We Shall Sing a Song into the Deep

7

“CAN WE TRADE TEETH?” Caleb asks, placing his spoon down beside his mess kit.

“Why bother?” St. John asks. “We surely only have days left before we deliver the Last Judgment. What good will such earthly goods be to us?”

Caleb falls silent, looks down to his murky broth.

“You need not sour his spirits so,” I say. “He’s scared.”

“He should be rejoicing,” St. John says, that haughty, superior tone. “At last, our service will be rewarded.”

“Regardless,” I say, unable to keep quiet, looking at Caleb’s pale face. “It might be a… frightening time to some.”

Ephraim glances up at me. Normally, he would step in, particularly when Caleb is involved.

I tried reasoning with Ephraim after he found me in the radio room, hooking him by the arm before he could scurry off down the corridor.

“It was nothing,” I told him.

But he wouldn’t look at me. As though I was diseased, as though, just by proximity, he himself was damned.

How much had he seen?

“I was listening to music,” I said. “I had never listened before. And Brother Callum fell asleep…”

“Remy…” he said, pulling his arm away. “I don’t know what you’re up to… . I don’t want to know… but St. John does. And if he finds out, you’ll be… you’ll be in so much trouble. You know Caplain Marston… and if he finds out I knew and didn’t say anything…”

“I won’t get caught. And even if I did, the caplain won’t find out about you. Not from me,” I said, laying a hand at the center of his chest. “Promise.”

He swallowed. Finally, he looked up. Such young eyes, fearful eyes, even though he is at least three years older than me. I’d never noticed before then.

His whole body shook.

“Do you trust me?” I asked him.

And he nodded, taking in a breath.

“Things are happening. About to happen. I can’t tell you any more than that. Just… please keep trusting me. Please?”

He nodded again.

But he has remained cool toward me, even two days later. Not glancing up, and speaking little, if at all, during meals. Our usual silence punctuated somehow by a greater silence.

St. John has noticed. Of course he has.

He grins into his bowl. I can almost see the acerbic retort taking shape in his mind.

“You’ve been quiet, Ephraim,” St. John says. “I know Remy must be so tired from his nightly excursions—but you are normally not so staid.”

That grin. Sly. Devious.

I set down my spoon.

Ephraim’s eyes go wide.

St. John says, “I thought Caplain Marston was as… taken with you as old Caplain Amita, but that isn’t the case after all.”

He leaves no room for response.

“When I told him about Lazlo, about what I heard you two talking about in the balneary, he was taken aback. Dangerous ideas, Remy. I confessed to the caplain that I did fear dear Lazlo had… already corrupted your soul. He asked me to keep a close watch on you. To search for the signs of corruption.”

I fight the urge to jump across the table, to wipe the smirk from St. John’s face. I fight it with all my being.

“You two should take heed,” St. John says, nodding to Ephraim and Caleb, both of whom have been watching in tense silence. “After all, look at poor Lazlo… look where his association with Remy got him.”

How much does St. John know?

“Please, you don’t care anything about their souls,” I say. “You just care about position. You only removed Lazlo because you don’t have half his talent.”

“Jealous of that little worm,” he snaps, sitting up straight. Gives a fake, shrill laugh. But I know I’ve struck a nerve. I shouldn’t be risking an altercation. Shouldn’t risk being found out. Not so close to our final days. But I can’t help myself.

“Envious of his voice—of his position. And mine as well,” I say.

This does it.

He springs to his feet. Everyone in the mess has fallen silent. All eyes on St. John. “What I care about are the rules… and you’ve got away with breaking them too long. You think you’re special. That you’re above them. But you aren’t. I know Caplain agrees. Better keep your eyes about you, yeah? Because I think you’ve got a secret… and I’m going to find it out!”

He whispers these last, fuming words, but they are still loud enough for all in earshot to hear.

Now I’m the one who stands. The table remains between us. Everyone watching.

“Remy,” Ephraim whispers, nervous.

I brace myself, ready to fight if I need to. Ready to throw a fist, until the compartment pitches suddenly downward.

I must latch on to Ephraim’s arm to keep my balance..

We are diving. Fast.

The red bulb on the bulkhead above the hatchway begins flashing. No alarm. A flashing light means we are running silent.

“We’re being hunted,” Ephraim whispers.

Brother Aegis slides down the ladder from the main deck, rushing aft, toward the chapel. Brother Dumas follows.

“What’s going on?” St. John asks.

“Enemy vessel,” he grunts with urgency. “Think it might be a sub.”

“I thought all the subs were destroyed,” Caleb says.

“That’s what I heard Ex-Oh Goines say,” Brother Aegis says, bracing himself against the bulkhead as the downward pitch grows steeper. Ephraim and I must do the same, to keep our balance. St. John and Caleb cling onto the table as dishes and cutlery spill to the deck in an enormous clang and clatter.

