Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Chapter 4
Eulogy

WONDERMENT OVERWHELMED HIM. Every escapist instinct within Del told him to swim away from the Unicorn and lose himself in history. He had thrust himself into the heart of an untainted legacy. So much more than a museum, this place held unfabricated, unbiased testimony to the world’s past in ways and with a purity that books, models, even exacting restorations could not begin to approach. He could spend a lifetime swimming among these snapshots of different times; he thought of the many history classes he’d taken in college, of the dry lectures, or even the good ones from the rare, animated professor with a passion for the subject. Yet even those superb teachers and their impassioned recounting could not begin to approach the sense of marvelous reality that Del felt out here. He wanted to stay and to swim and to learn.

His first order of business was a bit more grim, though. He had to remove the bodies of his dead shipmates who’d been drowned in the sub and select one for Brady’s test of Reinheiser’s time theory. He moved to the jagged tear in the Unicorn’s hull and peeked inside.

The destruction was total. Splintered bunks, shredded blankets, and blasted footlockers floated about and lay jumbled in uneven heaps.

And scattered all about the mounds, meshed in like just so much more debris, were Del’s shipmates.

Del set a determined visage and squeezed in through the hole. Working methodically and with as much detachment as he could muster, he brought each man out and released him to his watery grave, saving the last body for the experiment, bringing it back to the air lock, where those inside the sub could retrieve it.

Del’s second mission was to retrieve a body from the Bella. This task both scared and intrigued him, his imagination running wild in this eerie scene, already launching several promising plots for horror movies. But at the same time, Del could not repress his curiosity about the wonders around him.

When he first went aboard the Bella, he moved gingerly, like an archaeologist brushing sand away from an ancient relic or an historian leafing through a delicate medieval manuscript. Before long, though, he realized that this ship was not in any way fragile with age. Her flooring remained unwarped and her masts stood straight and firm. Del was convinced that if she were raised and her hull patched, the Bella could sail proudly once again.

He moved without hesitation to the door leading belowdecks and found a suitable cadaver for Brady as soon as he opened it. But that would have to wait, for he pushed his way past the corpse, determined to get a closer look at whatever relics lay below.

It exceeded anything his imagination could have hoped for. Everything that wasn’t bolted down had been jumbled and battered, but that included just a small fraction of the room’s contents. How well the people of this age had prepared to handle the tossing of heavy seas! Del had always known that danger was a very real fact of a nineteenth-century sailor’s existence, but had never fully appreciated just how powerful an influence the unpredictable savagery was for the Bella’s gallant crew, and for all the sailors who had braved the seas when the advantage was so lopsidedly on nature’s side. Almost as a tribute to those brave seafarers, he cleaned up the room.

And the treasures he found! Trinkets and artifacts, masterfully crafted by human hands. He wanted to scoop everything up and take it with him, but of course Mitchell would have had his head if he did. There was one item he couldn’t resist, though, a small silver box, sealed and locked, perhaps a jewelry case, and bearing his own initials: JD.

That night, after an exhausting stretch of work, the crew headed for their beds in the conference room. More interested in privacy, Del stayed behind on the bridge, assuring Doc Brady that he’d sleep better alone. Brady suspected that something was up, for the agitated look on Del’s face made it obvious that he had no intention of sleeping.

Finally when he was alone, Del broke open the silver box and found a small pistol, a derringer, again engraved with his initials, a solid silver bullet, and a note:

To my dearest Judith,

My, but you are a difficult person for whom to buy a conventional birthday present! I have, however, proven my resourcefulness once again. In all modesty, I present to you, dear Judith, the prototype of my new pistol. You shall find that this firearm is well suited for a lady, as it is small, light, and easy to conceal. Others will find it on display in storefronts sometime next year, but you can always say that you received yours first!

Your loving cousin,

Henry

“I’m keeping this,” Del breathed. He considered the others’-particularly Mitchell’s-reaction, then shoved the pistol and bullet out of sight, into the inside pocket of his shirt.

By the sixth day all of the patches were in place and Reinheiser was ready to make the attempt to blow the water out of the sub. Their only chance was to use the atmospheric control unit to force great gushes of air into the flooded sections, displacing water out an open diving hatch. It proved a tedious and dangerous chore, for the physicist couldn’t possibly produce enough power to empty the entire ship all at once. Del and Thompson had to remain in the flooded sections and seal off each room as it cleared.

