The Dark Deeps Page 11

  “It was a joke.”

  Cerdà’s footsteps echoed on the hardwood. “Oh. I see. Yes, that is humorous.”

  He led her through another portal. Each section was designed so that it could be tightly closed if the ship took on water. They entered a larger room, oval in shape. Various kinds of machinery and what looked like harvesting instruments lined one wall. And there was the captain, along with a female Icarian who was helping the captain get into a strange metal suit.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Brunet,” Captain Monturiol said. “Good morning.” She sounded pleasant enough, but Colette would not give her the benefit of a smile. “Comrade Girona and I will help you into your aquasuit.” The two women removed a suit from hooks and shelves along the wall. Then the captain stopped to study Colette’s face. “You have a mind like an oyster, did you know that?”

  “What do you mean?” Colette replied.

  “It is closed. But I know there are pearls inside. I eagerly await the opening of your mind today.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Colette said.

  Cerdà had left the room. Girona handed Colette a rubber suit, which she could only get into by stripping down to her chemise and pantaloons. It fit like a second skin, and she wished she had a mirror. “Well, this is très fashionable,” she declared, barely containing her contempt.

  “We are only concerned with practical fashion in Icaria,” Monturiol said, “but I am pleased with the design. And now, your armor.” Girona and the captain picked up a large copper collar and breastplate, which they lowered over Colette and fastened around her. It was followed by a series of narrow metallic sections that they strapped to her legs. She lifted one leg and it fell with a thud. “It’s so heavy. How will I be able to walk?”

  The captain smiled as they continued to strap on more metal. “You are a strong woman, and the water will lighten your suit.” Soon Colette’s arms, too, were covered in copper plating.

  The door opened; Cerdà and young Comrade Garay entered. Following a step behind them was Modo, in trousers and a white shirt that showed off his powerful shoulders. No mask, Colette noted. He was indeed handsome. He glanced around the room like a curious child. Then his eyes found hers.

  “Mr. Warkin,” she said, giving her dark hair a flick so that it spread across the shoulders of her armor. Modo’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. Aha, she thought, he finds me attractive. “The captain was kind enough to invite me here early, since it would be improper to dress in front of you masculine creatures.”

  “Oh, I see.” He seemed to be at a loss for words. “Uh, the um, the undersea suits are simply brilliant.”

  “It’s water armor,” Monturiol said. “Cerdà and I designed it. The plateau we will be walking across is fifty meters below the surface. The pressure is enough to squeeze the air out of your lungs.” She knocked on the copper plating of her own suit. “This aquasuit will prevent that.”

  “Ah, good,” Modo said. “How long will we be gone?”

  “No more than three hours,” Monturiol said. “But you will be different people when you return.”

  “I wait with bated breath,” Colette said, winking at Modo.

  Cerdà helped Modo into the India rubber suit and attached the copper plates, which made him look to Colette like an ancient warrior hero. Perhaps it is you who finds him attractive, she chided herself. But was he older than her, or younger? They both stepped into metal shoes that Girona strapped onto their feet. Finally, Cerdà helped Comrade Garay into his aquasuit. “It is Comrade Garay’s first underwater perambulation,” he explained.

  A blush crossed Garay’s freckled face. Colette grinned at him. “I’m certain that Monsieur Garay is as happy as I am to have such elderly—er, I mean, veteran—sea walkers to guide us.”

  Garay smiled back until Cerdà tightened a strap, making him grimace.

  Monturiol tapped the tank on the back of Colette’s aquasuit. “You’ll be even happier to have the Emilia device. It will give you several hours of oxygen.”

  “The name, is it Latin?” Modo asked.

  “I named it after my mother, who gave me life. My father discovered that manganese dioxide catalyzes the decomposition of potassium chlorate into potassium chloride gas and oxygen gas.”

  “There’s chloride in this tank?” Colette asked.

  “Yes.” Monturiol pointed to a tube. “But it is expelled. You will be breathing only the oxygen. We have tested it a thousand times without a problem. Speaking of oxygen, you must be a bit of an oddity, Mr. Warkin.”