“What are you waiting for? All to their stations!” the brother commands, breaking all from our stupor. The mess erupts in a quick scramble—each of the brothers rushing away. Brother Dumas has ordered Ephraim to help Brother Ernesto secure the air system. St. John is sent to the lower deck of the chapel, to check for leaks.

Then a screaming, metallic shrieking wails past the hull. A few seconds later, an explosion. The deck lurches out from beneath me. I lose my legs. Am slammed hard onto the deck face-first, rolling, sliding down the steep decline, coming to a painful stop as my shoulder jams into the forward bulkhead. Electric pain lances down my arm. Breath knocked from my lungs. Taste blood. Squiggly points of light dance before my eyes. I feel my forehead. My fingers are slick.

It’s Ephraim who lifts me up. When the ringing in my ears stops, I hear spraying water. Smell acrid fume.

He says words that I can’t seem to hear. Not at first. I read his lips.

“The pumps. Take Caleb with you!”

I nod, am already breaking away, running up the tilt, despite my blurry vision, my uncertain feet. I move against the flow of the other brothers darting to their stations. I find Caleb hiding beneath one of the tables, clinging to one of the bolted-down legs.

The pitch of the deck has leveled somewhat. Easier to walk.

I snatch up his hand and drag him along with me.

One of the mains just above us has burst, jetting a torrent of water into the compartment. Brother Aaron is already trying to patch it.

Another passing shriek in the water outside the hull. A muffled explosion, much farther away than the last. The Leviathan still resonates. Rattles. Groans.

Not depth charges. These must be torpedoes. I’ve never actually heard them before. The Leviathan’s stockpile was used up long before I was brought on board.

“Caleb, stick with me!” I shout over the roar of the water, the shouting, the thrum and knock of pressure against the hull.

Jumping down into the well, there’s barely room to move around the massive bank of batteries. The water has already pooled here to my ankles. I help Caleb down.

“There are two pumps—I need you to turn this one, back here.” I point to the pump handle aft, away from the water pooling at the forward part of the well. The motorized pumps burned out long ago, and they must be manually operated in order to clear the water through the bilge.

I glance to the metal strut, just above where Caleb has started pumping, to where I hid the missile key. No time to check on it now.

I inch around the side of the battery bank, forward to the other manual pump release. The water is deeper here—ever deepening. To my knees. We’re still diving. Leakage continues to spill in from the hatch above in a waterfall, dousing the batteries.

They’re made to handle being wet and not shorting out, but they can’t become submerged. If they do, they’ll fry. The batteries would be dead, and so would Caleb and I. Electric shock.

Another screech from the deck above—the sound of the trim main blowing. The water cascades down now, drenching me.

It’s already up to my waist when my fingers find the pump handle, just beneath the murky, salty, greasy surface. I begin working it, spinning the wheel valve.

Shouting. The clanging of feet scurrying on the decks above. The rushing of water. More and more spilling in. The Leviathan is still diving. Still dropping fast. I hear the entire boat groan from the pressure. We’re going to reach the crush depth soon at this rate of descent.

There might be a war raging on the upper decks, but here is the only thing that matters.

Turn, turn, turn.

The pump isn’t draining the water away fast enough. We’re barely keeping up.

“Caleb, I need you to speed up!” I shout.

I can’t see him around the battery cluster behind me, but I hear him. Hear him grunting as he turns his pump. I also see the bottom bank is already about to be fully submerged.

Not worth risking both our lives.

“Caleb, climb out,” I shout.

“But the water—” I hear him shout.

“Do it now. Find the tool kit. I’ll call down for something if I need it. Just stay up there!”

The water level continues to rise, but Caleb does as I instructed. I look up to see his legs disappearing through the hatch above.

Meanwhile, I spin and spin the pump valve. I’m dizzy. My eyes burn from the acrid fume. My lungs ache. I’m choking. My arm is numb, but I keep at it.

And then the whole boat lurches, wrenches, thongs like I’ve never heard it before.

My head knocks against the ceiling of the low compartment.

It’s as though the whole boat has struck something.

Have we bottomed out? I can’t tell if the boat is still moving. It certainly isn’t diving any longer.

The lights flicker overhead, then wink out completely. The main power has shut down. Battery power now, keeping the auxiliary lights on.

Without main power, the batteries are essential until the reactor and the generators are brought back online.

I must keep at it.

Thankfully, the burst main seems to have been repaired. The cascade of water has lessened to a small stream pouring in through the well hatch. The boat has also leveled, shifting the water back from where it had been pooling.

There’s light enough to see that the pumping might finally be working. The bilge is beginning to recede.

