Part 23 (1/2)

The deads.h.i.+p struck them on the starboard side with enough force to send Maskelyne staggering sideways. He lost his grip on the wheel. A terrible metal groaning reverberated through the Mistress Mistress's bulkheads as the ironclad's reinforced prow crushed a deep trench in the dredging s.h.i.+p's hull. The Mistress Mistress lurched sickeningly, her deck cranes tilting closer to the roiling red-brown waters as the crew hung on for their lives. The bathysphere clanked against its mountings, then broke free and smashed against the port bulwark. lurched sickeningly, her deck cranes tilting closer to the roiling red-brown waters as the crew hung on for their lives. The bathysphere clanked against its mountings, then broke free and smashed against the port bulwark.

Ianthe cried out in alarm.

The grinding and moaning of stressed metals continued for a tortuously long time, before finally subsiding. Maskelyne gazed down at the wreckage in disbelief and horror. The bow of the Unmer s.h.i.+p remained embedded in one side of his own vessel. That heavy iron prow had crumpled the Mistress Mistress's hull like paper. Had it holed them? He couldn't see how it could possibly not not have holed them. have holed them.

He flung open the wheelhouse door and called down. 'Mellor! Have someone fetch my family. Round up everyone but the repair teams. I want them top deck, now. And I want a time-frame here.'

'Aye, Captain.' The first officer relayed Maskelyne's orders to several crewmen, who took off at a run.

'Are we going to sink?' Ianthe asked.

'Very likely,' Maskelyne replied. 'Come with me.' Without looking back to see if she was following, he climbed down the wheelhouse ladder and hurried along the deck to the point of impact.

Most of the crew from the lower decks had already appeared, and their gem lanterns moved about in the gloom around Maskelyne as they began to a.s.semble into ranks. Someone was taking a head count, calling out names. The deads.h.i.+p's figurehead leaned over the starboard bulwark amidst a mess of twisted metal, and it seemed to Maskelyne that that maiden's grimace evinced a hint of cruel satisfaction. He could smell burned iron, rust and ash, and the bitter salts of the ocean, but something else . . .

Fuel oil. The dredger's whale-oil tanks had been ruptured.

Maskelyne leaned over the side and peered down at his stricken hull. The s.h.i.+p's skin had been crumpled almost to the waterline and ruptured in at least four places. Clear fluid was seeping from the fore rents, leaving the surrounding brine with a nacreous sheen.

Mellor arrived at his side. 'We're pumping out all the ballast tanks,' he said. 'Those that haven't been damaged, anyway. Two mids.h.i.+ps pumps were shorn from their outlets, and we can't get to the fore ones. Abernathy will try to keep us afloat a while longer, but he's not confident. Secondary repair crew can't get access to the engine room. Flooding sounds like it's above the hatches.'

'What about the men already in there?' Maskelyne asked.

'Not a sound from them, Captain.'

'Cut down through the crew quarters.'

'That'll shorten the time we have, sir.'

'Do it.'

'Aye, sir.' He turned to go.

Maskelyne stopped him. 'Where are my wife and son, Mr Mellor?'

His question was answered by a different voice. 'Ethan!' Lucille was with Ianthe, and now ran over, carrying Jontney in one arm and Maskelyne's blunderbuss in the other. She had already fitted a frozen void-fly cartridge to the stock. She gazed up in wonder and horror at the dark hulk of the Unmer s.h.i.+p, before evidently remembering the gun.

'I thought you could use this,' she said, handing the weapon to him.

He took the gun and examined the mechanism. 'Where did you learn how to load it?'

'It's not that difficult, Ethan.'

He arched his eyebrows. 'I suppose you're right.' Then he reached over and fussed with Jontney's hair. The boy looked up at him and smiled the sort of open, trouble-free smile that Maskelyne hadn't seen in the child for a long time. 'Keep him safe,' he said to his wife. 'Mellor will look after you both. Do whatever he says.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to board that s.h.i.+p,' Maskelyne replied. 'It looks like it's our only way out of here.'

