The Dark Deeps (15 page)

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 have 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?”

“Here it’s free. I get particular pleasure from eating something for which the rich pay exorbitantly.”

Modo couldn’t believe that something that sounded so strange could taste so good. He greedily accepted a second piece.

When Modo had eaten, Monturiol took them down an arched hall and up a wide staircase that had been cut into the bedrock. Beautiful fossil shapes had been carved into each step. Monturiol then led them into a large room. Modo looked around to see that they were, in fact, inside a great dome. “Welcome to Icaria’s National Museum,” chimed Monturiol, obviously pleased with herself.

Ship models hung from the ceiling. A model of a submarine, made of wood, sat on a platform. “That is what the
Adelaida
looked like,” Monturiol said. “It was my father’s first submarine ship, and it held only four people. You had to pedal hard just to get out of the docks.” She laughed. “Oh, the hours I spent pedaling! We would picnic at the bottom of the reef, away from the city and all its politics. My father hated the ‘clay curmudgeons of bureaucracy’!” Sadness crossed her face. “It was named after my older sister, who died of consumption. That was a long time ago.”

Modo searched for words to comfort her, but Monturiol had already moved on, her face no longer showing any sign of emotion.

He glanced away and looked through the portholes on each side of the museum. They gave an impressive view of the rest of New Barcelona. Noticing his gaze, Monturiol said, “This is the highest point of the city.”

Modo peered up at the giant oceanlight in the ceiling. He couldn’t tell if the sun was shining. Somewhere out there was the real world.

“ ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree,’ ” he quoted. “ ‘Where Alph, the sacred river, ran / Through caverns measureless to man / Down to a sunless sea.’ ”

Monturiol and Colette clapped. “Ah, Coleridge,” Monturiol said. “All of his works are in our library.”

Modo tapped his temple. “I keep it up here. It’s as if Icaria has brought his poem to life.” He could see the pride in her eyes. Deservedly so.

“I’ll admit an English monkey can occasionally write a good poem,” Colette said, her eyes piercing his, “but in the end it is still written in
English
. I shall have to read you a
French poem. It’s such a language of romance.” She reached up to touch a large bell-shaped object made of wood and strengthened by metal braces. Weights hung on hooks around the circumference, to make the bell sink deep into water. Its interior was made waterproof by India rubber. “That’s a diving bell,” Colette said. “I’ve seen the marines use these.”

“You have?” the captain asked. “Where?”

“With my father. We were traveling with Ambassador Vernier and we were escorted to Morocco by marines. They used the bell to reclaim the guns from a ship that had sunk. The bell is weighted so it sinks bottom-first and traps air inside. Then divers swim down to the bell and use it as an oxygen station so they can dive even deeper.”

“Yes, a primitive but effective way of traveling underwater. This diving bell was used off the coast of the Cap de Creus, near my childhood home. Come along.”

As they walked out of the museum, Modo asked, “Why are you showing us all this?”

“Because I want you to understand the destiny of Icaria. This is the future of mankind. Rather than fighting over the refuse above us, we’ll work as one, in the womb of Mother Earth. Each of us equal. All of us one. The complete emancipation of men, of women, of the strong and the crippled.” Modo couldn’t help feeling the same desire for such a utopia.

Monturiol pointed out a porthole. “I don’t know if you saw the people welding and working outside the city. Some are elderly, but in the water they shed their years. Some have lost limbs, but with the support of the ocean they can
work.” She paused. “We’ll also have historical and archaeological museums about the Old World above us, collections of the greatest works of art that mankind has created, the drawings of da Vinci, the formulas of Galileo. It will all be safe here forever.” She pointed to the statue of a naked goddess with her arms lifted to the sun. “Diana. Discovered in the wreck of a trireme.”

How could they possibly afford to build such a city? The sheer volume of metalwork alone was staggering to Modo. Smaller nations couldn’t finance it: how could so few people find the resources? It became clear in an instant. “You paid for the construction with undersea treasure, taken from wrecks.”

“Yes, Mr. Warkin,” Captain Monturiol said, nodding. “You have come to the right conclusion. Think of all the warships mankind has put to sea over the centuries: triremes and quinqueremes carrying gold for Caesar, the great Spanish armada, British frigates off Cape Trafalgar. I have walked among the wrecks and carried back the Old World’s treasures to build this new world.”

“So thieves do prosper,” Colette said.