I turn and turn not stopping until the water level has fallen below my ankles. My burning arm quakes, muscles clenching, angry and taut.

But the batteries are safe.

“Caleb, what’s going on up there?” I ask, panting.

No answer. Probably still looking for the tool kit. Or hiding under the table again.

I look over to the beam where I’ve hidden the missile key.

I feel for the key in the small crevice between the ceiling and the top of the beam, where I had carefully had wedged it. But I find only empty space.

I search again, running my fingers along the entire seam, but no. Nothing. No key.

It must have fallen into the water.

“Remy,” someone calls from above.

“A moment,” I say, coughing, splashing in the cold, murky water, feeling around the bottom.

If I’ve lost it, then that changes everything.

My fingers probe the rusty metal compartment deck, brush against sharp metal corroded edges.

“Remy!” I hear my name again. It’s Ephraim calling down.

Come on!

And then I find it. The smooth metal stalk. The key. Not sucked into the pump, after all.

Now is not the time to take a moment of relief. I shake as I tuck the key safely beneath my wet bindings, where I feel its cold shape pressing into my skin. Where it will stay for the next several days. Should we actually survive long enough to go through with the plan.

I finally climb up from the well, robes sopping wet, heavy.

It isn’t until I’m on deck that I recognize the silence that has overtaken the vessel. A hissing, a dripping, a tapping somewhere in the pipes, but quiet otherwise.

A thick haze of oily and electric smoke hangs about the dim compartment. Worse here than below. My eyes burn. My legs tell me that we must have bottomed out. We are resting at a slight tilt.

In the hazy darkness, I make my way forward until I see Ephraim’s form, leaning over something on the deck.

“What’s going on?”

Ephraim turns—face twisted up in sorrow.

I see now that he’s bent over a small, crumpled body. Only leaning in close do I see familiar, childish features half-obscured by a mass of dark gore.

Caleb.

“Wh—what happened?” I ask.

“Pipe must have come loose when we struck bottom,” he says, smudging his cheeks with dirty hands. Sniffling. “Thought he was down in the well with you.”

“He was,” I say, trying to blink away the burning. “I sent him out. Thought it would be safer.”

Now is the hour of Vespers, one of the most important prayers of the day. The prayer before a feast. The longest in the liturgy.

It is a time of sacrifice. Of giving back to God.

He had his offering today. Little Caleb.

Normally, I would sing the Magnificat during this hour. The Canticle of the Virgin Mary.

But the Sunset Office is not met tonight. Unessential crew has been ordered to their bunks. No excessive movement or activity. We must keep the air consumption down, while we are still submerged. Hiding, grounded, on the sea floor. Two hundred and nineteen fathoms.

Caleb’s body is in the balneary, awaiting its final rights. We cannot commit his body to the deep until the threat is gone.

The sub must still be up there, hunting for us.

It has been a full day.

The reactor and electric generators have been brought back online, but the air is running out. The oxygen generator must have been damaged. The rest of the scrubbers must have shut down.

My throat burns.

Every breath is tight. Each gasp filled with smoke and oil fume and poison.

The berthing compartment is full with my fellow brothers, sleeping or trying to sleep, or gasping for breath in their bunks.

But I’m listening. Ear to the hull. Listening to that lonely strain reaching through the depths.

One whale is singing. Yes, just one.

“What are you looking for, Brother Whale?” I whisper. “Your friend? Has he been taken from you? Your family? Were they put somewhere far away? Is there a deep dark even too deep for you?”

It is a sad song. I hear the bend, the strain. I sing softly with it, with broken voice. I follow its odd, unearthly melody. My voice wants to sing with it, to let it teach me.

A song of mourning for little Caleb. For all of us.

I wonder if Lazlo has been injured in this attack. And what of Adolphine?

It strikes me that now might just be the best time to check on her, when all are silent.

“It was the Liánméng,” Adolphine whispers weakly through the grate. “Would recognize the scream of their torpedoes anywhere. The Chinese have been using old Soviet ordnance since the end of the war. They might have intercepted our transmission.”

“I thought you said it was a code I was transmitting… a secret code.”

“Even if they couldn’t read the code, they could have triangulated our position. But yes… they may have cracked it.”

“Then Caleb’s death is my fault…”

“Caleb?” She asks. I hear her every breath. Strained, like mine.

“A Chorister. Like me. Killed during the attack. He was… very young,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” Adolphine says. “It wasn’t your fault. It’s my fault.”

I swallow, take in a slow breath. “I’m beginning to think… in trying to survive, we might accidentally kill more people. That sub might be waiting for us at the coordinates I transmitted. Waiting to destroy us…”

“We can’t know, Remy…”

“Why would they be after us in the first place?”

