticism?”
“I am speaking as your friend.”
“Friend?” The word took Mr. Socrates aback.
Friendship
was not a term they had ever used to describe their relationship over the years. He had lifted Tharpa from the muck of Bombay, from a miserable life as part of the untouchable class, and this was how the man repaid him? By accusing him of … of … Mr. Socrates wasn’t exactly certain what.
“Yes, friend. You are my sahib, but you are my friend, too. It is not impossible to be both. I concluded that long ago. Just as Modo is both my friend and my pupil. If he is dead I will mourn him deeply.”
“
If
he is dead? This is too much, Tharpa.” Mr. Socrates stood up with a grunt of exasperation. “Cable Octavia in Reykjavik. She is to cease all activities and return to London immediately for reassignment.”
“If that is what sahib wants.”
“Yes, that is what I want! Please send her the message now!”
Tharpa nodded solemnly and left the room.
Had everyone gone mad? Mr. Socrates looked down at the roly-poly. Dead-man’s arm. His stomach turned and he pushed his chair back from the table.
He climbed the stairs to his room, his limbs heavy. He had to be resolute. This day was far from done, but here neither Tharpa nor Cook would bother him.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he saw that he
was
older. All that work training agents, setting them on their assignments. His great struggle against the enemies of Britain. Many had died serving the cause; Modo was just another death. Another sacrifice.
His eyes strayed to the portrait on the dresser of his wife, Margaret, dead now for twenty years, and below that the golden bracelet he’d bought for the baby, the boy his wife had died giving birth to. The child had taken his last breath only moments later. Mr. Socrates could still feel the child’s lifeless body in his arms. His child. His son. Dead.