Word of Honour (3 page)

A long whistle sounded from above. Then the whole
submersible began to echo with the noise of running feet
and shouted orders. Captain Stephens glanced upward.
'We're about to get rather crowded. Let's hurry.'

The officers' wardroom was a neat, tiny area. It had a
table large enough to seat four – if they didn't mind
sitting shoulder to shoulder – with chairs to match. The
table had a starched white cloth, but was otherwise bare.
Shelves on the walls were stacked with books. A hatch
opened onto the galley and Aubrey could see sailors
already at work.

An officer was present. He blinked for a moment,
goggled at the newcomers, and then seemed to
remember what was expected of him. He rose, knocked
over his chair and made what could be called a salute
only by those with extremely poor eyesight.

Captain Stephens covered a smile. 'Prime Minister,
Mr Rokeby-Taylor, this is Lieutenant Henry Atwood.
Special Assignment.'

'Atwood,' Sir Darius said. 'We're pleased to be aboard.'

Atwood considered this. 'Sir?' His wrinkled jacket
looked as if it had been only recently yanked out of a
bottom drawer in lieu of anything better to wear. His cap
struggled to cover a mop of black curly hair. His eyes
bulged slightly and his nose was red.

'Special Assignment,' Sir Darius continued. 'You've
been dragged from magical studies somewhere or
other?'

'Angel College, sir. One minute I was working on
transformational magic, the next I'm here.'

'Atwood is one of our specialists,' Rokeby-Taylor said.
'We needed the best, so we went out and got him.'

'I didn't have much choice,' Atwood said plaintively.
'The dean said they were closing my laboratory.'

'Quite, quite,' Rokeby-Taylor said. 'Still, the facilities at
Clear Haven are first class, I'm sure. If they're not, you
just let me know and I'll have something done about it
right away.'

'Yes, sir.' Atwood brightened. 'Yes, sir.'

Captain Stephens saluted. 'If all is in order, sir, I'll go to
the control room and take her out.'

Aubrey must have made some sound, for everyone
looked at him. 'We're actually going on a cruise, in a
submersible?'

Rokeby-Taylor beamed. 'It's the best way to show off
this wonder. Your father has had some doubts about the
project, I've heard, so I thought he needed to see it.
He can't help but be impressed after the
Electra
goes
through her paces.' He scratched behind his ear. 'Stephens,
exactly where are we going?'

'The aim of our voyage is to head up the north-west
channel, between Whiteside Island and the Glough to
the west.'

'Submerged?' Aubrey asked.

'Not through the channel. Once we clear it – about
half an hour or so – we're in the open sea. We'll dive, run
on batteries, and we'll see what she can do. If the
weather's kind, we'll surface near a speck of rock called
the Widow's Sorrow, surprise the seabirds and point at
the seals, if any are home.'

'Excellent,' Sir Darius said. 'I'm looking forward to it.'

'As are we all. Atwood, to your post.'

Isolated as they were in the wardroom, Aubrey nevertheless
had the impression of being in the middle of
furious activity. Shouts bounced along the walls, adding
to the mounting vibrations; mysterious thuds and clanks
made the deck shudder. Running through all of this
was the muffled cursing that seemed to be the standard
operating noise of seamen. Rokeby-Taylor disappeared,
saying he wanted to check the battery set-up. He
returned a few minutes later, red-faced and muttering
about over-officious petty officers.

Soon, Sir Darius began drumming his fingers.
'Aubrey?'

'Sir?'

'You're sensing magic here?'

'Certainly. All around.'

'What sort?'

This was difficult. Describing varieties of magic to a
non-magician was like describing musical scales to the
tone deaf. 'Complex. Very different from anything I've
experienced.'

'New?'

Aubrey spread his hands. 'It could be. I need to get
closer to the source.'

'Hmm.' Sir Darius resumed his finger-drumming. 'Well,
keep at it, please.' He glared at the walls of the wardroom,
as if he wished he could see right through them.

Rokeby-Taylor waved a hand. 'You're interested in
magic?'

'I'm going to study it at university, sir,' Aubrey said.

'Good man. You must have more talent than I had. Or
more application. Fascinating stuff, magic.' He pursed his
lips. 'Let me see. I might be able to remember a fire spell
I was quite a dab hand at.'