“They’ve been hunting you for years. This boat is a threat to either side. Plus, they might want what you have.”

“The Last Judgment?”

Her silence confirms it.

“Why?” I ask.

“There aren’t any nukes left. Not after the wars. At least, none that aren’t sitting in irradiated territories. It would be a commodity—” She stifles a cough. “A way to secure their power. We’ll be sailing into Australian waters soon,” she says thoughtfully. “They might not follow, risk causing an incident with the ceasefire…”

“I heard… on the radio, when I sent the message,” I say. “Australia will officially surrender in a few days. They said they weren’t sure about Guam.”

No word for a moment. “Peace, then.”

She should sound happier than she does. “Isn’t that a good thing?” I ask. “Isn’t that what the world has been waiting for?”

“Yes, of course. But peace on equal terms. If Australia gives in, rolls over, then the Liánméng will be the world’s superpower. Communists.” She coughs again. “This air tastes bad.”

“We’ll have to surface soon,” I say.

“It won’t be soon enough. This CO₂ buildup is getting poisonous,” she says. I think she must be lying down, by the sleepiness in her voice.

“I think I should get rid of the key,” I say, feeling the hard metal pressing into my chest. “As long as I have it, the caplain could still get his hands on it.”

“No,” she says sharply. “No, don’t do that.”

“But even if we survive until we get to the launch location, what if our plan fails?” I ask. “What if we can’t take the engine room?”

“Then you keep it in order to trade your life for it.”

Or Lazlo’s.

“It’s more valuable than you, than me, than anyone else to Marston. Let him launch.”

“But… what about Sydney?” I ask.

“I’ve almost fixed the missile—it will launch, but I’ve found a way to reprogram the targeting computer. Even if Marston does get the key, the missile will launch into the sea. The middle of nowhere. Where it can’t hurt anyone. No, that key is power, Remy. You keep it. Don’t let anything happen to it until we’re safely off this boat.”

“Assuming we survive this—that we make it to the Arafura Sea, and the enemy hasn’t tracked us…”

Silence. No comforting word.

“Do you think the Coalition will be there? That they even heard us?” I ask.

“They received the message,” Adolphine says. “But they might not make it in time. Might not be any ships in the area. Should be two days until we reach it now. Maybe three, once we’re under way again.”

“I heard Brother Roberts say we’re just west of New Caledonia.”

“Okay, that’s two days away from our launch location, based on the Leviathan’s pace.”

Two.

Two more days.

“Remy,” Adolphine says, her tone one of caution now. “If the plan doesn’t work, like you said… if we can’t force the boat to surface, I’d like for you to promise me that you’ll try to escape. Regardless.”

“How…”

“If we’re close enough to the surface, you can ditch… escape through the trunk. Did you ever train on that? Most submariners have.”

“No. But… Brother Calvert told me about it.”

Ditching. Swimming out from the cold depths. That darkness. It puts a chill in me, just thinking about it.

“But it won’t come to that,” I say.

“Like you said, we might not be able to take the engine room, or something… something might just go wrong. Just… survive, okay, Remy? Try.”

Her tone makes me feel worse, not better.

“Promise me?” Adolphine presses.

“Okay… I promise. But I’m not going without Lazlo…”

“Look out for yourself, girl!” Adolphine hisses, almost angry. “Would he risk his life for you?”

“I know he would,” I respond, equally as sharp.

This silences her for a time. I hear her labored breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I am tired. They aren’t letting me sleep.”

“I… I understand.”

The boat groans suddenly. The bilge water sloshes past my feet, toward aft.

“We’re rising,” I whisper, heart lurching.

“Thank goodness,” Adolphine sighs. “Air.”

“I should go. I’ll try to come back soon,” I say. “But I think I’m being watched…”

“Then don’t risk it. Follow the plan. You’ll know when it’s time to come for me. When we surface again. When we arrive at the launch location. Two days.”

“Yes, two days,” I say, my hand reaching for the hard piece of metal still tucked in my bindings, pressed against my chest.

Between my own collection, and Lazlo’s and Caleb’s, I count forty-six teeth in total, spread out on my bunk. Molars and eye teeth and incisors. Some yellowed, some pipped, but most clean, cream-colored. I wonder if anyone else has gathered so many. I sweep them into a darned wool sock, and, by wicklight, when others are bunked down for second sleep, I write my message with lampblack ink on the very last of the sheaves of scrap parchment Caplain Amita gave to me.

I hesitate a moment over the next words. Only a moment.

Simple. I can’t give away too much. Almost none of the younger brothers can read, but should an elder get hold of it, at least they won’t know too much of the plan.

If found, I would certainly be in trouble. Marston would know that it was I sending the message.

Yet, no matter the risk, no matter what Adolphine says, it’s important that Lazlo know something of what is about to happen. She doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t know him.