The process had to be repeated several times; twice Del and Thompson weren’t quick enough in securing a room and the ocean charged back in as the pressurized air burped out a hatch in a great bubble. But the patches all held, and near the end of the day, Del closed the outside hatch, and the interior of the Unicorn was fairly dry once again.

After a few hours of final clean-up, jettisoning everything that wasn’t nailed down, all was ready for their desperate attempt. No one gave any speeches or assurances; they all knew the odds that faced them.

Thompson remained in the engine room, at the controls for blowing the ballast tanks, while the other six men used belts to strap themselves down on the bridge. Each of them held on to supplies of some sort-food, water, clothing. Corbin clutched an inflatable life raft, a going-away present from his father on the day the Unicorn had sailed out of Miami-a joke gift, really, for what use might a life raft be on a vessel destined to prowl at a depth of thirty thousand feet?

Mitchell carried the heaviest pack: four rifles strapped together in a plastic bag. Del saw no need for the guns, and the sight of the volatile captain holding them disturbed him profoundly. He shook his head incredulously-guns wouldn’t save them from drowning. The irony of that thought brought a wry grin to his face, for if it came to a watery scramble, that heavy pack would likely take Mitchell down first.

Yet the rifles were indeed a comfort to Captain Mitchell. He could accept that they might all die in the escape attempt; this was Reinheiser’s game and he’d let Reinheiser worry about it. Mitchell was more concerned with situations that he could control-situations that he and his guns could control.

“Let it begin,” Reinheiser said when they had all settled.

Mitchell took the com and called back to the engine room. “Thompson?”

No reply.

“Thompson!” Mitchell growled more loudly.

“Here, sir.”

Del and the others winced at the uneven timbre.

“Our lives are in his hands?” Billy Shank remarked.

Mitchell spoke calmly but firmly. “Blow the tanks.”

But again no reply.

A few more seconds of silence broke Mitchell’s patience. “Blow those goddamn tanks, mister!” he roared. “Now!”

The sub shuddered with the release of water. Mitchell shut down the intercom and slammed the mike onto its holder.

With another shudder, the Unicorn began to rise.

Their moment of hope was upon them; as one, they clung to their bindings. They said nothing, each too engulfed by the probability of impending death to think of anything else, those feelings proving too personal and unresolved to be shared. Totally immersed in their work during the last few days, they hadn’t had time to come to terms with this delicate moment, and every one of them welcomed the contemplative silence.

It didn’t last. Suddenly the door burst open and a terrified Thompson rushed in, tears streaming down his face.

“Oh, no,” Doc Brady groaned.

“I’ve got him,” Del shouted. He wriggled free of his restraints and tackled Thompson, pulling the trembling man down to the vacated seat.

“Get the hatch!” Mitchell screamed.

Del ran to the door. Dismay stole his breath when he got there. “The rest of them are open,” he cried. “All the way back!”

The Unicorn thudded to a stop, the jolt knocking Del to his knees. He froze, fear seizing him, and did not try to rise.

“We’ve hit the top of the cavern,” Reinheiser explained.

“No time, man!” Brady cried to Del. “Get back.”

Del scrambled to secure the hatch, then dove down, trying to slip under the belts with Thompson, just as the Unicorn started moving again.

Mitchell looked to Reinheiser. “Currents?”

“Magnetic force,” the physicist answered. “Drawing us to the center of the field interaction.” Suspecting what was about to happen, he warned, “Hold on.”

Just as Reinheiser finished the statement, it grabbed the sub. Like a great untamed beast, the newborn storm sprang upon the Unicorn , seeking an outlet for its uncontrollable power. It raged about in torment, aimless at first, but then suddenly finding a direction. Its power became purposeful anger, guided as if by vengeance toward the black portal, as if it were a sentient thing, blaming that area for its agony. The storm raced in, pulling the helpless sub along, and tore through the barrier.

The men’s knuckles whitened under a grip of terror. Up and up they went, spinning and swirling. Up to a world that had once been their home.

But not anymore.