'Fire on a submersible?' George said. 'Not a good idea,
Mr Rokeby-Taylor.'

'Eh? I say, you're right.' He slapped himself on the
forehead and laughed. 'Can't have the builder of the boat
blowing it up now, can we?'

Aubrey couldn't help but join in the laughter. It was
hard not to, when someone was laughing at themselves
so unselfconsciously.

Rokeby-Taylor cocked an ear. 'D'you hear those
engines, Darius? Most modern diesels, they are, but
wait until we switch to batteries. That's where our real
advances are.'

George gripped the table. 'We're moving.'

Aubrey could feel it. The sound of the diesel engines
increased until it was a deep, throaty pounding, enough
to set off a thousand different rattles in the wardroom
alone.

After half an hour the diesel engines changed their note.

They rose in pitch, turned almost to a thunder, before
rumbling and then ceasing entirely. In its place was a deep
hum, almost a whine, that set Aubrey's teeth on edge.

A bell rang and immediately the deck tilted beneath
them.

George yelped, but caught himself before he fell off his
chair. Rokeby-Taylor swayed for a second, but managed
to stay upright. He looked proud of himself.

Aubrey held onto the table, his excitement rising.
'Here we go, then.'

'Interesting experience, isn't it?' Sir Darius said, raising
his voice over the noise. 'Putting yourself totally in the
hands of someone else.'

'Well, if we can't trust the navy,' George said, having
recovered his balance, 'who can we trust?'

'I'm glad we have your confidence.' Captain Stephens
appeared at the door, hands behind his back. 'The navy
is here to serve, you know.'

'Shouldn't you be steering this thing?' George asked,
staring.

'Lieutenant Stone, my First Mate, is at the helm.
We're in good hands.'

The deck beneath their feet shifted again, then
levelled. Aubrey noted how Captain Stephens altered his
stance to accommodate the change in orientation, easily,
without having to steady himself with a hand. It was an
efficient, capable display of expertise.

'Everything running smoothly, Captain?' Sir Darius
asked.

'Topnotch,' Captain Stephens said. 'I thought you
might like tea once we'd reached our cruising depth.'

'Cruising depth,' Aubrey asked. 'How deep is that?'

'About ten fathoms. Deep enough to avoid enemy
detection.'

'How do you find your way along when you're this
deep?' George asked. 'Must be pretty murky out there.'

Captain Stephens stood back from the doorway and
ushered in a steward with a tea tray. 'Pitch black. But we
don't have any portholes anyway. We rely on compass
headings and good charts. And we're trying out a new
gadget, too.'

Rokeby-Taylor grimaced at this. 'I was saving that for
a surprise.'

'Ah, more magic?' Sir Darius said.

'Partly,' Captain Stephens said. 'You should ask Atwood
about it. Something to do with bouncing echoes off
things. It's not working at one hundred percent efficiency
as yet, but we're aiming to test it over the next few
months.'

Rokeby-Taylor smiled broadly. Sir Darius glanced at
him. 'What other surprises do you have for me?'

'Wait until you see the torpedo guidance system. It
uses the Law of Similarities for targeting. Spectacular.'

Aubrey was alert at this but, before he could ask anything,
the light overhead blinked. Then it flared a sudden
blue-white before dwindling to a sickly yellow. At the
same time an electrical roar came from the bow, a baleful
hissing that Aubrey felt as much as heard. Suddenly, his
breath was taken away as he was buffeted by a wave of
complex magic. He clutched at his chest, struggling to
breathe, and tried to make sense of what had struck him.

'Stay here,' Captain Stephens snapped, then bounded
out of the door to the shrieking of a klaxon.

'I say,' George began, but stopped abruptly as the floor
tilted again and the submersible began to plunge.

Immediately, Aubrey knew this was no controlled dive
– test or not. The deck dropped away and it was suddenly
like looking down the side of a tall building.

At that point, everyone scrabbled for handholds.

The klaxon continued, a harsh metallic braying that
overrode a cacophony of shouting, rending and shattering.
The chairs in the wardroom started to slide. Books
fell from the shelves. The table was bolted to the floor, an
island of solidity, but the tea service – cups, teapot, sugar
bowl – crashed to the deck.