I do.

After the afternoon meal, I find Brother Dormer heading to the fan room. That’s where I corner him, when St. John and the other brothers are nowhere to be seen.

He’s about to protest, when his eyes widen at the pouch I’m carrying.

Even more surprised when I place it directly into his large hands.

He bounces it, hears the rattle.

In the speechlessness that follows, I lean in.

“Inside is something I need for you to give to Lazlo. A folded-up bit of parchment. Don’t let anyone else see it. Don’t talk about it with anyone. Just give it to him.”

Brother Dormer looks positively torn—such a bounty in his palm. He opens the sock and begins to inspect. “I couldn’t…”

He stammers.

I see images of extra helpings of stew, of sweet cake, should there ever be sweet cake again, swim in his eyes. “What does it say?” he asks. “This message.”

“It says that I hope he is okay… that I miss him,” I say.

He nods, silently, weighing the teeth in his hand against his morality.

“Just make sure he gets it, and I’ll give you any teeth I get traded for as long as I live,” I say.

He cracks half a smile. Less teeth than anyone on board, Brother Dormer. Black gaps broken with yellow and brown borders. “We in’t going to be living that much longer, yeah?”

His voice carries no humor. If anything, it is fear. Uncertainty, at least. The same uncertainty that presses down upon all of us.

Perhaps it’s that we survived the last attack when so many thought we wouldn’t.

Some stroke of real humanity, coursing through all of us.

“Right,” I say.

He nods, solemnly, bounces the tied sock full of teeth in his palm again.

“Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll do it.”

I nod. Take a breath. “Thank you, Brother.”

He doesn’t know how to react when I embrace him, wrap my arms around his middle.

“He doesn’t look… good, you know,” he says before I take my leave. “Lazlo. He isn’t well. Looks sick. He’s sick like the others get when they work in the reactor compartment.”

My heart drops. I try not to show it. I can’t, lest I look too suspicious. “Just give him the message. Please.”

I can’t breathe, even though the boat has surfaced and vented, and even though Brother Ernesto got the oxygen generator operating again.

The sensation lasts throughout the whole day—me, singing, trying to take a deep breath, but it’s as though my bindings are made of iron chains, keeping me from taking in a proper breath. My voice comes out weak, strained. If anyone notices, and I’m sure they do, they say nothing to me about it.

It’s not until just after Vespers the next day, when I find the moment to break away, informing Brother Ernesto that I am going to check on the pumps in the battery room.

As soon as I climb down, I remove my robes, still damp and reeking from the attack the day before. Then I unwrap myself, release my chest from the itchy bindings. Take in a deep breath.

Cry.

I let myself, key in my hand.

My shoulder aches from being jarred when the sub bottomed out. My head throbs where it struck the beam.

Only one more day.

One more.

There might still be time to save Lazlo. The radiation might not have gotten to him yet. It might just work. This dangerous, insane plan.

And then, Topside. Sunlight. Fresh air.

“Who would have imagined?” a cold voice calls out. “Here, at our final hour, I find our brave Cantor, so broken…”

I whip around to find that St. John has followed me down into the battery well. I didn’t even hear him.

He seems about to continue with whatever biting words he had begun when he sees the silver key in my hand.

Confusion. But then his eyes widen. And that wide gaze falls upon me, upon my chest. I close my robes, but it’s too late.

He’s seen.

The light of realization dawning on his face, fallen heavy as a hammer.

The smirk disappears. In its wake, shock.

Not now. Not so soon! Not when everything is at stake.

“St. John,” I say, trying to find the words.

His confusion bends quickly to a fierce, cold malice.

“What secrets you’ve been keeping, Remy,” he says.

He’s closed the distance between us in a few steps, snatching the key from my hand before I can even react.

“Give it back,” I say, reaching for it.

“And what is this?” he demands, gripping it tight, dodging my darting hand. “Something you stole from the caplain… like the sinner you are… like the impure creature that was cast from the garden…”

“Not stolen,” I say, angry now. “Given to me. Entrusted to me. By Caplain Amita.”

“Lies! Tell me what it is. What does it open?” he demands.

“It’s… it’s the key that will launch the Last Judgment,” I blurt out. It might be the only way to convince him. Or at least, it might surprise him. Take him off his guard. “Caplain Amita entrusted it to me.”

St. John’s mouth grows slack. He squints down at the key. Confused. Disbelieving.

“The key? To the Last Judgment? He… he gave it to a… to a female?” he says, almost hissing. “You bewitched him. You’ve bewitched us all…”

“He knew all along,” I say.

“Lies.” His eyes positively glow. “How Caplain Marston will reward me…”

“Give it back,” I warn.