  Modo immediately touched his face in several places. Colette found that strange and took note in case she should, one day, have to use it against him.

  “What do you mean by oddity?” he asked.

  “Well, I keep exact records of the oxygen levels on the Ictíneo. Since your arrival, more oxygen has been consumed than usual. Has your lung capacity ever been measured?”

  “Uh … no.”

  “Well, you do have a large chest. The amount of oxygen needed for your bloodstream may indicate that you are an aberration. The Emilia device will solve this puzzle. If you consume more oxygen than us, we’ll know.”

  “I won’t run out, will I?” His voice quavered slightly.

  “That would be inhospitable of me,” Monturiol said with a half smile.

  “What is our lovely destination?” Colette asked.

  “Soon, my friend, you’ll enjoy the pleasure of strolling through Icaria.”

  The last item for them to put on was a spherical helmet with small, round glass windows at the front and sides. Cerdà, who had dressed himself in his own aquasuit, was holding two of the helmets.

  “Before we clamp your aquahelms into place,” Monturiol said, “I should point out that there is a light on each of our helmets. The electric cells will last eight hours. These suits are heavy, but we will be much lighter in the water. Perhaps we shall even dance.” And at that she threw her head back and laughed. This was as giddy as Colette had ever seen her; she was clearly looking forward to the journey.

  “Well, Mr. Warkin,” Colette said, “I hope you’re a good dancer.”

  “I am looking forward to being the first Englishman to waltz upon the ocean floor!”

  Before Colette could comment, Cerdà lowered the aquahelm over her head. She looked out the little window. Her breath was already fogging the glass. Her heartbeat doubled and she sucked in air, but that only misted the glass more. She could hear the blood rushing through her ears.

  The captain motioned for them to move, and Colette struggled step by step into a smaller chamber, where the five of them stood close together. Girona closed the heavy door, which had a porthole, and turned a spoked wheel.

  Colette glanced at Modo. His eyes seemed to show the same fear and exhilaration she was feeling. There was a hissing; then a cold sensation began moving from the soles of her feet to her knees and her hips. When she looked down, she saw water filling the chamber. Soon it was up to her arms and her neck. A tingle of panic rose in her stomach, and she thought of her father teaching her to swim. Always be the master of your breathing. She made herself breathe extra slowly, counting each breath. By the time the water rose above her head, she was calm again. The window in her helmet cleared.

  With a muffled clunking sound, Cerdà opened the door in front of them and Monturiol gestured for Colette and Modo to follow her. The lights of the Ictíneo lit up the ocean floor.

  Colette’s first step sank into the soft bottom, but a few inches down she hit something solid and she soon got her footing. A bright orange starfish sat near her feet. Bulbous purple and red plants surrounded her, and others with spiky or cottony coverings. Orange mushroomlike plants waved back and forth. Gray fish darted out of the way. She didn’t know her sea species very well.

  She followed Monturiol and Cerdà, surprised at how light her suit felt, though it still took some effort to move. Modo was just behind her, and she gave him and Garay a friendly leaden-handed wave. The ocean bed wasn’t
as flat as she had expected, and they seemed to be climbing. Something large floated in the distance, but her light didn’t penetrate that far. What if it was a shark? An image of the sinking Vendetta flashed through her mind, and the fins cutting through the water. Her stomach lurched, but she continued to put one foot in front of the other.

  After fifteen minutes of walking, they entered a grove of tall seaweed. Captain Monturiol stopped, knelt down, and appeared to pray. Cerdà knelt beside her and was clumsily joined by Comrade Garay. Colette glanced behind her at Modo, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. It wasn’t until Colette had taken another step that she saw the gravestone. Narcís Monturiol I Estarriol was carved across it. The grave of the captain’s father. The inventor of the submarine ship. There were five other graves as well, perhaps belonging to fallen comrades.

  Colette’s father had been buried in Japan, in a grave she had visited only once. She felt tears well up, and then it seemed the most natural thing in the world to kneel and lower her head.