Aubrey had an awful instant where panic offered to
take over; he decided that gibbering and running in
circles probably wasn't going to be useful so he declined.
His body had other thoughts, however. His heart
accelerated, his breathing slipped straight into 'rapid and
shallow' mode, his palms somehow decided that copious
amounts of sweat might be useful when it came to
clinging for his life, and his stomach tried to turn itself
inside out in a demented effort not to be left out of the
general uproar. Aubrey closed his eyes for a moment,
gritted his teeth, and refused to surrender.

He clung to the table while his father wedged himself
in the corner of the room. George had fetched up against
the door. The walls around them shook. Deep, tortured
groans came from deep in the bowels of the vessel, but
these came from no human throat – they were the protests
of the craft itself as its walls resisted the mounting
pressure of the depths.

A colossal shock racked the submersible. Aubrey was
thrown to the deck. He lay there, alert, his mind racing,
wondering what was happening.

The next moment, the
Electra
was rocked by another
immense impact, much greater than the first. Aubrey was
hurled against the leg of the table. He gasped as he took
the blow on his shoulder and bit back a cry of pain.

Then the lights went out.

A
FTER A MOMENT OF INTENSE, TERRIFYING DARKNESS,
the electric light flickered and came on again.
Dull orange, it wavered ominously.

His heart still racing, Aubrey tried to take stock. The
deck seemed to have levelled. In the corners, piles of
books, broken china, chairs. He saw his father, face down,
arms spread.

Fear muscled panic aside. Then Sir Darius lifted his
head and scanned the room. Relief nearly turned Aubrey's
muscles to rubber. 'That second thump would have
been the stern hitting the sea bed,' Sir Darius said. He
rose – knees bent, arms away from his side, ready for any
further shocks.

Aubrey helped George up. 'I wish they'd turn off that
klaxon,' he said.
It might help us hear if we're leaking or not
.

George looked around uneasily, as if he expected the
walls to collapse at any second. 'What happened?'

'Clive?' Sir Darius demanded. 'What's going on?'

Rokeby-Taylor stood and straightened his jacket. He
licked his lips nervously. 'I have no idea.'

'Then let's gather some information,' Sir Darius said.
A stream of sailors and officers stampeded past the open
doorway. Sir Darius waited, then shot out an arm and
seized a collar. The young officer squawked and Sir
Darius guided him into the wardroom.

He was short, about as old as Aubrey, and his dark eyes
were very, very fearful.

'What's going on?' Sir Darius demanded. 'Are we
in danger?'

'Sir, sorry, sir, I don't know. It's all hands to stations, so
that's where I was going.'

'But what's happening?'

'The engines have stopped. Topper and Badger said
there's been some sort of explosion. That's all I know.
Please sir, I need to get to the torpedo bay.'

'Yes, of course,' Sir Darius said distantly. He let go of
the young officer, who scampered out the door.

'What happens now?' George asked. He didn't seem to
know what to do with his hands. He crossed his arms,
uncrossed them, ran his fingers through his hair and
finally jammed them in the pockets of his jacket. Aubrey
had rarely seen his friend so anxious, but when he
thought about what lay only inches away, he decided
George had a right to be concerned.

'Not being an expert in submersible engineering,
there's not much I can do,' Sir Darius said. 'What about
you, Aubrey?'

'Now, Darius,' Rokeby-Taylor said, 'this isn't the time
to panic.'

Sir Darius speared him with a look. 'Clive, your
machine may have stranded us at the bottom of the sea.
If you don't have any constructive advice, don't interrupt
me while I talk to someone who may be able to help.'

Rokeby-Taylor opened his mouth, then shrugged. 'As
you wish.'

Captain Stephens appeared at the door to the
wardroom, frowning. He had a smear of grease on one
cheek. 'No injuries?'

Sir Darius shook his head impatiently. 'What's going
on, Captain? Are we in danger?'

'Well, we've lost our batteries and our air won't last
forever.'

'That sounds like "in danger" to me,' George muttered.

'Lieutenant Atwood's been badly injured. We need
someone with magical skills.'

'Aubrey is your man, then,' Sir Darius said. 'And what
about you, Clive?'

'I'm rusty, but I'll see what I can do.'

'Both of you,' Captain Stephens said. 'Quickly. This way.'