“I don’t think so…” he says, beginning to back away. “No, you’ll swim for this, Remy. For this deception.”

I lunge forward but am met with the hard back of St. John’s hand across the cheek. I’m knocked to the deck, stunned.

He turns, already climbing up from the well, but I push myself up, lunge for his legs, yanking him down. He topples hard against the bank of batteries. Rolls off, down to the deck. I am atop him before he can spring to his feet. Even though I am slighter than he, he cannot push me away. No matter how much he thrashes, struggles.

I think of all he has done. What he did to Lazlo.

I bring my fist across his face.

And again, with my other fist—more vicious, stronger than I intended. The wet smack. Tears bead hot on my cheeks, down my chin. I can barely see him for the tears. I sling my other fist at him, and then again, each blow stronger than the last. My knuckles sting. They ache. Lazlo’s face swirls in my mind. With it, a white-hot rage. It is this bastard’s fault that Lazlo is back there, dying. It is all St. John’s fault. His nose spouts blood.

Finally, I stop myself and look down at him, almost as dazed as he. Tears stream down the sides of his face. He tries to roll me from atop him, weakly, one last time, but I pin him down by the shoulders with all my might.

“You’re wrong. About everything,” I say through gritted teeth. “We’ve been wrong all along!”

I’m not sure if he even hears me. His eyes are open, but it is as though he’s blinking away a fog. I take the key from his loosened grip.

Then, with all the strength left in me, I flip him around and, using a length of rope from the tool kit, I bind his hands, his feet. Stuff some of my binding linens into his mouth. Then I drag him to the far corner of the compartment, so that he won’t be seen from the hatch.

Looking down upon him, at what I’ve done, I gasp. My blood goes cold as the sea.

There’s no choice now. Nothing to be done. We have to act. A day early. We have to act now.

I go first to my bunk, to gather my small cache of victuals I’ve been able to stash away. A few bits of dried fish. Sour grey cake. Next, I must journey through the mess hall, past the elders’ wardroom in order to access the lower level of the chapel, where Adolphine is being kept. The mess is abuzz with activity. On the tables, bolts of fresh cloth have been unrolled—they must have been brought on board from the raid on Adolphine’s ship. Or kept in storage. New white robes are being sewn for all. Our final dive is coming soon.

I nod to those brothers who greet me, keep my eyes down. My bloodied knuckles, just barely hidden beneath the cuff of my robes.

No one will notice St. John is missing until well after the hour.

A few minutes. That’s all I need.

Further down the corridor, I peek through the hatchway into the chapel. Several brothers are congregated around the missile diagnostic panel with Brother Ernesto, just a few feet from Adolphine’s cell.

There’s no way I’ll be able to release her without being caught.

I couldn’t have chosen a worse time to set our plan into motion.

But I also can’t wait.

I’ll go to engineering first, then. Will go to Lazlo.

That’s the better plan, anyway, to give him time to figure out how to shut down the engine and hydraulics. Everything must happen fast if this is going to work.

I’ll come back to release Adolphine when the rest of the plan is in motion.

The auxiliary machine compartment is abandoned. No one sees me wheel open the hatch and pass through the tunnel, crossing a threshold I have never dared before now.

And so easy.

The first compartment through the tunnel is the aft machine room—a dim space, filled with the familiar blockish shapes of banks of corroded batteries. Generators. Secondary and backup systems for the boat.

The maneuvering shack is in the next compartment back, on the other side of the banks of generators. That’s where the reactor and engine functions are controlled. There, Brother Leighton will be on duty. Best to steer clear. Instead, I take the first ladder to the lowest level of engineering and find myself in what must be the main engine room. A great, long machine fills the low, narrow space, its two rows of pistons pumping in a rhythmic, deafening metallic concert. That thrum and rhythm I have known so well, now deafening, so close to the source.

I turn to find myself standing in front of what must be the reactor containment chamber, for the warning signs adorning the small hatch leading inside. It’s sealed, barred from the outside.

I pull aside the heavy lead shield obscuring the porthole-sized window.

Peering inside, a faint blue light emanates. His light. At the compartment’s center sits a tall metal cylinder, the top half only—the rest of the shape is clearly embedded in the deck. The reactor. All manner of small pipes and hoses sprout from it. What looks to be a pump wheel. But the post is unmanned. Empty. I turn, looking to the hatch at the far end of the compartment, on the other side of the hulking, humming engine.

This will be the bottommost aft compartment.

Where I’ll find Lazlo.

I waste no time.

Wheeling and swinging open the heavy hatch, a wave of reek assaults me.

Human effluence. Rancid fish oil and sick.

My eyes must adjust to the darkness. A few points of light here. Small grease wicks that seem to only accentuate the gloom.

