The Dark Deeps (27 page)

“We’re going to collide!” Modo yelled. They pedaled madly while he pushed and pulled the levers, which didn’t seem to do anything.

“You turned us toward it!” Colette cried. Modo desperately shoved the levers in the opposite direction and the pod went toward the open ocean.

A section of the
Wyvern
smashed them aside, and the Icarian anthem blared again, playing at double speed as they spiraled uncontrollably. Their lone hydrogen light showed them they were going down farther. It took a lot of pedaling and maneuvering to slow their spinning. The
Wyvern
was below them now, its wounds oozing air, oil and several bodies.

Swiveling away from the horrific sight, they took a few moments to right the craft. Neither Modo nor Colette spoke, but Modo was certain Colette had seen the same dreadful sight.

After trying every combination of switches and levers, it became clear that they couldn’t straighten the pod entirely. They were rising, though, according to the needle on the pressure meter.

“We’re close to the surface,” Colette said happily. But it was getting harder to pedal, and the gauge now seemed to be stuck. Modo could actually see a dim light staring down at them through the water—the moon! They sank a few feet, and another few, despite all their rapid pedaling.

“I can’t empty one of the ballast tanks,” Colette said.

“So we have negative buoyancy.”

“Ah, you listened to the captain.”

“And Cerdà,” Modo added. “The bottom line is that we’re sinking.”

“Yes, very slowly. We can fight against it with our pedaling, but reaching the surface will be impossible.”

“Can we swim for it?” he asked.

“We’re already at thirty meters’ depth. The moment we opened the door we’d drop like a stone. Plus, we’d have to stop pedaling, which would make us fall even faster.”

“We could ride the oxygen bubble to the surface.”

“We’re too deep. It would rise too fast and the pressure would knock us out. Plus there’s diver’s sickness to worry about.”

Modo knew the deepest anyone could dive from the surface was only about twenty yards.

“We must find New Barcelona, then,” he said.

“
Oui! Oui!
It’s our only choice! But where is it? We traveled quite a distance by electric motor.”

The pod’s air was oppressively humid. Sweat glistened on Modo’s palms, and he felt as though the room were squeezing in on them. With the pod’s movements he kept bumping into Colette. “But we retraced part of that distance when we attacked the
Wyvern.
”

“Yes, and the ship was anchored west of New Barcelona.”

“Then we simply follow the compass east and we’ll be there,” he said, trying to sound cheery. “Unless we were knocked completely off course.”

They pedaled, adjusting so that the compass always pointed east. They sank farther, but slowly enough that Modo didn’t panic.

Colette let out a groan. “I’ve decided that you’re
mon porte-malheur
, Modo—bad luck. Ever since I met you horrible things have happened.”

“That’s not fair! You were already a captive before you met me. You’re the
porte-malheur
. Ever since I saw your picture, it’s been nothing but murders, shipwrecks, and insanity.”

She leaned forward, looking down through the bottom
porthole. “Take heart, Modo, we’ve passed the canyon and reached the plateau.”

“Good!” Modo thought of Monturiol and Cerdà. Were they dead now? The pressure would eventually crush the
Ictíneo
. Maybe they’d come to their senses and taken another pod. Its spherical structure was the best design to withstand pressure. But how much could one of these endure?

“There! There!” Colette shouted hoarsely. “I see lights.”

At first Modo thought she was seeing things. Their predicament was too much for her. There was nothing but darkness before them. Then he saw the distant glimmering. “You’re right!”

New Barcelona was shining ahead of them. “We just might make it, Modo,” Colette said. “I take back what I said about you being a
porte-malheur.
”

As they approached the underwater city, they also skimmed closer to the floor of the plateau. They pedaled as hard as they could. Modo aimed for the door they had entered on foot only a few short days ago. “We’re almost there!” he yelled as they got closer and closer to the door. He held his breath.

The pod bounced down the steps, then skidded across the plateau bottom and slid to a stop little more than an arm’s length from the undersea entrance.

T
hey stared out the porthole. Modo grabbed another set of levers, moving the arms on the pod, which he assumed were designed to open underwater doors or harvest seaweed. The arms were too short.

“Can we use them to push ourselves closer?” Colette asked.

“They can’t reach the ocean floor. We are truly stuck,” he said. “Perhaps someone in New Barcelona has spotted us.”