  When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see Monturiol standing over her, holding out her hand. Colette took it and was lifted to her feet; then Monturiol turned and motioned for them all to trudge on.

  Colette was cold, but moving through the water warmed her. She felt light-headed, happier than she had in a long time, and she wondered if the mix of gases in the Emilia device was somehow responsible. Then it occurred to her that she was actually exhilarated—she was walking on the amazing ocean floor! There was so much to see and to feel. Somewhere far above them the sun was shining, but only a glimmer of light reached these depths.

  Another large shape appeared above them. Colette watched in terror as it shot straight at Modo. He put up his hands, and at the last moment the shape veered around him. By its profile she realized it was a dolphin. It glanced back, smiling playfully. Monturiol had stopped, and through the window of her aquahelm Colette could see she was laughing.

  Several bright white lights appeared ahead, surprising Colette. With each step the lights grew larger and so bright, it became clear that no creature of the ocean could be the source.

  When they had trekked close enough for her to see what the light revealed, she gasped, astonished at the genius and the pure audacity of what stretched out before her.

  21

  Inside New Barcelona

  Captain Monturiol raised her hands as if to say, “Look, look what I’ve created. Isn’t it wondrous?” And Modo could only agree. Even Colette had turned to look back at him. Down in a valley, twelve white mineral towers rose from the ocean floor, each bubbling at the top and looking like an oversized chimney. Wrapped around the towers, like pearls tossed by Poseidon, were twenty or so dome-shaped bronze buildings of various sizes.

  It was the beginning of an underwater city. Two people in aquasuits stood outside one dome, welding a section into place. How they were able to weld underwater, Modo had no idea. A third aquasuited person was screwing large bolts into a steel plate. The entire set of buildings glittered and glowed with light and life.

  All this at the bottom of the ocean!

  They arrived at a stairwell cut out of the sea floor and descended slowly. Modo was so busy soaking up the sights of the city that he stumbled twice. Light glowed in round glass windows. Windmills—or rather water mills—turned on several of the roofs. The group passed a yellow and red flag on a pole, swishing back and forth in the current, fish darting around it. They stopped at a round door with a large spoked wheel. Cerdà spun the wheel until the door opened, and they stepped into a large lock chamber.

  Once Cerdà had closed the door behind them, Captain Monturiol lowered a lever on the other side of the chamber. Hissing and bubbling, the water was soon below Modo’s viewing window, then his chest and his legs, and seconds later it had all drained away. The suit felt much heavier; his legs were rubbery and tired. Cerdà removed his own aquahelm and helped the captain take off hers; then they both helped Modo and Colette. Finally, Cerdà lifted off Comrade Garay’s helmet. “That was wonderful!” Garay said. “A marvel and a joy!”

  “I agree,” Captain Monturiol said. “There is nothing like a good walk to clear your mind.” She turned to Colette with a mischievous look. “And how is my oyster-minded friend?” Cerdà was grinning too.

  “Oh, je suis assommée,” Colette answered. She was astounded. Modo was pleased to put all his years of French classes to work.

  “It’s beyond belief,” he said, and Colette added, “Truly and utterly, I am speechless and stunned.”

  The captain shrugged as if to say “Of course,” then spun a knob and the door into the interior opened. Waiting for them in a brightly lit room were three women in white robes. Modo blinked, then held a hand to shade his eyes. Monturiol clanked in, and they all followed, making a glorious racket.

  “Welcome home, Captain Monturiol,” a rosy-cheeked, middle-aged woman said. Her two companions looked about the same age, their skin soft and pale. One reminded Modo of Mrs. Finchley, but this woman appeared happier and plumper. The women assisted them in taking off the aquasuits and hanging the various pieces on wall hooks. Soon Modo was stripped down to the India rubber. Without the weight of the suit he felt as though he would float up to the ceiling. He snorted up as much of the cool, refreshing air as he could, realizing now just how hard it had been to breathe in the suit.

  “I have work I must attend to,” Cerdà said. “Our recent need to patrol our waters has meant we have neglected some of the repairs our city demands.”