I step in, and my eyes begin to adjust. Shapes move in that dimness. Figures begin stirring from the canvas hammocks that hang between the tall main seawater tanks. My feet are damp as I step deeper into the reeking, narrow, low, place.

The Forgotten.

Not boys but lean, starved young men who must have toiled back here, in these recesses, perhaps since even before I was fished out of the sea.

Shirtless. Ragged. Racks of ribs protruding like washboards. Gruesome and noisome, and hollow beings.

Faces I have forgotten completely until now. Names that were almost lost to me.

Edwin, with his brown eyes, his fringe of gunny-sack colored hair. Yes, of course I remember Edwin. A Demi sent aft years ago. Grown up now. But still alive. Perhaps too tall to work in the reactor chamber.

Chamberlain, with the missing pinky finger on his left hand. He had such a rich, warm voice. Before it broke.

And here is Francis, who could not remember his vocal assignments, no matter how many times we practiced them.

Jarod, with his fringe of red hair that always seemed to grow back within days of shearing.

Their names, their faces swimming back into memory.

Some I do not recognize at all. Some that have been brought aboard only to serve in engineering. Not even Forgotten. Not known.

They look at me as though I’m the ghost. As though I’m the one only half-living. Dark, lifeless eyes peering out at me from sunken sockets. I move deeper into the compartment.

“L-Lazlo,” I call out.

Some shrink back, as though they’ve never before heard a human voice.

And, finally, one small, skinny figure approaches. The others part, making a path for him. No, it can’t be Lazlo. This boy is too frail. Too short.

But, yes, it is. By the light, I see the gleam in his eye… the familiar face, though starved and warped almost beyond comprehension.

And he smiles.

Lazlo.

Such brightness. Such light doesn’t belong here, in this place. But it tells me that this ghost of a boy is, indeed, him.

My Lazlo.

I rush forward. Clutch him. Squeeze his body so tight, his bones press into me.

And he embraces me. Eventually. Carefully. Cautiously. And then fully, a grip so tight about my middle that my breath is almost taken from me.

I fight back the tears.

No time for that now.

“You received my message?” I ask, pulling away to look at him.

He nods, still bewildered. Still unbelieving. But he nods.

“Is it time?” Edwin asks, stepping forward. Yes, I remember his voice.

“It is! We’re going to get out…” I whisper. “All of us. We have to act fast.”

“I’ve prepared them,” Lazlo says, nodding behind him. “We’re ready to help.”

What at first seemed a weak rabble of figures now has transformed. Those who can, stand beside Lazlo in resolution. Stand tall.

There’s also a flurry of activity. Several of them have stepped into action, one moving a large canister, pulling out a concealed bundle. Another, moving aside bedding, searching.

“We’ve gathered a bit of food,” Lazlo says.

“And a few tools—they might do for weapons,” Francis says, taking out a hammer, a piece of lead pipe, and a thin, rusted strip of steel.

I almost want to cry. “You’ve all done… so well… okay—”

“Shhh!” someone says. “He’s coming.”

I look back to the hatchway, still hanging open.

“What’s this…” Brother Dormer begins as he barges in, but halts. He sees the tools—the weapons—hanging in hands.

Sees me.

Before I can speak, before I can even move, one of the Forgotten has sprung on top of him, clawing. Another, striking out with his fists. Brother Dormer, caught off his guard, is knocked to the deck in a stupor, fending off the attack best he can with his arms out in front of him.

Others join.

Chamberlain and Jarod. And then Edwin, with what must be a sack of bolts in hand. He raises the bludgeon, ready to swing, but I clutch his arm before he can bring it down.

“No!” I say.

They are all looking at me. Fury and hatred. Pain, all pouring from their eyes.

“He isn’t… he isn’t bad,” I say.

“They’ve starved us,” Edwin says, voice raw. Cheeks wet. “They’ve beaten us…”

“We might need help from them in the end. Anyway, they’re trapped too.”

Brother Dormer stares up at me, a dumb, shocked expression.

“Trapped in a different sort of way,” I continue. “That’s why we’re going to save as many of the brothers as we can. Is that clear?”

No one answers for a time. I worry that I’ve lost them—that they’ll push me out.

“What’s next?” Edwin finally asks, easing the tension.

“We have to shut down the engine and force the boat to surface,” I say. “Shut down the hydraulics. The power. Can we do that?”

It’s Lazlo who answers. “Yes.”

Others in the circle nod in agreement.

“We need to seal off engineering completely.”

“And then what? What are we waiting for?” Lazlo asks.

“A rescue.”

“A rescue? From who?” Edwin asks.

“Topsiders…” I say.

Perhaps a few concerned or shocked expressions, but I receive no resistance. They all nod. They’re ready.

It doesn’t matter who it is rescuing them. Anything must be better than this.