“There were only the mothers, children, and old men left,” Colette said.

“And Comrade Garay,” Modo added.

“Yes, but they would need several comrades in aquasuits to drag us into that chamber.”

“How much oxygen remains?”

“I would guess another hour’s worth.” She tapped the dial and the needle dropped further. “Or half an hour.”

“Stop tapping it!” Modo said.

“Why? Should we pretend we have more oxygen than we do?”

“I felt better when I thought we had an hour’s worth. How deep did Monturiol say New Barcelona was?”

“Fifty meters,” Colette answered.

“We have to get through that door,” he said.

“We have to battle the pressure.” The air was clammy, her hair drenched. She ran her fingers through it. “I’m a mess, and it looks as though your rash is returning.”

Modo knew the neckerchief still hid most of his features, but he was losing control of the area around his cheekbones and eyes. “That doesn’t matter. How do we safeguard against the pressure?”

“Our rubber suits may keep it at bay for a few seconds. But our ears and eyes? I can only guess what damage would be done.”

“Maybe they have some sort of emergency kit in the pod.” They searched around the compartment, under the seat. “Aha!” Modo sat up, displaying his treasure victoriously. “Diving goggles! At least we’ll be able to see.”

“Yes, but are they fashionable?” Colette said as they slipped them on. The lenses enlarged their eyes like insects’ and they both laughed so hard that Modo worried they were getting giddy from lack of oxygen.

He took a deep breath. “Once we are in the lock chamber, there won’t be as much pressure, correct?”

“Yes. It will only be the pressure from the water in the chamber, not the ocean.”

“So we only have to endure the deeps long enough to enter the chamber.”

“Correct. And we must close the sea door, find the switch that empties the chamber, and somehow hold our breath until it drains. Assuming the draining mechanism will work.”

“You sound doubtful.”

“Oh, I’m not doubtful. We don’t have a chance in Hades of making it,” she said, laughing. “But it is our only option. I suggest we divide the duties. You,
Monsieur Musclé
, swim out there and open the door. I’ll stay here, out of the pressure, until the door is open. Then I’ll swim straight to the switch. Which, as I remember, is located at the opposite side of the chamber. You close the door behind me so we can drain the chamber.”

“Good plan! Now let’s take a few breaths.”

“Oh, one more thing, Modo,” Colette said. She lifted the bottom of his handkerchief and kissed him on the lips. If he hadn’t been sitting down, he would have fallen over. As it was, he inadvertently spun the pedals a few times.

Modo had never been kissed on the lips. His thoughts were bouncing around in his head like mad. She kissed me! She kissed me! Her lips were so soft.

“Wh-what was that?” he asked.

“A kiss, silly. For
bonne chance
, Modo. I believe in luck. And I don’t want to go down without a fight. Now open that door.”

He leaned forward and turned the handle that opened
the pod door, then held on tight, prepared for all the water that would rush in. Nothing happened.

“Oh no, the pressure is holding it closed,” Colette said.

Modo pushed until the door opened a crack and ice-cold water began seeping in, swirling around their shoes as it rose higher and higher.

“I’m so very tired of being wet,” Colette whined, but before Modo could answer, the water was up to his neck. He took a deep breath, waited until he heard Colette take one of her own, and pushed.

Immediately his body felt as though several loads of frozen bricks were piled upon it. He launched himself the short distance and grabbed the wheel on the entrance to the lock chamber. He was floating too high, too fast! He needed leverage. He looked down, and spotting two loops set in the ground, he stuck his feet in them. It was like moving in stone, trying to turn the wheel. His lungs compressed. Yet he wasn’t panicking. He could function in the pressure; it was as though his face, and his body, which had so often changed shape, were adapting to this environment. He’d felt this sort of pain before.

Finally the door clicked. He pushed it open and kicked until he was inside. He couldn’t see clearly, but a blur of long, dark hair and then legs passed him. He pulled the door closed, planted his feet again in another set of footholds, and turned the wheel.

When the door was locked he kicked his way farther into the chamber, realizing he was seeing grayness through one eye. Was his brain affected? Even worse, he spotted Colette a few yards away, floating without moving, her hair like wild
dark seaweed. He pushed off the floor toward her, shooting up so quickly that he nearly missed her. At the last second he grabbed her extended arm, but he didn’t have the strength to swim down and pull her toward the lever that would drain the room.