George and Sir Darius went to accompany them, but
Captain Stephens shook his head. 'It's a mess down there,
I'm afraid. Not much room at the best of times, but now,
you're better off here.'

Sir Darius nodded. 'We don't want to be nuisances. Be
careful, Aubrey.'

Aubrey turned, moved by his father's concern and
confidence. He sought for words, but finally settled for
holding up a hand in acknowledgement before hurrying
after Captain Stephens.

At first, as they struggled through the crowded
passageways, Aubrey thought the submersible was in a
state of chaos. Men charged pell-mell, dragging ropes
and chains or carrying crates. Orders boomed off metal
bulkheads. Painful hammering echoed along the walkways.
But he soon realised that the expressions of the
sailors were tense, not panicked. They were the faces
of trained men going about their duties in extreme
circumstances.

Just the sort we need if we go to war
, Aubrey thought.
When we go to war.

Aubrey was buffeted as they hurried along, but he
gamely kept right at Captain Stephen's shoulder. Finally
they reached a hatch.

Inside, the electric lights were sputtering. A pale,
lambent glow ran across the banks of switches and dials.
Steam whistled from a pinprick in a pipe to Aubrey's left.
The whole room was overlaid with a throat-scratching
burnt smell, while a faint magical residue set Aubrey's
senses jangling.

Along one wall, metal straps hung loose on dozens of
tall, narrow compartments, like doorless closets.

'The batteries.' Rokeby-Taylor pointed. His face was
deathly white. 'Where are they?'

'I said we'd lost them,' Captain Stephens said. 'It's
exactly what I meant.'

L
IEUTENANT ATWOOD WAS STRETCHED OUT ON A TABLE.
He had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head, and
the entire left side of his uniform was scorched. He was
tended by a brawny gunner's mate, who was strapping his
leg with surprisingly gentle hands.

'Atwood,' Captain Stephens said, softly.

Atwood raised himself on one elbow. His gaze drifted
across Aubrey's face, then rolled back again, as if he were
hard to focus on. 'I never wanted to go to sea, you know,'
he said in conversational tones. Then his eyelids dropped
and his head fell. It was only the quick reactions of the
gunner's mate that stopped his skull from bouncing on
the bare metal table.

'No help there, I'm afraid,' Captain Stephens said to
Aubrey and Rokeby-Taylor. 'Any suggestions?'

'I've been in a submersible for less than an hour,'
Aubrey said, 'and you're asking
me
what to do?'

'I hate to say it, but it looks as though it's magic that's
the problem, not the submersible,' the captain said. 'The
machine is sound, but there's nothing to propel it.'

Rokeby-Taylor glanced angrily at the empty racks.
'How could they just disappear?'

Aubrey needed more information. 'Captain, what
would you do if the problem weren't magic?

Captain Stephens rubbed his chin. 'The batteries
power the electric motors that propel us while we're
under the water. They power the pumps, too, so that
means we're in real trouble.'

'Why do we need pumps? We don't seem to have
sprung a leak.'

'A submersible rises and dives because of buoyancy.
When we pump more water into the buoyancy tanks, we
dive. When we pump water out, we rise.'

'Like a dirigible.'

'Just like a dirigible. Except when an airship loses
buoyancy, it crashes to the ground. We sink to the bottom
of the sea.' He touched his cheek, found grease on the
end of his fingers and looked at it quizzically. 'I don't
know which I'd prefer.'

Aubrey could almost feel the weight of the water
outside, pressing on the thin shell of the submersible.
Black, dense and cold. He shuddered.

'But what
happened
to the batteries?' he demanded.
'They couldn't just disappear.'

'That's just what happened,' Captain Stephens said.
'Atwood was fiddling with them, inspecting them,
whatever he does. A flash of light, a crack like thunder
that knocked me off my feet, and suddenly Atwood's on
fire and the batteries are gone.'

'Impossible,' Rokeby-Taylor muttered.

'What about the diesel engines?' Aubrey asked Captain
Stephens. 'Can't we run them and pump the water out?'

'Can't run diesel engines underwater. Not enough air
for them and the exhaust would kill us.'

'So we need to power the pumps with no batteries.'
Aubrey felt the increasing horror that comes from having
only a few possible outcomes – and none of them
favourable. 'Muscle power?'