“You’ll need to take the maneuvering shack,” I say. “Brother Leighton should be on duty.”

“We can handle him,” Edwin says.

“Before he can alert the bridge,” I say. “Don’t kill him.”

They all nod in response. Lazlo.

“Okay. I’ll be back.”

“Wait—” Lazlo says, latching on to my arm like a vise. “Don’t go. Not without me.”

“There’s a prisoner. Someone who has been helping me… helping us. She’s important. I have to free her… .”

“Then you’ll need at least two. I’ll go with you,” Edwin says.

“And me,” Chamberlain agrees.

“No,” I say. “It’ll have to be me alone. Anyone else walking through will be too conspicuous.”

A deep thong resounds throughout the boat. Hammer against hull.

Now is the hour for private prayer and reflection.

Now is the time to act.

“I have to go now,” I say to all of them. “The chapel will be clear. Keep the hatch sealed until I return. I’ll knock three times.”

I ready myself, turn away, but Lazlo is still gripping my hand. Tears in his eyes.

I embrace him again. Deeply. He is weak. So weak, in fact, that it is me who is helping to brace him. “They have treatments Topside,” I say. “They’ll be able to help you.”

His frail body quakes.

“I’ll return,” I say. “Soon.”

I glance down at Brother Dormer as I go, now lying bound on the deck. Not struggling. Not fighting. He tracks me with his eyes as I pass. As though I am some alien creature.

I pause at the hatchway to the chapel, peer inside.

Empty—just as I had hoped. The evening meal is soon to be served.

There, on the port side of the long chamber, on the other side of the missile tubes, a line of what were once former offices but are now used as cells. The third one is where Adolphine is being kept.

“It’s me,” I whisper through the vents at the top of the metal door, then unlatch it slowly.

With a grease wick in hand, I swing the door open, find a figure dressed in rags, huddled in the corner of the small compartment.

“Re-Remy?” a cautious voice asks, confused, blinking away the light, unfolding herself from her curled position cautiously. Here, now standing before me, Adolphine. A face I have only seen in profile. But a voice I know well. My confessor these past weeks.

She’s a lean and sinewy woman. Her black, braided hair, pulled back, featuring a gaunt face. Her eyes are the only thing familiar, other than her voice.

“We have to go forward with the plan… now,” I whisper, glancing quickly at either end of the chapel hatchways and ladders. Still clear.

“But… but it’s early,” she says, understanding now what is happening. “We’re a day early, isn’t that right? We’re not at the coordinates.”

“There’s no choice,” I whisper. “No time to explain. We’ll be caught if we don’t act now. The Forgotten. They’re taking control of engineering as we speak.”

She blinks in response, stares forlornly at the deck. As though she is confused. Lost.

“You… you have the key with you?” she asks. Perhaps she didn’t hear me. “The missile key?”

“Yes,” I say, removing it from my robe pocket, holding it in my hand.

“Good,” she says, oddly, looking at me—or, perhaps through me.

She’s dazed. Hungry. Exhausted.

“Hurry now!” I turn to rush aft, but she doesn’t follow. Instead, she has seized my wrist tight.

“What?” I ask as she pulls the key free from my hand.

In her expression, both fright and fury. “It’s too soon,” she whispers. “I haven’t finished fixing the missile yet.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? Come…” I try to pull her along, but she will not budge. She remains at the doorway of her cell.

My heart sinks, looking back at her, into her brown eyes.

“This is our only chance,” she says. “Our last chance to take out the Liánméng fleet. They’re all docked… in one place. If we act now, then it’s over. The war will be over.”

I try to pull away now, but she won’t let me. She’s gripping my arm so tightly, it burns.

Deep dread pours all over me. Seizes my bones. “I… I thought you said… you said there would be peace.”

“There will be. I promise you that,” she says. Her eyes darken.

“Liar…” I whisper.

“I know, child,” she says, patting my hand. “This was always our mission. One missile left in the world… one last chance to end the war. We had to find the Leviathan, to make it operational again. To launch it. I could not have done it without you.”

“Lazlo… we were going to save him… the others.” I finally manage to pull away, but she seizes my shoulders, fingers digging in, yanks me close to her.

“You forget that boy, hear me?” she whispers now. “You can still save yourself… slip away from them when we are at launch depth… that will be no more than two hundred feet. You can ditch at that depth. Remember what I told you—”

“No,” I say, breaking down, crying. Not believing it.

She, too, is crying. This stranger. She kisses my cheek. Now she has taken both my arms, gripping them tight. Not to embrace but to restrain me. To keep me from fleeing.

“Save yourself,” she whispers hotly into my ear. Then she shouts. “Here!” Louder than any voice has uttered on this boat. “He’s trying to escape!”