We’re doomed, he thought, as his head smashed the top of the chamber. He bobbed up a second time, his limbs going numb. His lungs screamed for oxygen. He bobbed a third time and broke into a pocket of air. He sucked in a breath. Air! He lifted Colette, and after sputtering for a bit, she breathed too. Slowly the bubble of air grew larger. The water was receding! Minutes later, Modo found himself on the floor, sopping wet but breathing normally. He flipped back his goggles. The interior chamber door had been opened. Fish were flopping around between him and Colette’s still body. Footsteps splashed in the water, but no one was there.

“I couldn’t let the ocean kill you,” Griff said, chuckling harshly. “Not when it would be so much more satisfying to do it myself.”

M
odo spat out seawater. He couldn’t see Griff, of course, but was further alarmed because, through the door, flames were dancing across wooden furniture and up a set of curtains. How much of New Barcelona was burning? And closer to him, her body looking like a broken doll, was Colette. Before Modo could check to see if she was breathing, his head was driven into the floor.

“You’re lucky I saw the light of your craft and recognized your predicament. Yes, lucky!” Griff cried. He smashed Modo’s head again. “Where’s the mad captain?”

“She went down with the
Ictíneo,
” Modo grunted out in pain.

“Good! Good! Good!” With each exclamation Griff bashed Modo’s head harder.

“She took the
Wyvern
and all her crew with her.”

“You lie! That ship is unsinkable.”

“Well, it’s at the bottom of the ocean now.”

“Liar!” Griff smashed Modo’s head again.

With each blow lights sparked in Modo’s darkened vision. But he was too tired to lift an arm to defend himself. “Both ships went down,” he said. This seemed to silence Griff for a few seconds, and in that time Modo stole a glance at Colette. She hadn’t stirred.

“Don’t bring me bad tidings,” Griff hissed. “I’m Invisible Man the First!” Modo felt himself dragged a few feet and then was thrown onto his back. Invisible hands grabbed his throat. “Take back your lies!” Modo lifted a hand, but Griff knocked it aside and continued to choke him. “Your face is growing uglier, Modo. Did you show it to that Colette? No? How she would squeal if she could see it, eh? But don’t worry, when I’m done with you, I’ll slit her throat. She won’t see you again.”

Modo tried to speak but only gurgled.

“You may have sunk the
Wyvern,
” Griff said, “but Miss Hakkandottir had a balloon and she’ll pick me up. I am Invisible Man the First. She wouldn’t leave me! She wouldn’t!” He slapped Modo. “If you could only see my face, you grotesque sot. Ta-hee! I’m smiling now. I am! I—Arrgh!”

Some clarity returned to Modo’s vision. Griff’s hands were no longer on his throat.

“French witch! Aghh!”

Modo found the strength to raise his head and saw Colette on all fours, one hand swinging a stiletto. Blood was squirting out of thin air onto the floor. It was a wound that moved. It darted here and there. Colette swung once more and stabbed Griff again.

“Achhh!” Griff shrieked. Two wounds jumped back. “You can’t see me! You can’t stab me!”

“I did!” Colette spat out, coughing with each word. “And now we see you.”

Modo got to his feet. His head throbbed and he staggered to one side. He stretched out his arms and threw himself toward the place where the blood was spurting. His arms closed on nothing.

“I’ll kill both of you!” The blood suddenly stopped and Modo heard running, splashing footsteps as Griff’s voice grew more distant. “When you sleep I’ll gut you like fish!”

Modo helped Colette to her feet. He was so happy to see her alive that he wanted to embrace her. Instead, he asked, “Where did you get the knife?”

“ ‘Always carry a blade.’ My father taught me that.”

“Griff will try to escape from New Barcelona,” Modo said. “I wonder where all the Icarians have gone. I’m afraid he …”

“Let us hope they have somehow reached the surface,” Colette said. “We must get to the docking bay. The
Filomena
is the only way out of this place.”

They stumbled as quickly as they could through the adjoining room. Flames were burning in the far corner, catching paintings on the wall, chairs, and desks. The Icarian flag was in ashes. Modo could hear Griff shouting from some distant place, but the echoes made it hard to be sure of the direction.