  “Yes, Cerdà, I hear what you are saying,” Captain Monturiol said. “And I agree. We shall patrol less and get to work on the plaza soon.”

  He nodded. “I look forward to that. Come along, Comrade Garay. We are on welding duty today.” Cerdà bowed to the women and left the room, with Garay a step behind.

  Modo glanced around, soaking up every detail: the same glowing circular lights as on the Ictíneo, except much larger; an arched roof; red curtains along a wall; paintings of the underwater world hanging on every open wall space.

  He eagerly took a glass of water offered by one of the women.

  “It is purified seawater,” Monturiol said, raising her glass. “A toast to my friends! Welcome to New Barcelona, the first and greatest city of Icaria.”

  Modo took a sip. “It tastes marvelous!”

  The sound of running water drew Modo’s attention and he turned to see a waterfall set in a corner. “That is purified seawater too,” Monturiol said. A skylight, or rather, an oceanlight, was set into the ceiling, and on the opposite wall was a large window. Both presented brilliant views of the ocean. A squid squirted by, and several schools of fish swam past.

  “How is all this possible?” Modo asked.

  Monturiol laughed. “Anything we imagine is possible. That is what my father taught me.”

  “But how were you able to build it?” Colette asked.

  “Ah, she speaks!” Monturiol chided, a twinkle in her eye. “You have never remained so silent for so long.”

  Colette drained her glass. “Icaria has certainly surprised me! Now, I must admit, the Ictíneo is a wondrous machine, though it’s not the first submarine ship. No one has ever lived beneath the ocean. It’s a huge leap in technology! To even conceive of it, never mind making it a reality.”

  “Yes,” the captain agreed, “our collective imaginations and our collective will made it possible. There are systems from the Ictíneo—for example, our air supply and energy—writ large here. These are what allow us to breathe at fifty meters below sea level.” She paused. “Speaking of air …” She went to the wall of dripping aquasuits to examine the gauge on Modo’s. “That’s odd … you don’t seem to consume any more oxygen than the rest of us. Perhaps it happens when you sleep.”

  “You could sleep in an aquasuit to find out,” Colette suggested in her usual wry tone. “Wouldn’t that be comfortable.”

  “I’d rather not, thank you,” said Modo, and turned back to Monturiol. “How long ha
ve you been developing New Barcelona?”

  “Seven years. Cerdà and I found this life-giving sector with the Filomena, a prototype to the Ictíneo. I had been looking specifically for hydrothermal energy. Everything is constructed on a plateau—the valleys on either side would be too deep for us to conquer at this point in time.” She gestured at the white rocks towering above them, clearly visible through the oceanlight cupola. “These natural chimneys are hydrothermal vents, some as tall as the tallest buildings in New York. They vent water at two hundred degrees Celsius, which we use to heat our living capsules. For a hot bath all you have to do is turn a tap!”

  “That is the height of civilization,” Colette said enviously. “The showers on the Ictíneo are ice cold.”

  “It keeps the comrades awake! Here, though, our food floats by and we catch it with nets, not ever having to leave the comfort of our homes.” Monturiol paused. “Anything is possible, my friends, with human comradeship. This is just the first of many cities to come.”

  “But how do you create oxygen?” Modo asked.

  “We use the same process as with the tanks that got you here, though on a much larger scale.”

  “How many live here?” Colette asked.

  “We could easily support five hundred, starting today. And we would have no problem finding citizens, given that our arms are open to the rejected and the oppressed.”

  She led them into a room that smelled of bread. A man and a woman who wore white robes with yellow and red stripes were hard at work, kneading dough. The woman offered a baked sample to Modo and Colette. Modo took a piece, spread it with a dark lumpy paste, and devoured it. “This bread is exactly what I needed!” he exclaimed, having enjoyed every mouthful.

  “Oh, that is not exactly bread, Mr. Warkin. It is made from ground coral and mermaid’s purse—that’s the pouch that holds shark eggs. Oh, and ground whalebone. The butter is black Lumpfish caviar.”

  “Caviar?” Colette asked. “Isn’t that rather expensive?”