Modo expected Monturiol to snap at her, but the captain only smiled. “You cannot steal from the dead. Your world covets gold, not mine. I have been to your Paris, the air blackened by belching coal, the starving children begging for food. New York. London. Ugly, ground-dweller cities with their Babel towers.”

“My mother lives in that ugly city of Paris.” Colette’s voice was breaking.

“I have people I care about too,” Modo said, but it felt
as though a year had passed since he had last thought of Octavia. “My wife, Octavia. And … and my father. And I have my photograph collection in London. I’m not a famous artist, but it’s my life.”

“Well, it is gone. Vanished.” Monturiol waved her hand as though the flick of fingers could erase their memories. “You must leave the past behind. Icaria is your new world. This is why I’m showing off our beautiful city. You will come to love it here.”

“I can’t forget my wife!” Modo said, surprised by the depth of his own anger. It wasn’t just Octavia he was being asked to abandon. Mr. Socrates! Tharpa! Mrs. Finchley! “Captain Monturiol, my whole world is out there.”

“A dead world,” she responded nonchalantly. “I understand the loss of loved ones. Do you think I walked away from Catalonia without second thoughts? But it must be done. A clean cut.”

Catalonia—so that was where she was from. A province of Spain. Once its own country.

“Sometimes it’s the cleanest cut that kills,” Colette said, “because you don’t notice you’ve been wounded.”

Monturiol raised her index finger. “Or it severs the limb from the trap. We have room for you both here. We have photographic equipment, Mr. Warkin. Imagine the blue whale, its image taken from the ocean floor. It would be a first!”

“But my wife, she—”

“Would not deny you this opportunity, if she knew. And Mademoiselle Brunet, you must also live as though you had
no previous life. That is what all of us surrender. You will not be allowed to return to the Old World to tell them about our creation.”

“So you are imprisoning us for life?” said Colette.

“You can’t do that!” Modo said, shaking his finger at her.

Monturiol laughed. “This is not a prison. This is Utopia.” She glanced at a clock on the wall. “As always, the visits are too short. We should return to the
Ictíneo
. New Barcelona needs to be resupplied, and we must defend our borders.”

As Monturiol led them down a long hall, Colette pulled on Modo’s sleeve. He slowed his pace so that they were several feet behind the captain. Colette leaned in to Modo and whispered, “I’ll pull out the tubes on her air tank halfway back. No one will keep me a prisoner forever.”

“You can’t do that,” he replied. “The Icarians would kill us both.”

“You’re right. But there will be a time to escape.” Then she paused. “Together,” she added.

When they returned to the lock chamber, Monturiol helped them into their aquasuits. “Where’s Cerdà?” Modo asked.

“He has duties here. I shall send for him when I need him.”

“You can communicate with New Barcelona from the
Ictíneo?
How?”

“I send a message in a frequency the dolphins understand and they deliver it by Morse code, tapping on the glass.”

“Really?” Modo asked.

Monturiol laughed. “No, my friend. I was being amusing. My father had quite a sense of humor. I inherited some of it.”

“Some, is right.” Colette wore a grim little smile.

“To answer your question,” Monturiol said as they clomped into the lock chamber, “we communicate between the city and the
Ictíneo
with sonic messages. It’s similar to an underwater speaking trumpet.”

“But how would Cerdà join you?” said Modo.

“Ah, you ask too many questions, Modo. I suggest you put on your helmet.” Monturiol stood at a bank of levers and began flipping them up, then slipped on her helmet. Modo did too, hoping he had fastened the clasps correctly.

Soon he was following Captain Monturiol across the plateau toward the
Ictíneo
. Dolphins played around them, and he wondered at it all. A world where he might actually be accepted for who and what he was, if the captain was to be believed. Where he wouldn’t have to change from face to face, shape to shape. No more fighting. No more assignments. A world of peace.

If only Octavia could be here. The thought of her gave him a pang of guilt, for he’d been thinking more often of Colette. Could Octavia be so easily forgotten? Could the rest of the world be left behind? If he was to be trapped under the ocean, Colette was beautiful and interesting, perhaps even enough to spend a lifetime with.

But what about Mr. Socrates? And Tharpa? What would life be like without them? And what would Mr. Socrates think of New Barcelona? Modo desperately wanted to tell
him about it. He pictured Mr. Socrates saying, “You’ve done well, Modo.”

He wheezed, his throat a little tight. He coughed and felt a prickling at the back of his neck. Oh no! He was changing. He tried to slow the process. His bones were shifting and his flesh was pressing against the armor. He was breathing so rapidly, he feared he would pass out.