'All hands to the pumps? Sorry, we left that behind
when we moved from sails to steam.'

Aubrey looked up, then he had it. 'The lights. Where
are they getting their power from?'

'Good thought, but pointless, I'm afraid. It's a separate
battery system. Small. Nowhere near powerful enough to
shift the pumps or the motors. And they won't last long.'

'I see. Just because I'm curious,' Aubrey said, 'how many
submersibles have been rescued in a situation like this?'

'In the Albion fleet, or worldwide?'

'Worldwide.'

'That'd be none, then.' Captain Stephens cocked a
half-smile. 'Submersiblers don't like to talk about this sort
of thing, you understand.'

Rokeby-Taylor was bent over, peering into the battery
racks.

'Mr Rokeby-Taylor?' Aubrey said. 'You're the expert
on the
Electra
. Have you any insights?'

'Eh?' He straightened. 'Well, it was the batteries I was
most interested in. Can't say I'm totally familiar with all
the other aspects of the craft.'

'The batteries then. What was so special about them?'

Rokeby-Taylor reached into pocket of his jacket and
pulled out a handkerchief. He swabbed at his brow.
'They were a hundred times more powerful than
anything else ever invented. Spells accelerated the rate
of something or other. Or decreased it.' He rubbed the
bridge of his nose. 'To tell you the truth, I'm not much
of a details man.'

'Can you remember anything helpful?'

'Only that we need the batteries if we're going to get
out of here. Life or death, I'm afraid.'

Aubrey sighed. He hadn't really anticipated performing
any major magic. His condition was fragile; it could
crumble at the slightest provocation.
Like performing
serious magic
.

Grimly, he turned his magical awareness inward to
check his status.

His soul was nestled within his body, but it was uneasy.
The golden cord that led to the portal guarding the way
to the true death tugged, fitfully. It wasn't a comfortable
state of affairs but Aubrey had learned to live with it, like
a toothache.

He decided that he was stable enough to undertake
some careful magic. And since he really didn't have any
choice, he saw this as a good – and timely – thing.

He ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that
wondered if he were overestimating his readiness. What
else could he do?

He went to the racks where the batteries had been.
Great insulated copper cables – each as thick as his wrist
– drooped like overcooked noodles. There was simply
nothing to connect them to.

Aubrey peered into the racks. The feeble emergency
lighting made it difficult to see, but he could feel the
prickling of magic on his skin. Was it just residue of
whatever spell had caused the batteries to disappear,
or was it something else?

Alternatives paraded in front of him. The batteries
could have been transported somewhere else. That would
be a major spell drawing on the Law of Displacement.
Moving such bulky objects any distance at all was a
highly complex task, but it was a well-established procedure.
Which meant he would have detected it from a mile
away, so he crossed out that possibility.

Or the batteries could simply have been destroyed.
He shook his head. The residue in that case would be
magical, but also physical. There were no traces of metal
fragments, or pools of acid.

No. This is something esoteric, exotic, radical.

He leaned right over the restraining bar. Taking his
weight on his stomach, he ran his finger across the middle
of the metal plate. He examined it closely. It felt slightly
gritty, but with an overtone of orange, which was his
mundane senses trying to come to terms with magical
remnants. He sniffed, and it smelled pointy – another
sense-scrambling magical quality.

He rubbed his finger and thumb together absently;
without realising it, he began to hum.

Rokeby-Taylor and Captain Stephens appeared at his
shoulder. 'D'you have something?' the industrialist asked.

Aubrey started. 'Maybe. Possibly.'

'Not sounding altogether certain, then.' Captain
Stephens glanced in the direction of Atwood and the
gunner's mate. 'It'd be good if you did. We don't seem to
have many options.'

Aubrey nodded. 'Mr Rokeby-Taylor, do you recall the
Law of Dimensionality?'

Rokeby-Taylor screwed up his face. 'Dimensionality?
I may have missed that lecture.'

'It's obscure stuff, usually glossed over.' Aubrey
studied his thumb and forefinger. 'I have a feeling
that a clever magician manipulated the batteries with
a spell derived from the Law of Dimensionality. All
done on a delay, of course, to go off when we were
well at sea.'

'On a delay,' Rokeby-Taylor echoed. Then he narrowed
his eyes. 'Manipulated the dimensions? Of the
batteries?'