Granger tried the engine-room hatch, but found it to be locked from the inside. He placed the powder cartridges on the floor against the hatch and took out his knife, flint and fuse. But he stopped. The metal hatch opened towards him, its rim resting against the metal bulkhead. He wasn't sure the explosives he'd brought were enough for the job. He stood there for a moment longer, while his mind ran through the naval ballistic tables for this thickness and grade of steel as it compared it to the sort of brisance he could expect from high-grade cannon-powder. It couldn't be done without shaping the charge, and he had no time for that.

He hammered his fist upon the hatch.

After a moment, a voice came from the other side. 'Who's there?'

'Who am I speaking to?' Granger demanded.

'Able Seaman Fletcher, sir.'

'Don't open this hatch to anyone, Able Seaman,' Granger said. 'That's an order. Not to me, not to anyone. And do not do not under any circ.u.mstances take orders from the bridge. Do you understand?' under any circ.u.mstances take orders from the bridge. Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir. What's going on?'

'Revolutionary militia have taken control of the Excelsior Excelsior. They're holding the first officer hostage on the bridge.'

'Revolutionaries?' Granger then heard a second voice behind the hatch, conversing with Fletcher, but he couldn't make out what was said between them. Fletcher said, 'We can shut the engines down from here, sir.'

'You'll do no such thing,' Granger replied. 'Let them burn through the reserves. That'll give us some time to get the emperor's Samarol aboard. Do you have pistols with you?'

'No, sir.'

'Swords?'

'No, sir.'

'How the h.e.l.l do you expect to protect the engines without arms?' Granger yelled. 'You can have my own pistol for the time being. Open up a minute.'

He heard the locking lever clunk back, and the hatch opened.

Granger still clutching his knife in one fist stepped through.

Maskelyne climbed across a boarding plank onto the Unmer dead-s.h.i.+p, closely followed by two of his most stolid crewmen. Kitchener was an old soldier who had watched Maskelyne's back during the Poppy Wars a good man to have at your side whenever swords were drawn. Roberts was younger, but sharp and quick-witted and less superst.i.tious than most. A good head on his shoulders A good head on his shoulders. The rest of the crew held back to make whatever repairs they could, and to try to cut down to the men trapped in the Mistress Mistress's flooded engine room. Many of them had baulked at the very idea of setting foot aboard the Unmer vessel. Maskelyne did not take this to be a good sign.

b.l.o.o.d.y vapours drifted through tangled cables. A layer of ash covered the warped iron deck, filling the air with an odour like that of an old, damp fire-pit. Booming sounds came from the metal under their boots as the three men approached the s.h.i.+p's huge electrical tower.

'You hear that?' Roberts asked.

'Hear what?' Kitchener said.

'That whine.' He pointed up at the toroid atop the tower. 'It's coming from that thing.'

'It's still receiving power from somewhere,' Maskelyne said.

The men fell silent. Maskelyne placed his hand against the tower's lattice of struts, and felt a slight vibration. His skin tingled as the invisible electrical fluid pa.s.sed into him, and it seemed to him that the whining sound intensified. He could feel it in his teeth. He withdrew his hand quickly. Tiny pink aether flames danced across his fingertips for a moment and then disappeared. Still operational after three hundred years? Where is the power coming from? Still operational after three hundred years? Where is the power coming from?

He walked over to examine one of the queer guns bolted to the deck. The cone of circular plates over its barrel prevented any type of shot from pa.s.sing through the weapon. Perhaps it had also once utilized electrical fluids? It seemed unlikely that he could repair the device, for it looked utterly destroyed. Its metal surfaces had been heated to the point where they had actually flowed downwards, leaving tallow-like trails of iron. Maskelyne leaned closer and smelled burned copper. Nothing salvageable.